We went in.
Chapter twenty-two:
The third corpse
The only known species of plain-clothes operative which doesn’t try to conceal the fact it is engaged in detective work is the sort of security men employed by hotels like the Brulard. Instead of mingling with the guests, these house officers advertise their calling in an attempt to intimidate the evildoer, warn him off the premises, show him he’s under surveillance. Pat Ashmore, at the Brulard, would stand in the lobby, feet planted wide, arms folded on chest, cigar between teeth, glaring at some citizen trying to make an impression on a strange pair of nylons. That’s the way Pat worked. Only way he knew how to.
Pat was by the newsstand when we went in. He spotted us right away, but didn’t recognize me until we’d crossed almost to the registration desk. Then he laid the cigar on the edge of the closed magazine counter, sauntered over, about as subtly as if he’d been blowing a whistle.
Pat knew me from our Protective Men’s Association; was a time when they risked solvency by making me treasurer. But of course he couldn’t understand what I was doing in the Brulard. Especially with a girl!
I parked Tildy in a big chair with her back to the main desk, went over to Pat.
“Hi, Junior.” He weighed two-thirty without his mustache.
“H’are ya, y’old yentzer.” He shook hands. “What is that you got there, th’ most beautiful floatin’ rib in captivity, huh?” He admired Tildy’s legs discreetly.
“We want a big double or a suite if you have any.”