Both rooms, he found, opened on a porch which ran the whole of the seaward length of the house. French windows, opening outwards, gave access to this sunporch. After a brief inspection, Val left Eddie to open the suitcases and distribute their clothes in the closets while he went downstairs to reconnoiter.
In front of the hotel he found a decrepit, ancient touring car, labeled “For Hire.” The driver lounged in the seat, but he snapped to attention as Val approached.
“How much?” asked Val.
“Four dollars an hour.”
“I mean for a week—I want to drive it myself,” replied Val.
The owner considered for a moment. “Cost you a hundred an’ seventy-five bucks,” he announced at length. “How do I know you won’t damage the car?”
“You don’t know, young feller,” smiled Val. “But I’m paying twice as much as it’s worth, so you’re taking no chance. Get me?”
“Where ya stoppin’?” asked the driver.
“Chamberlin.”
The preliminaries were arranged at the desk of the hotel, and in a few moments Val found himself in temporary possession of a touring car. He stood on the sidewalk for a moment, regarding the car intently. Now that he had a car, there was, of course, but one use to put it to. That is, to drive out to where Jessica was stopping. Of what other use is a car, anyway? There was no answer to this, so he hopped in and drove off, perkily, in the direction of Hampton, where he expected he would receive correct information as to the location of the Pomeroy house.
