“You don’t have many Halfmoon Bay calls,” I insisted, leaning an elbow on the counter and letting a folded five-spot peep out between the fingers of one hand. “You ought to remember any you’ve had lately.”
“I’ll see,” she sighed, as if willing to do her best on a hopeless task.
She ran through her tickets.
“Here’s one—from room 522, a couple weeks ago.”
“What number was called?”
“Halfmoon Bay 51.”
That was the roadhouse number. I passed over the five-spot.
“Is 522 a permanent guest?”
“Yes. Mr. Kilcourse. He’s been here three or four months.”
“What is he?”
“I don’t know. A perfect gentleman, if you ask me.”
“That’s nice. What does he look like?”
“Tall and elegant.”
“Be yourself,” I pleaded. “What does he look like?”
“He’s a young man, but his hair is turning gray. He’s dark and handsome. Looks like a movie actor.”
“Bull Montana?” I asked, as I moved off toward the desk.
The key to 522 was in its place in the rack. I sat down where I could keep an eye on it. Perhaps an hour later a clerk took it out and gave it to a man