“Hotel de Suisse—quick—big tip if you hustle!” he hissed at the chauffeur, slammed the door to himself, and was off.
Though he had just been the busy detective, it was the real Poodle that curled up on the cushions in a most undignified way, and poked fun at himself for the way he had been ordering people about. And he grinned. “Gee, I sure am glad Papa Darby is rich—but I don’t know’s he will be, for long, if he has to back his little Poodle in this search for Hike.” Rejoicing at being able to pay bills at this important time, he clinked the gold coins he had brought from California (where very little paper-money is used).
As the taxi whirled up to the Hotel de Suisse, Poodle jumped out, threw a gold piece to the astonished chauffeur, then sauntered into the hotel as though he were bored to death and wishing he had something to do.
The detective was seated in a big leather armchair in the lobby, looking oh! so lazy and careless. But there was no laziness in his sharp whisper to Poodle:
“Jolls upstairs. In his room. Ain’t been out since he came—two, three days ago—but gets lots of ’phone calls. He’s ordered an early breakfast for to-morrow—six o’clock; in his room. And a touring car for six-twenty.”
“Do you know any of the night-clerks here?” asked Poodle.
“Yuh. Sure. A little. Why?” The detective threw out the four remarks as though they were so many hard rocks.
“Look here. I’ll watch here till midnight. Then you watch till morning, and get me up at a quarter to six—I’ll get a room here, you know. Will you?”
“Yuh. Sure. Quarter to six.”
“And say,” added Poodle, “get me a suit of clothes so’s I can make up as a kind of a tough kid.... Now you look here—if you say, ‘You won’t need much disguise for that,’—why, I’ll bite you.”