Page 70 - Three Adventures

The Nazarene Foreskin

conscience selling out for a story; but that organ too was
anaesthetized beyond active participation in his affairs. He could
name only the capitalist, not his accomplices, in the account he was
already composing in his mind. Silk’s appearance and mannerisms,
therefore, would repay study this close. Scoop noted the presence of
a freckle on the back of the great man’s left ear.
The car slammed to a halt in the Oberoi Cedars’ porte-cochere.
Scoop knew his presence had a slightly chilling effect on Sir
Aldershot; this Johnson wanted no Boswell, but a deal was a deal.
Mauve, younger and more vital than either man, arrived at the front
desk first. Scoop noted Hans Messer coming out of his office with a
folder. The manager saw the threesome, changed direction and came
up next to Scoop in time to hear Mauve’s question.
“Bonjour,” she said sweetly to the clerk, a young man whose jaw
suddenly had difficulty remaining closed. “I am Mauve A. Schantz. I
checked out of room 2307 early this morning. Could you please
check if anything was delivered for me after I left?”
“Yes, mademoiselle, let me look.” He tore his eyes away from her
and rolled them across the grid of mailboxes on the wall behind him.
He pulled out a slip of paper and read it. “Yes, but I do not
understand—”
“I’ll handle this, Abdul,” said Hans. He took the note, studied it,
looked at the trio whose interest in its contents was undisguised. “Mr.
Reedle: is this the young lady about whom you inquired a couple of
hours ago? Yes, of course it is: Mademoiselle Schantz. And this
gentleman also is known to me: Sir Aldershot Silk, an honored but
infrequent guest at the Cedars.” All nodded, smiled, shook hands.
“And it is your mutual desire that this left luggage be handed over to
Mademoiselle Schantz?” Again unanimity. “Then come with me,
please.”
He turned and walked with dignity through the lobby, up the grand
staircase and into the Omayyad Room, the hotel’s largest and most
elegant restaurant. An easel board indicated it was closed for a private
party, and the headwaiter approached the foursome with upraised
palms. Then he recognized Hans Messer.
“Je le regret, mais—”

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