“I suppose so. Foreign, anyway.”
“Anything about him strike you particularly?”
“Well, he was tall and thin and looked sickly. He talked very soft, too, like a sick man.”
The characterization of the Pearlington station agent recurred to the interrogator’s mind. “Had he—er—white hair?” he half yawned.
“No,” replied the manager, and, in the same breath, the budding diplomat demanded:
“What are you up to, Average? Why should he?”
Average Jones turned to him. “To what other hotels would the Turkish Embassy be likely to send its men?”
“Sometimes their charge d’affaires goes to the Nederstrom.”
“Go up there and find out whether a room has been reserved for Telfik Bey, and if so—”
“They wouldn’t reserve at two hotels, would they?”