“Mr. Goodwin.”
Recognizing the name, I opened my eyes. An attractive young woman in a blue summer negligee, with hair the color of maple sirup, was standing at the foot of my bed. There was plenty of daylight from the windows to get details.
“I didn’t knock,” she said, “because I didn’t want to disturb anyone.”
“You’ve disturbed me,” I asserted, swinging my legs around and sitting on the bed’s edge. “What for?”
“I’m hungry.”
I looked at my wrist. “My God, it’ll be time for breakfast in three hours, and Fritz will bring it up to you. You don’t look on the brink of starvation.” She didn’t. She looked all right.
“I can’t sleep and I’m hungry.”
“Then eat. The kitchen is on the same—” I stopped, having got enough awake to remember that (a) she was a guest and (b) I was a detective. I slipped my feet into my sandals, arose, told her, “Come on,” and headed for the door. Halfway down the first flight I thought of a dressing gown, but it was too hot anyway.
Down in the kitchen I opened the door of the refrigerator and asked her, “Any special longing?”
“No, just food. Bread and meat and milk would be nice.”