He grunted something uncomplimentary, climbed back on his stool. I thought he might decide to follow me out, when he saw me trailing after Edie and her escorts. But he stayed put.
Fran didn’t steer her for Ladies, of course; she herded Edie into the small cubicle just outside our credit office, a room just big enough for a desk and a couple of chairs.
“I’ll get a damp cloth, honey,” Fran offered that as an opening gambit to find out if I wanted her to stay or leave.
Edie settled it. “You know what you can do with your damp cloth!” She flashed one indignant glance around her. “Haven’t you caused me trouble enough?” She began to raise her voice. “Give me the things you spilled out of my bag, this instant, or I’ll give you some publicity the Plaza Royale won’t forget in a hurry!”
Fran heeled the door shut.
I held out the 21MM key. “This was in your bag, Miss Eberlein, but it’s hotel property. Only lent to patrons temporarily. Are you registered here?”
“You know damn well I’m not,” she blazed. “That key was given to me by the person who rents the suite. You give it back, now!”
That stopped me. She did know Tildy Millett’s manager, might know the skater. If the key’d come into Edie’s possession legitimately, it might have no connection with the dead man up on the twenty-first. But there was that locked closet, plus the possibility the key might have been the one taken from Roffis. The key seemed to be the meat of the matter.
“We have to have a strict rule about keys,” I said. “The only time we allow them to be used by any other than the registered patron is when a Key Permission card is signed and left at the main desk. If such a card is on file, of course—” I jingled the tag. “Fran, will you check on that?”
“Right away.” Fran went out, left the door open.