CHAPTER SEVENIt looked like every other small apartment hotel in the world, complete to the no vacancy sign outside and a pimply, adolescent-looking clerk at the desk. I estimated that a small apartment at the Wentworth would run about seventy-five a month. No more than that, or the tenant was being robbed.
The clerk said, “Miss Sharp isn’t in.” He hadn’t rung, and I looked at him quizzically.
He said, “She doesn’t return until nearly six; she’s at work. Miss Sharp has been with us for some time; she never gets home week days until nearly six.”
I hadn’t asked him for all that, but it was all right. I said, “Where does she work?”
He looked me over again, more carefully this time, taking in a suit that could soon use a pressing, and shoes that were beginning to show that they had seen en
