I gave him Ruth’s number, went in the john, and scrubbed up. I felt a little woozy, first time since getting up. I couldn’t tell whether it was the aftereffects of that crack with the symbol of passion, or whether I was just punchy from so many bad breaks.
Calling the office didn’t make me perk up any. Tim was groggy from having been up past his bedtime, unstrung by the news a warrant was out for me and I was subject to instant arrest and detention if I showed up at the Plaza Royale.
“Hacklin swore out the warrant, Gil. Right after you took off. The blues are in on the case now, and Harry Weissman’s burned to a cinder about your not callin’ him in, yourself.”
“Oh! What a bee-yutiful morn-ing.” I gave him the Moore number. “I’m a trifle indisposed at the moment so I won’t rush over to try on my new bracelets. Was there anything else? Gowriss picked up, yet?”
“Nah. They wrote him off, skipper. Accordin’ to Schneider this’s strickly a cream passion hell.”
“What culture the man has! What insight! Did you hear from Ada?”
“Oh, yuh, yuh. I nearly forgot. Something about wax on a bedspread. From room two-o-one-o.”
“Yaker!”
“I couldn’t know what you was after, Chief, but that guest checked out last night around ten-thirty.”