The Hollow Crown Affair

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Del Floria looked up from his presser as the bell above his shop door tinkled and stared at the gentleman who entered. From the crown of his black homburg to the ferrule of his silver-topped cane stood six feet of aristocratic hauteur, piercing eyes above a well-kept beard, with an erect, almost military stance marred by the awkward angle of one leg.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Floria," said the total stranger. His voice was somewhat harsh, but carefully trained. He stumped clumsily down the four steps into the shop and crossed directly to the second fitting booth. At the curtain he paused and turned. "Well, push your lever, my good man! I wish to see Alexander Waverly."

Del stared at him. "I beg your pardon?" he said doubtfully. "If you're looking for the apartment house, that's a couple doors east at 320. Nobody named Waverly here."

"Don't be impertinent. Time is too short for me to go through that nonsense at the Masque Club. Where's your television camera?"

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