“Something at about seven dollars a day, Mr. Helforth?” the clerk asked.

“What do you have on the sixth floor? I don’t want to be too high, and yet I want to be far enough above the traffic to keep the street cars out of my ears.”

He looked at the chart and said, “I could give you 675.”

“Which end of the house is that?”

“The east.”

“What do you have on the west?”

“I could give you 605, or I can give you 620.”

“What about 620?”

“Twin beds and a bath. The rates are seven and a half double.”

“Can’t you make it seven?” I asked.

He looked me over, and said he’d make a special concession.

“All right,” I said. “My wife will be in later with my baggage, but I’ll pay for the room now.”

I gave him the money, took a receipt, and went up to my room with the bell captain. “You can’t get a new gun for twenty-five bucks,” he objected.

“Who said anything about a new gun? You’re getting one from a second-hand store somewhere. Twenty-five is my limit, and don’t try to chisel too much profit. Get one that costs at least fifteen.”

“I’d be breaking the law,” he said.

“No, you wouldn’t.”

“Why not?”

I took from my pocket the authorization Mrs. Cool had signed for me. “I’m a private detective,” I said.

He looked it over, and the perplexity left his face. “All right, boss. I’ll see what I can do.”

“Make it snappy,” I told him, “but don’t go out until my wife comes in. I want her to be taken right up here.”

“Right,” he said, and went out.

I looked around the room. It was an ordinary twin-bed affair in an ordinary hotel. I went into the bathroom. It was designed so that 618 and 620 could be opened up together as adjoining rooms with the bath in between. I tried the knob on the connecting door slowly and carefully. The door was locked. Listening, I could hear the sounds of someone moving around in the adjoining room. I went back to the telephone and called Sandra Birks. When I had her on the line, I said, “Everything seems to be okay. I’ve followed her to the Perkins Hotel. She’s in 618, registered under the name of Morgan, and has left word at the desk her husband is joining her. Alma and I are here at the hotel as Mr. and Mrs. Donald Helforth in 620.”

“Mr. and Mrs?” Sandra Birks asked with rising inflection.

“Yes. Alma wanted to be in on it.”

“In on what?”

“On the service of the papers,” I said.

“Well, I want to be in on it, too. I hate to interrupt your honeymoon, but Bleatie and I are coming up.”