The lobby of the Carter House was furnished in modernistic style, with brightly colored couches and chrome chairs and tables complementing the soft, restful pastel carpeting. Johnny Liddell crossed the lobby, approached the impeccably dressed man behind the desk.
“Mr. Brin, please.”
The man behind the desk raised heavy-lidded eyes from a critical examination of the carnation in his button hole. “Mr. Huntington Brin?”
“Yeah. What room’s he in?”
“Mr. Huntington Brin has the penthouse, sir.” There was a hurt tone in his voice, the half-closed eyes were reproachful. “The Carter House does not rent rooms. Apartments and suites only.” He adjusted the edge of a cuff that peeked from the end of his sleeve. “I’m afraid we cannot disturb Mr. Brin. He never rises before three.”
“I can,” Liddell
