1
The desk clerk told me that Mrs. Prentiss had Room 1603—the apartment, not only next to mine but accessible from mine by a set of doors—now partly locked: I'd turned the key in the door on my side and tried the other, when I'd arrived.
"I thought," I said, "that she was a few floors down—"
"She moved this afternoon, Mr. Wylie. To get out of the heat, where there was more air."
Or more something.
I hung up and looked at the doors.
The promise not to make a pass at her naturally crossed my mind. It was, evidently, a one-sided commitment. At this season there weren't many guests in the hotel so she'd had no difficulty in moving near me. I wondered whether she would admit it or pretend it was a coincidence; and bet the latter way. Honi soit qui mal n'y pense pas.
I checked myself in the mirror. Then I knocked on her door. The proper hall one.
She wore the gardenias in her hair—a white dress with a gold border stenciled around the hem—and her shoes and pocketbook were gold, too. The big diamond had evidently been sent down to the safe-deposit boxes, or left on her bureau—depending on which sort of person she was. Her hair was done up—with the curls among the flowers. She looked as attractive as she intended. Cool, too.
"Am I stunning?"