SEVENAFTER WARMING my sins on the fire of remorse a while, I began to realize that it would all have been different if old man Crossway hadn’t put me on the assignment.
And if I told him the complete truth, it would be to heap at least the ashes of remorse on his head.
This made me feel better enough to ring room service and order steak Chateaubriand, with the chef’s salad tossed in Roquefort dressing and the French fries, accompanied by a coffee pot.
If the rich eat like that all the time, I frankly don’t know where they put it. I was still only whittling around the edges of the steak when there was a tapping outside the sliding glass door. The room-service waiter had drawn the drapes—to prevent passersby being annoyed by my table manners, probably. H. H. Crossway in touch, I thought.
