I left and drove to the address of the Emerson Hotel. It was a small, not very handsome building. I went into the small lobby. It was clean, but there was a moth-eaten look about it. There was a little old lady back of the desk, perched on a stool. She was reading a copy of one of the men’s adventure magazines. She marked her place with one finger and looked up.
“Did you know,” she said, “that during the last war two of our Navy men captured a whole harem of Japanese virgins? Think of that.”
“It staggers my imagination,” I said solemnly.
She looked over with eyes that were brighter and younger than her age would indicate. “Did you want a room?” she asked doubtfully.
“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” I said. “Did you have a roomer here for a while by the name of James Smith?” I was trying
