Myra went to the door. “I think I’m going mad,” she said in a firm voice.
Whisky eyed her thoughtfully, “Upon my word that’s a pretty trull,” he said. “Whoever gets her will be a lucky dog.”
Myra looked at him, her eyes wide with horror, then she disappeared, slamming the door behind her.
Chapter NINE
WE reached Mexico City at dusk and had an argument outside the Plaza Hotel. I wanted to go straight to Juden while Myra wanted to stop off at the hotel, change and get Juden to come down to us.
Myra got her way in the end. So we trooped into the Plaza, registered for rooms and had another argument about Whisky. At first, the reception clerk wouldn’t hear of him coming into the hotel, but Bogle managed to persuade him.
Whisky got restive while Bogle and the clerk were wrangling, and I was scared that he was going to open his mouth. I knew that if he talked out of turn we’d all be tossed into the Street. I guess he was smart enough to realize that too. In the end, it was agreed that Bogle should have a double room and it would be okay for Whisky to share it with him.
Going up in the elevator, there was a further argument about who was going to pay the hotel bill. The only person—if you can call him a person—who didn’t get excited was Whisky. We were still arguing when we reached the third floor and examined our rooms.
It was finally decided that Juden should be invited to meet the bill and since the others didn’t know Juden this made them happy. I knew that to get money out of Juden was as easy as getting a running commentary on the Santiago handicap from a Tibetian deaf-mute. Anyway, I was tired of arguing.
“I’ll get Juden on the ’phone,” I said. “Suppose we all meet downstairs for dinner, say in half an hour?”