Sandra said, “His best judgment wasn’t good enough, that’s all,” and then I heard the glug-glug-glug-glug of whisky being poured from a bottle which was almost full, the hiss of siphon water and Bertha Cool’s calm voice saying, “After all, Mrs. Birks, he let you in on this. If he hadn’t telephoned you, you wouldn’t have known a damn thing about it. We’re hired to serve papers. If Morgan Birks has left and Donald can’t serve the papers, then it’s a horse on me. If Morgan Birks is still there and Donald serves the papers, you’re going to be charged for getting me to drop everything else and come rushing out here as fast as a cab could bring me.”

Sandra Birks said, “Well, if you want to know the truth, I think my attorney made a mistake in recommending you. I’m sorry that I ever came to your agency.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Cool said in the voice of a perfect lady discussing the latest novel, “it is regrettable, isn’t it, dearie?”

I came out of the closet, buttoning up the bellboy’s coat around my neck. I took the yellow envelope with the telegram and the notebook, walked over to the telephone, and said to the operator, “Ring 618, please.” A moment later, when I heard a woman’s voice on the line, I said, “There’s a telegram for Mrs. B. F. Morgan.”

“I’m not expecting any telegram,” she said. “No one knows I’m here.”

“Yes, Mrs. Morgan. This telegram has a very peculiar address. It reads: ‘Mrs. B. F. Morgan, Perkins Hotel, or deliver to Sally Durke.’ Now, we have no Durke registered here.”

“Well, I’m certain I don’t know what it’s about,” she said, but her voice was a little less positive than it had been.

“I’ll send it up,” I said, “and you can look at it. Open it if you want to and see if the message is for you—you have a right to do that, you know. Boy, oh boy! Telegram to 618.” I hung up.

Bertha Cool dropped more ice into her glass, and said, “Better make it snappy, Donald, she’ll call the office to verify the information.”

I tucked the book under my arm, unlocked the door, and stepped out into the corridor. The three of them stood looking after me. I walked down to 618 and tapped on the door.

I could hear a woman’s voice talking over the telephone, and said, “Telegram.”

The woman’s voice quit talking. Then I heard her on the other side of the door.

“Slide it under the door,” she said.

I squeezed the notebook partially under the door, so that she could see just the edge of the yellow envelope in between the leaves. “I can’t make it,” I said. “You have to sign for it. The book won’t go under the door.”