The flirtation is simple enough. The proposition comes in due course, usually in the cocktail lounge or café of the hotel. The acceptance is at first hesitant--she isn't that kind, shouldn't stay out long, but she has taken a fancy to the stranger (after she has worked out of him the information that he is stopping at the hotel and isn't a permanent guest) and so, yes, she will go to his room--unaccustomed as she is to unconventional adventure--for a little while. He doesn't dream how little time. His room is not only her objective, but there is no other retreat. Should he want to lead her somewhere else, he is stymied. All hotels are full up. Even if he got a handbag and tried to get into another haven with her, he would be asked for his reservation. There are no more loose hotels specializing in such twosomes. In 1940, there were hundreds. Now there isn't one. The war rush, the military police, the high rates for legitimate rentals turned them all respectable. They found that more profitable and kept it up. Because of her system, she cannot take him to her abode or to any other which he can identify after his long snooze, even if she, a wise New York cookie, does know some side-street bed-house where a cheating clerk holds out a cubicle or two for quick turnovers. So she plays quite helpless. She lives with her folks. Unless they go to his place--well, where else? He takes the standard precautions of the seasoned wayfarer. He goes up alone, tells her to follow in five minutes and walk right in. With few exceptions, the dreaded "Get that woman out of your room!" has gone the way of the one-buck blue plate. Guests are still protected, but not against their own peccadillos. The simp has pushed the little plunger so the knob will turn from the outside. The tough trollop, acting nervous and timid, but irresistibly tempted, enters. He makes a grab. Oh--he mustn't be so impulsive, so impatient. She is jittery and fluttery--natch, since she is doing what her breeding and better nature tell her she should never have yielded to. A drink--one little drink to settle the nerves--and then-- He calls room service, even if he has a bottle in his bag. If he has seltzer, she can drink it only with ginger ale, or vice versa. When the waiter is called, she steps into the bathroom on his knock, and the cluck giggles and says he always takes two about that time of day. The waiter says lots of customers do, it's getting to be a national habit. For that he gets a bill instead of a coin. She has taken her purse into the bathroom with her, and when she can safely return she has the knockout dose held between the thumb and the palm of her gloved hand--she keeps the gloves on; no fingerprints. She sits, then remembers she has left her handkerchief on the washstand--would he please get it? As he turns his back, she drops the tasteless, colorless grains into his drink, which dissolves them instantly. They raise glasses. Here's to crime! Skoal!