"Yes, sir."
"Carpets?"
"Yes, sir," the clerk said, trying unsuccessfully to hide his annoyance at the loudmouthed American.
"I'm sorry if I annoy you," Remo said, "but I'm used to only the best. The finest hotels in Jersey City, New Jersey. I don't stay nowhere but the best."
"This is the very best, sir," the clerk said. He leaned forward. "Your reservations were made by Baron Nemeroff, and any friend of the baron's…" He left the sentence uncompleted, and slammed the silver bell on the desk.
"That's all right," Remo said, waving his hand in dismissal. "Just give me the key."
As he looked up he saw the woman again staring at his back. He wondered if she were interested in him or in the PJ Kenny he was supposed to be. He'd have to find out.
He chased two bellhops. "All right, kids, I'll do it myself."
"Room 2510," the clerk told him, handing him a brass key with a blue glass ornament attached to it by a chain.
"Okay. And if it's not all right, you'll hear about it," Remo said, taking the key.
Instead of walking to the elevators, he went back across the lobby to the chair where the girl sat. He stopped in front of her, his feet only inches from hers, and she looked up over the newspaper, her eyes bemused under the big circular glasses.
"Yes?"
"I'm sorry, miss, but I'm sure I've seen you somewhere before."
She laughed. "I don't think so," and lowered her eyes to the paper.
"Do you always read newspapers upside down?" he asked.
Her face showed shock, but only momentarily. She recovered quickly and said coldy, "It's not upside down." But the damage had been done. That she was willing to panic for a moment, to think the paper just might be upside down, was proof that it could have been, that she hadn't been reading it. She knew it and Remo knew it.
He smiled at her again, trying to disarm her. "I know it," he said, "but I always say that."
"It must be your Jersey City training in diplomacy, Mr. Kenny." She had volunteered a sentence at last. Her voice was delicately British-not clipped and abrupt, but soft and throaty-and Remo had a letch for the way British women talked.
"One thing I learned in Jersey City diplomacy," he said. "Don't give something for nothing. You know my name and hometown. And I don't know anything about you, except…"
"Except?"
"Except that you're lovely."
She laughed softly. "Well, by all means then, we must maintain the balance of power. My name is Margaret Waters and I'm from London and if you really meant that last compliment, you can call me Maggie."
"A vacationer?" Remo asked.
"An archaeologist. Who would vacation here?"
"People from Jersey City."
She laughed again. "You've just gone down in my esteem."
"If you'll let me buy you dinner, I'll try to recoup my losses. That is, if you don't have a roaring date with Ramses II."
"You know," she said, "you're really much more civilized than you appeared to be when you were abusing that clerk." She pronounced it "dark."
"I've been watching too many gangster movies. Now how about that dinner?"
"I really haven't been able to make contact with Ramses yet. So yes, why not? Shall we make it nine o'clock?"
"Fine. Here?"
"In front of the hotel," she said.
Remo smiled down at her again. He noticed for the first time that her bust was every bit as good as her legs and her face.
"Until then, Maggie," he said, then turned and walked toward the elevators. His trip to Algiers was already a success. The girl was lovely. He was glad now that Chiun had not come; he would have already been harping about Remo's preoccupation with the opposite sex.
He pushed open the door to his room, and stepped into a six-inch deep rug. The entire window wall was of glass, and stepping toward it, Remo could see all of Algiers laid out in front of him, stretching from the hills on the left to the hills faraway on the right. He noticed, too, the small number of lights in the city, compared with an American city.
The bed was set into the floor, and Remo flopped down onto its mattress. It was first rate and hard.
The apartment's living room furniture was off to the left; to the right was a dining table and kitchenette. The air was washed clean and air-conditioned cool. The quarters were better than those he had in the Hotel Palazzo in New York. PJ Kenny, might he rest in peace, would have approved.
He probably would have approved of Maggie Waters at nine o'clock, too.
Sometimes Remo wished he had not been the recipient of such extensive training, because his initial impulses were all masculine and all correct, but his follow-through gave way to discipline, except in very rare cases.
Trust Chiun, that old torturer. He had managed to take the pleasure out of sex, while taking none of the enjoyment out of the anticipation. It was one of the things for which he'd have to make amends before he went to meet his ancestors, all those earlier Masters of Sinanju.
Remo glanced at his watch. He had not reset it. It was 1:30 New York time. Time to call Smith.
He had the hotel operator start the long routine of an overseas call to Mrs. Martha Cavendish in Secaucus, New Jersey, who if she had existed, would never have realized that she was supposed to be the aunt of Remo Williams.
But as the call was being made, the line would be switched and transferred, and eventually it would find its way to Smith's desk in Folcroft Sanatorium, overlooking Long Island Sound.
It was half an hour before the operator called back.
In heavily accented English that made Remo think she had a scrambler attachment on her mouth, she said, "We have your party."
He heard a click, and said, "Hello."
"Hello," came the nasty lemony voice.
"Uncle Harry?" Remo said. "This is your nephew. I've arrived safely. I just wanted to let you know. I'm in Room 2510 at the Stonewall Hotel in Algiers. Should I call Aunt Martha tomorrow?"
"Yes. Call her at noon."