“No chance,” I said. “Sorry, but that’s out. The better-class hotels get snooty when a man starts entertaining women in his room. The bellboys try to work a little blackmail, and—”

“Oh shucks,” she said, “don’t be like that! Go register as man and wife. What name are you going to use?”

“Donald Helforth.”

“All right, I’ll be Mrs. Helforth. I’ll come in later and join you. Get started.”

I went across to the hotel. Sally Durke wasn’t in sight. I told a bellboy to get me the bell captain, and took the captain off into executive session. “A blonde in a blue outfit came in about two minutes ago,” I said. “I want to know what name she registered under, where she’s registered, and what rooms near her are vacant. I’d like to get one across the corridor from her if I can.”

“What’s the idea?” he asked.

I took a five-dollar bill from my pocket, folded it, twisted it around my fingers, and said, “I’m a committee of one, working on behalf of the government, trying to get deserving bellboys into the higher income brackets so we can collect more tax.”

“I always co-operate with the government,” he said, grinning. “Just a minute.”

I waited in the lobby until he came back with the information. She was Mrs. B. F. Morgan and was in 618. She expected her husband to join her shortly. The only vacant room anywhere in that part of the hotel was 620, and Mrs. Morgan, it seemed, had reserved 618 earlier in the day by telephone, said she might want 620 as well, and had asked the management to hold that. When she registered, she said she’d changed her mind about 620 and would only want 618.

“I’m Donald Helforth,” I said. “My wife, about twenty-five, with chestnut hair and brown eyes, will be coming in within five or ten minutes. Keep an eye out for her, and show her up to my room, will you?”

“Your wife?” he asked.

“My wife,” I said.

“Oh, I see.”

“And here’s one other thing. I want a gun.”

His eyes lost their friendliness. “What sort of a gun?”

“A small gun that fits in the pocket nicely, preferably an automatic. And I want a box of shells for it.”

“You’re supposed to have a police permit in order to get a gun,” he said.

“And when you have a police permit, you buy your gun at a store and pay about fifteen dollars for it,” I said. “What the hell do you think I’m paying twenty-five bucks for a gun for?”

“Oh, you’re paying twenty-five bucks for it?”

“That’s what I said.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

I didn’t give him any chance to tip off the room clerk, but walked directly to the desk. The clerk handed me a card, and I wrote, “Donald Helforth and wife,” and gave a fictitious address.