Page 62 - Three Adventures

The Nazarene Foreskin

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Expecting a tail, Scoop had urged his driver, a man he had used
several times in the past, to shake off anything behind him.
Outrunning ambushes and finding shortcuts through back alleys
around roadblocks was second nature to any cabby still in business.
He hurried into the Oberoi Cedars lobby and asked to see the
manager. The atrium was thick with Westerners; mostly Americans,
he judged, by their haberdashery and garrulous informality. They
debouched from the elevators in small groups and made a beeline for
the Crusader Café, passing a placard emblazoned ‘Gastronomes
Bienvenue!’
“Scoop, what brings you out of your den in the daylight?”
Hans Messer, all effusive charm in Savile Row suiting, glad-handed
the reporter out of habit, and then saw the look in his eye. “Let’s talk
in my office.”
Scoop followed him, saying nothing until the door was closed. The
executive sat down at his desk, eyebrows raised.
“I need a favor, Hans. Nothing illegal—I just didn’t want to go
through the front desk. Can you tell me if a Miss Violet A. Cohn-
Diaz is staying here?”
Messer gave him a sharp glance. “Sure, Scoop. I still owe you one
for keeping the hotel’s name out of that white slavery story. We really
had no idea who that fake sheikh was. Here: this will take just a
moment.” He picked up his phone and spoke rapidly in French.
After listening to the response he shook his head and hung up.
“Sorry. Nothing even close to that.”
Scoop sat down heavily. “Then I’m at a dead end. Where else
would an American be likely to go for a decent room these days?”
“I presume she’s not at the Belvedere.”
“No. I checked, and someone would have noticed her—even if she
were under a different name—wait: maybe she is here, after all. I
never saw her passport, took her word for who she was. Let me
describe her: blonde, pretty in a Midwestern farm girl sort of way,
about five-six, probably traveling alone, supposedly here on research,
arriving in the last couple of days.”

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