"We, ah, we were not intruding, Miss," Dennithy spluttered. "I cleared the room so I could show this equipment to--" I kicked him in the shin "--to _Mister_ Klinghammer. He--has a hotel on the west coast. He is interested." The reason for this evasion was the fact that emblazoned in red over her left breast was the legend: "JAYSEE SYMPTOMETER SERVICE" "Clever machines," I flattered. "Well based in feminine psychology," I added, entirely overlooking that she might reasonably be expected to have the same psychology. "I only service them," she said shortly. "Please step aside so I can operate." She gave me a long, searching look before she swung open the first top panel. Apparently satisfied I was merely a prospective customer, she let me look on. A swift look inside gave me a virulent case of the quim-quim. Here was no simple coin-snatcher. The answer buttons were switches. From each one ran leads to a panel which bristled with tiny vacuum tubes. It was uncomfortably remindful of the latest in electronic calculators which were rapidly gaining the reputation of being, "man's other brain." "Tell me, Miss--" "_Doctor_ Calicoo," she prompted me pleasantly, as she slipped the tiny test prods of a miniature meter into the machine's mercenary heart. "Tell me, Dr. Calicoo, how may I get in touch with the supplier of this equipment?" She handed me a card and with it a slightly interested look that dropped my stability quotient at least three points. The card was less interesting than the expression in her provocative blue eyes. I broke down and asked, "Doctor of what?" "Philosophy. Electronics and Mathematics. You don't run a hotel," she said shrewdly. "Make a liar out of Mr. Dennithy if you choose," I told her, "but would you be kind enough to take me to," I glanced at the card, "to Dr. John Cunningham?" "I'll take you," she nodded, then her voice hardened a little, "but if you are just a snooper or a patent-jumper it will be no favor." She invited candor, so she got it. I showed her my badge. Her mouth pulled into a startled little "o," like an oversized, pitted cherry. We left Dennithy clinking quarters, trying to determine how he might figure into a possible scandal. In the elevator to the basement garage I commented acidly, "You must have known this was inevitable, of course?" "To the contrary," she parried, "I had a notion that a genuine M.P. sleuth would be ninety-two years old and wear a white coat with a stethoscope in his side pocket. You seem to have youth and a rather charming virility, Doctor." "Cut the flattery," I said. "Let's find your car." * * * * *