 Inside the place was cheap porch furniture and occasional threadbare rugs over scarred pine and deserted. Except for a sleepy old guy with thick-lidded eyes and an accordion-wrinkled face who was slouched in a heap behind a sign on the reservation desk that read Maynard Sharp, no less, night manager. When I gave him my name and said that both my rheumatism and I needed a rest, he came to, almost. Rue me, Mr. Marlowe.