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reading the comic, I pulled a camera from my purse and pretended to fidget with it. This wasn’t Pop’s preferred instrument of surveillance, a 1930s Leica he used because he claimed there was no better camera on the market. Instead, I had the small Brownie camera I’d gotten for my fourteenth birthday, a gift from Uncle Adam that took serviceable pictures, provided you were no more than ten feet from your subject. I stared through the viewfinder and pretended I was interested in capturing the ornate ceiling, then an impressionistic landscape in a gilded frame, then the pattern in the thick Oriental rug. Just as I came up from my study of the fleur-de-lis pattern, Mrs. Wilson entered the lobby and took her seat opposite me.
    I continued to click away, then frowned at the camera as though I were uncertain how to operate it. She busied herself with a copy of the newspaper that had been discarded in the lobby, dividing her attention between the headlines and the elevator bank across the room from us.
    “Togo Resigns as Japanese Foreign Minister,” screamed her newspaper. “Fuel Rations May Be Widened to Cover Midwest.”
    I decided to shift positions. If whomever she was waiting for was coming from the elevators, I needed to be closer to them if I was going to catch them on film. I tucked the comic under my arm and shouldered my pocketbook. Then I continued clicking the camera, capturing a poodle being herded across the lobby by the concierge and a floral display that prominently featured small American flags among its more fragrant offerings. The elevators dinged open and an assortment of people exited into the lobby.
    I glanced toward Mrs. Wilson, waiting to see which of the men—if any—might catch her fancy. My money was on a fellow in a blue pinstriped suit. He was about her age and looked a little like Robert Young, if Robert Young had jowls. I got ready to take his picture. Her hand dashed into the air and she waved at the exiting crowd. Instead of Robert separating from the pack and heading her way, a young serviceman did, greeting her with a wide grin while he bisected the lobby in three easy strides.
    They embraced and I captured their union three times, making certain to get the man’s face in every shot. After their chaste meeting, they disappeared into the Oak Room, presumably to get a drink. Would this be enough to satisfy Mr. Wilson? So far all I had was proof that his wife wasn’t where she claimed to be and that she was keeping company with a member of the opposite sex, neither of which seemed like evidence that she was having an affair. After all, this could just be a friend in town on leave whom she decided to get together with. Without telling her husband. In a hotel.
    On second thought, maybe this was bad.
    I decided to stay in the lobby to see what they’d do next. An hour passed, during which I read Archie cover to cover, and then the two left the bar and headed toward the elevators. I watched the dial indicating which floor the car was bound for, then stepped into another car and asked the operator to take me up. I arrived too late. The hallway was empty. That meant either they had run to their room or the man was staying in one of the ones closest to the elevator. I surveyed each door in turn. On one a DO NOT DISTURB sign gently swayed to and fro.
    Bingo.
    I put my hand on the knob and tried to turn it. It was locked. From behind the door came a deep, feminine giggle. Surely a married woman didn’t come up to a hotel room with a man who was not her husband for innocent reasons. Was this enough evidence for Mr. Wilson?
    Was it enough evidence for me?
    I had Pop to think about. If he was going to get paid, if he was going to keep Mr. Wilson from going to Uncle Adam, he needed a photo, something more than the chaste pictures I’d captured in the lobby. Just as I was starting to think that the situation was hopeless, a maid came down the hallway, pushing a cart filled with towels, soap, and other