“Ah, now, Gilbert — not in the Brulard.” He pursed his lips in disappointment.
“No time to go into details,” I said, “but nothing lecherous, ’pon honor.”
“Honest, Gil, if it was the Ma-ha-ra-ja of Kablootz, I couldn’t.”
“You can. You will. Not for me. For the girl. She’s in a bad jam. Matter of life and death. No kidding at all. She has a suite with us. But it’s not safe there for her.”
His eyes grew round. “But you said — ‘We.’”
“’Sright. You feex. But quick. I’ll put cards on the table with you tomorrow. This is serious, Pat.”
“I dunno — no luggage.” He pondered. “You want to register?”
“Sure. But you get the key and the card. Take us up. I’ll sign there.”
He did it. In three minutes we went through the “ill-fitting door to the empty room that smells like a fairly empty tomb” as Ogden Nash once described it. Musty brocade by the windows, musty plush on the overstuffed chairs. Standing lamp that had seen better days and a lot of ’em. A vintage bed. A bathroom that made me look to see if they’d taken out the gaslight fixtures.
After the broken-down old bellman departed with the registration card, Tildy slumped forlornly in one of the upholstered monstrosities. “You must think I’m a worthless little slut.”