Shayne beat a strategic retreat and reached the outer door in a few long strides. He hurried to a public-telephone sign on the corner, went in, and dialed the number she had dialed.
A voice said, “Hotel Trainton. Good morning.”
Shayne hung up and went out to riffle through the telephone directory. The Trainton Hotel was in the southwest section of the city. He trotted out to his car.
Some twenty minutes later he entered the gloomy and unprepossessing lobby of the Trainton and went to the desk, where an elderly man in shirt sleeves was leaning on the counter chewing tobacco.
“A friend of mine checked in early this morning. Three-one-nine, I think he said. Is he in now?”
The clerk shook his grizzly head. “Just had a phone call for him. He didn’t answer.”
“You see him go out?”
“Didn’t notice. Took his key if he did.”
Shayne said brusquely, “I’m afraid there’s trouble. Get a duplicate key and let’s go up.”
The old man shifted his wad of tobacco and continued to lean on the counter. “You the cops?”