He tossed the towel back through the open door. "Now, look here," he protested.
I laughed at him. "Okay, but you get the point."
He did, but he didn't know what he could do about it. "We were supposed to wait here until—"
That one I'd heard before. "Until the hotel freezes over, sure. But I don't want to freeze. Do you?"
No, nor to rust. You could see that he liked his job of body-guard and factotum, and yet....
I pushed him over the edge. "Tell you what to do," I said. "You call up and say that I'm getting restless. Say that you're afraid I'll ease out of here when your back is turned. Say anything you like, as long as you lay it on thick, and I'll back you up. Okay?"
He weighed it awhile. He liked inaction, no matter how sybaritic as much as I. Then, "Okay," and he reached for the telephone.
The number he gave answered the first ring.
"I'm calling for Mr. Robertson," he said. "This is Mr. William Wakefield. W. W. Wakefield." He paused. Then, "Ordinarily, I wouldn't, but Mr. Robertson felt that I should get in touch with you at once."
The other end squawked, nervously, I thought.