“Come up with me and look the place over, Average. Let me send for the manager.”
That functionary came, a vision of perturbation in a pale-gray coat. Upon assurance that Average Jones was “safe” he led the way to the rooms so hastily vacated by the spirit of the Turkish guest.
“We’ve succeeded in keeping two recent suicides and a blackmail scheme in this hotel out of the newspapers,” observed the manager morosely. “But this would be the worst of all. If I could have known, when the Turkish Embassy reserved the apartment—”
“The Turkish Embassy never reserved any apartment for Telfik Bey,” put in the Fifth Assistant Secretary of State.
“Surely you are mistaken, sir,” replied the hotel man. “I saw their emissary myself. He specified for rooms on the south side, either the third or fourth floor. Wouldn’t have anything else.”
“You gave him a definite reservation?” asked Jones.
“Yes; 335 and 336.”
“Has the man been here since?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“A Turk, you think?”