This Doesn't Happen in the Movies Read Online Free PDF Page A

miniscule, but at least I don’t have to run to the end of the hall every time nature calls.  Or when I need to splash water on my face.
    “Wow.  That’s cold,” I said to my reflection in the mirror above the sink in the bathroom.  My hazel eyes gazed back, chastising me.  I had just successfully averted a liaison with my first client.  At least for the moment. 
    “Focus, Reed.  It’s your first case,” I said to my reflection.  “You don’t want to emulate all the traits of the movie detectives.”  Like having an affair with your client, who also happens to be married.
    I dried my face off, feeling more-or-less in control.  I tossed the towel on a rung and returned to the office.  Okay, what would Bogie do, I asked myself as I paced back and forth.
    After a moment I sat down at my desk, grabbed the phone, and dialed a hotel number from Peter’s itinerary.
    “Thank you for calling the Hilton Miami.  How may I direct your call?”  A deep male voice droned.
    “I’m trying to track down a friend of mine who stayed there a couple of weeks ago.  Could you help me?” I asked.  I’ve found that a direct approach usually gets you the information you want, and what better way to verify how far Peter had made it through his trip than to contact the hotels on his itinerary?
    “Name please.”  This operator at the Hilton in Miami didn’t waste any air.
    I figured he was asking for the name of my supposed friend, not me.  “Peter Ghering.”  I spelled it for him.
    I heard some tapping on a computer keyboard.  “Yes.  He stayed here for six nights and left on November twentieth.”  It’s amazing what information can be gleaned from a quick phone call.  If you don’t hesitate and sound self-assured, you can get almost anything out of anybody.
    I thanked him and called the next stop on Peter’s itinerary, the Embassy Suites Hotel in New York City.  “Could you spell the last name, sir?” a friendly female voice requested.
    I did and waited while she looked up the information.
    “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Ghering checked out over a week ago, on Sunday.”
    “Did he leave any forwarding information?”
    She paused.  “No, I’m sorry.  Is there anything else I can help you with?”
    “No, thanks.”  I hung up, dialed the number for the hotel in Philadelphia, and went through the same routine.
    “Ghering?” another feminine voice asked.  “I show that he checked out on Friday morning.”
    “Any forwarding information?”
    “I don’t show anything.”
    I hung up.  So Peter Ghering had made it to Philadelphia, stayed the week, and left.  Where did he go?  I read through the itinerary again.  It showed that Peter had a flight out of Philadelphia International Airport at just past nine in the morning this past Monday.  So what did he do over the weekend, and where did he stay?  He was probably with a girlfriend, but which one?  And why didn’t he use the airline ticket from New York to Philly?  Did he not like the puddle-jumpers?
    I picked up the phone again and called the number for United Airlines, and after a series of transfers, spoke to a manager.
    “This is Abe Avery,” a nasally voice said.  I pictured Abe speaking with a clothes pin on his nose.  “How may I help you?”
    I launched into an explanation about how I was trying to find out if the tickets Peter purchased had indeed been used.
    “May I have your name please?”
    “Sam Spade.  I’m a private investigator.”
    “I’m sorry, Mr. Spade, but that information is confidential.”  His tone implied that I should’ve known that.
    “This is a missing-persons case,” I put an imperative edge in my voice.  “This man has not been seen since last Friday.”
    “I’m sorry, but I cannot reveal that information without a warrant.”  His voice droned like an annoying bee.  “If you’d like to come down here with that, I’m sure I can help you with what you need.”
    The real Sam Spade didn’t