«Busy?» I asked him.
«Yes and no, sir.»
«I’ve got a car outside that needs a dusting. About five bucks worth of dusting.»
It didn’t work. He wasn’t the type. His chestnut eyes became thoughtful and remote. «That is a good deal of dusting, sir. May I ask if anything else would be included?»
«A little. Is Miss Harriet Huntress’ car in?»
He looked. I saw him look along the glistening row at a canary-yellow convertible which was about as inconspicuous as a privy on the front lawn.
«Yes, sir. It is in.»
«I’d like her apartment number and a way to get up there without going through the lobby. I’m a private detective.» I showed him a buzzer. He looked at the buzzer. It failed to amuse him.
He smiled the faintest smile I ever saw. «Five dollars is nice money, sir, to a working man. It falls a little short of being nice enough to make me risk my position. About from here to Chicago short, sir. I suggest that you save your five dollars, sir, and try the customary mode of entry.»
«You’re quite a guy,» I said. «What are you going to be when you grow up — a five-foot shelf?»
«I am already grown up, sir. I am thirty-four years old, married happily, and have two children. Good afternoon, sir.»
He turned on his heel. «Well, goodbye,» I said. «And pardon my whiskey breath. I just got in from Butte.»
I went back up along the ramp and wandered along the street to where I should have gone in the first place. I might have known that five bucks and a buzzer wouldn’t buy me anything in a place like the El Milano.
The Negro was probably telephoning the office right now.
The building was a huge white stucco affair, Moorish in style, with great fretted lanterns in the forecourt and huge date palms. The entrance was at the inside corner of an L, up marble steps, through an arch framed in California or dishpan mosaic.
A doorman opened the door for me and I went in. The lobby was not quite as big as the Yankee Stadium. It was floored with a pale blue carpet with sponge rubber underneath. It was so soft it made me want to lie down and roll. I waded over to the desk and put an elbow on it and was stared at by a pale thin clerk with one of those mustaches that get stuck under your fingernail. He toyed with it and looked past my shoulder at an Ali Baba oil jar big enough to keep a tiger in.
«Miss Huntress in?»
«Who shall I announce?»
«Mr. Marty Estel.»
That didn’t take any better than my play in the garage. He leaned on something with his left foot. A blue-and-gilt door opened at the end of the desk and a large sandy-haired man with cigar ash on his vest came out and leaned absently on the end of the desk and stared at the Ali Baba oil jar, as if trying to make up his mind whether it was a spittoon.
The clerk raised his voice. «You are Mr. Marty Estel?»
«From him.»
«Isn’t that a little different? And what is your name, sir, if one may ask?»
«One may ask,» I said. «One may not be told. Such are my orders. Sorry to be stubborn and all that rot.»
He didn’t like my manner. He didn’t like anything about me. «I’m afraid I can’t announce you,» he said coldly. «Mr. Hawkins, might I have your advice on a matter?»
The sandy-haired man took his eyes off the oil jar and slid along the desk until he was within blackjack range of me.
«Yes, Mr. Gregory?» he yawned.
«Nuts to both of you,» I said. «And that includes your lady friends.»
Hawkins grinned. «Come into my office, bo. We’ll kind of see if we can get you straightened out.»
I followed him into the doghole he had come out of. It was large enough for a pint-sized desk, two chairs, a knee-high cuspidor, and an open box of cigars. He placed his rear end against the desk and grinned at me sociably.
«Didn’t play it very smooth, did you, bo? I’m the house man here. Spill it.»
«Some days I feel like playing smooth,» I said, «and some days I feel like playing it like a waffle iron.» I got my wallet out and showed him the buzzer and the small photostat of my license behind a celluloid window.
«One of the boys, huh?» He nodded. «You ought to of asked for me in the first place.»
«Sure. Only I never heard of you. I want to see this Huntress frail. She doesn’t know me, but I have business with her, and it’s not noisy business.»
He made a yard and half sideways and cocked his cigar in the other corner of his mouth. He looked at my right eyebrow. «What’s the gag? Why try to apple-polish the dinge downstairs? You gettin’ any expense money?»
«Could be.»
«I’m nice people,» he said. «But I gotta protect the guests.»
«You’re almost out of cigars,» I said, looking at the ninety or so in the box. I lifted a couple, smelled them, tucked a folded ten-dollar bill below them and put them back.
«That’s cute,» he said. «You and me could get along. What you want done?»
«Tell her I’m from Marty Estel. She’ll see me.»
«It’s the job if I get a kickback.»
«You won’t. I’ve got important people behind me.»
I started to reach for my ten, but he pushed my hand away. «I’ll take a chance,» he said. He reached for his phone and asked for Suite 814 and began to hum. His humming sounded like a cow being sick. He leaned forward suddenly and his face became a honeyed smile. His voice dripped.
«Miss Huntress? This is Hawkins, the house man. Hawkins. Yeah… Hawkins. Sure, you meet a lot of people, Miss Huntress. Say, there’s a gentleman in my office wanting to see you with a message from Mr. Estel. We can’t let him up without your say so, because he don’t want to give us no name… Yeah, Hawkins, the house detective, Miss Huntress. Yeah, he says you don’t know him personal, but he looks O.K. to me… O.K. Thanks a lot, Miss Huntress. Serve him right up.»
He put the phone down and patted it gently.
«All you needed was some background music,» I said.
«You can ride up,» he said dreamily. He reached absently into his cigar box and removed the folded bill. «A darb,» he said softly. «Every time I think of that dame I have to go out and walk around the block. Let’s go.»
We went out to the lobby again and Hawkins took me to the elevator and highsigned me in.
As the elevator doors closed I saw him on his way to the entrance, probably for his walk around the block.
The elevator had a carpeted floor and mirrors and indirect lighting. It rose as softly as the mercury in a thermometer. The doors whispered open, I wandered over the moss they used for a hall carpet and came to a door marked 814. I pushed a little button beside it, chimes rang inside and the door opened.
She wore a street dress of pale green wool and a small cockeyed hat that hung on her ear like a butterfly. Her eyes were wide-set and there was thinking room between them. Their color was lapis-lazuli blue and the color of her hair was dusky red, like a fire under control but still dangerous. She was too tall to be cute. She wore plenty of make-up in the right places and the cigarette she was poking at me had a built-on mouthpiece about three inches long. She didn’t look hard, but she looked as if she had heard all the answers and remembered the ones she thought she might be able to use sometime.
She looked me over coolly. «Well, what’s the message, browneyes?»
«I’d have to come in,» I said. «I never could talk on my feet.»
She laughed disinterestedly and I slid past the end of her cigarette into a long rather narrow room with plenty of nice furniture, plenty of windows, plenty of drapes, plenty of everything. A fire blazed behind a screen, a big log on top of a gas teaser. There was a silk Oriental rug in front of a nice rose davenport in front of the nice fire, and beside that there was Scotch and swish on a tabouret, ice in a bucket, everything to make a man feel at home.