The stout, black-faced doorman, instead of sheltering in the hotel’s doorway, was standing out on the pavement gazing east with an anxious air. He brightened when he saw Daisy and Lambert.
“Glad you’re back safe, ma’am,” he said. “No problems?”
Daisy blinked, then realized he must be one of Kevin’s cohort of spies. She smiled at him. “No problems, thank you, Balfour.” It always struck her as odd to address a black man by the name of a British statesman. He ought to havehad some exotic African name, but of course he was as American as Lambert.
“Anyone been asking for Mrs. Fletcher?” asked Lambert officiously.
“Just one ge’man, suh.”
“Aha!” cried Lambert, swinging round to scan the street, his hand at his breast pocket, while Daisy, aghast, could only gape. She realized she had not for a moment credited that she was truly in danger.
14
Balfour had not let the stranger enter the lobby, especially as he said he was a newspaperman and the manager had instructed that no reporters were to be admitted. Though he refused to give his name, the man also claimed to be a friend of Mrs. Fletcher’s.
“I don’t know any reporters in New York,” said Daisy.
“An obvious ruse,” Lambert declared in a superior voice, as they crossed the lobby towards the registration desk.
“It’s a pity Balfour couldn’t give a better description of him than that he was a white man and rather shabby. It was clever to ask him to leave a note, though. Presumably he didn’t sign it, but maybe the handwriting will tell the police something.”
“He’ll have disguised his writing, you betcha.”
“Well, then, maybe he’s left fingerprints. It’s difficult to get them off paper, but not impossible.”
“I’ll go ask Balfour if he took his gloves off.”
Lambert dashed off, and Daisy continued to the desk. As usual no one was there—for that very reason she had taken her room key with her when she went out—but shecould see two folded papers in the cubbyhole with her number. She was tempted to slip through the gate at the side to retrieve them, rather than ring the bell and have to explain why the notes must be handled with care. She doubted that the manager or the desk clerk, Kevin’sbêtes noires, had been apprised of her situation.
While she hesitated, Kevin’s lift came down. Her unorthodox protector saw her as soon as he stepped out into the passage to usher out his passengers. Abandoning them, he dashed to Daisy’s side.
“Geez, ma‘am, I’m mighty glad to see you. I been worrying. I shouldn’a let you go out to eat. You could’ve sent Stanley out to getcha sumpin, or I’da gone, for you.”
“Luigi gave us a very good meal.”
“Yeah, I tol’ you. But a guy came round asking for you when you was gone.”
“So Balfour said.”
“He did pretty good, Balfour. Got him to write you a note, like I tol’ him. I didn’t read it,” said Kevin virtuously. “There’s another one, too, a message from Mr. Fletcher, called in by Western Union. I’ll get ’em for you.” He swung open the gate in the counter.
“Hold the note by the edge, Kevin, in case the police can get dabs off it.”
“Dabs?”
“Oh, that’s English police slang for fingerprints.”
“Gotcha! Wish I’d’ve thought of that, though. I didn’t think to warn Balfour and Stanley. Betcha it’s got their fingerprints all over.”
“The guy kept his gloves on, anyway,” reported Lambert, joining Daisy, “and he used a hotel pad that the doorman keeps in his pocket.”
“Blast!” Daisy took the two papers from Kevin without bothering about how she held them. The first one she unfolded was the message from Alec. “Oh, drat and double drat! An important meeting this afternoon—he’s been delayed. He won’t get here till nearly nine o’clock.”
“Aw, punk!” Kevin sympathized, leaning on the counter.
“What does the other one say?” Lambert asked eagerly.
Heart in mouth, Daisy opened it. Her eye went at once to the flamboyant signature, and she gave a half-hysterical giggle. “James Pascoli! You remember, theTown Talkeditor. He wants to make sure the police aren’t giving me any trouble, and to see if I have any information I don’t mind giving him. All that fuss and bother for nothing!”
