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A Dip in the Poole
Bill Pronzini
I was sitting in a large comfortable leather armchair in the lobby of the Hotel Poole, leafing through a magazine, when the young woman in the dark weed suit picked Andrew J. Stuyvesant’s pocket. She did it very cleverly Stuyvesant--a silver-haired old gentleman who carries a walking stick and is worth fifteen or twenty million dollars-had just stepped out of one of the elevators in front of me. The young woman appeared from the direction of the marble staircase. Walking rapidly, and pretending to be absorbed in thought, she bumped into him. She then appeared embarrassed and apologized. Stuyvesant bowed in a gallant way, saying, “Why that’s perfectly all right.” I could see that she got his wallet and the diamond stickpin from his tie. Stuyvesant neither felt nor suspected a thing. The young woman apologized again and then hurried off across the thick carpeting toward the main entrance at the end of the room. As she moved, she skillfully slipped the items into a tan suede bag she carried over one arm. Immediately, I popped out of my chair and moved quickly after her. She managed to get within a few steps of the glass doors before I caught up with her. I let my hand fall on her arm. “Excuse me just a moment,” I said, smiling. She stiffened, becoming completely still. Then she turned and regarded me icily. “I beg your pardon,” she said in a frosty voice. “You and I had best have a little chat.” “I am not in the habit of chatting with men I don’t know.” “I think you’ll make an exception in my case,” I said. Her brown eyes flashed angrily as she said, “I suggest you let go of my arm. If you don’t, I shall call the manager.” I shrugged lightly. “There’s no need for that.” “I certainly hope not.” “Simply because he would only call for me.” “What?” “I’m the chief of security at the Hotel Poole, you see,” I told her. “I’m what once
Bill Pronzini
I was sitting in a large comfortable leather armchair in the lobby of the Hotel Poole, leafing through a magazine, when the young woman in the dark weed suit picked Andrew J. Stuyvesant’s pocket. She did it very cleverly Stuyvesant--a silver-haired old gentleman who carries a walking stick and is worth fifteen or twenty million dollars-had just stepped out of one of the elevators in front of me. The young woman appeared from the direction of the marble staircase. Walking rapidly, and pretending to be absorbed in thought, she bumped into him. She then appeared embarrassed and apologized. Stuyvesant bowed in a gallant way, saying, “Why that’s perfectly all right.” I could see that she got his wallet and the diamond stickpin from his tie. Stuyvesant neither felt nor suspected a thing. The young woman apologized again and then hurried off across the thick carpeting toward the main entrance at the end of the room. As she moved, she skillfully slipped the items into a tan suede bag she carried over one arm. Immediately, I popped out of my chair and moved quickly after her. She managed to get within a few steps of the glass doors before I caught up with her. I let my hand fall on her arm. “Excuse me just a moment,” I said, smiling. She stiffened, becoming completely still. Then she turned and regarded me icily. “I beg your pardon,” she said in a frosty voice. “You and I had best have a little chat.” “I am not in the habit of chatting with men I don’t know.” “I think you’ll make an exception in my case,” I said. Her brown eyes flashed angrily as she said, “I suggest you let go of my arm. If you don’t, I shall call the manager.” I shrugged lightly. “There’s no need for that.” “I certainly hope not.” “Simply because he would only call for me.” “What?” “I’m the chief of security at the Hotel Poole, you see,” I told her. “I’m what once