She stood a moment just inside the entrance, looking around as if expecting to be met. When the hatcheck girl came forward, she surrendered her trenchcoat and made her way slowly to the bar, peering about in the dimness, still acting the role of a lady awaiting her escort.

Most of the small tables were occupied by couples and foursomes. The bar was crowded: singles, doubles, groups. There were a few seated women, but men were standing two and three deep, reaching over shoulders to take refills from perspiring bartenders in fezzes.

The room was terribly overheated, smoky, smelling vilely of cheap incense. Shriek of conversation. Shouts of laughter. Tinny blare of piped Eastern music. Zoe wondered how long she might endure this swamp of raw noise.

She stood a moment near the bar, chin up, spine straight.

A red-faced man, hair tousled, tie askew, spluttering with laughter at something his companion had just said, made a sudden lurch backward and bumped her roughly.

"Whoops!" he said, catching her arm as she staggered. "Beg your pardon, lady. Any harm done?"

"No, no," she said, giving him a rueful smile, rubbing her arm. "It's all right."

"Not all right," he protested. "I'm sorry as hell. Buy you a drink? Then you'll forgive me?"

"Thank you," she said, still smiling, "but I'll pay for it. But I'd appreciate it if you could order a glass of white wine for me. I can't get near the bar."

She fumbled in her bag. He made a grand gesture.

"Put your money away, sweetie," he said. "This is on the house-my house!"

He and his friend found this a remarkably humorous sally.

They heaved with merriment, bending over their drinks. In a few minutes, Zoe had her glass of wine.

"Come join us," the red-faced man urged. "Me and my pal here have been boring each other all night. He's a sex fiend, but I'll protect you from him!"

More loud guffaws.

"Sounds like a lot of fun," Zoe said, "but I'm waiting for my boyfriend. Maybe some other time."

"Any time at all," the friend said, speaking for the first time. His lickerish eyes traveled slowly down the length of her body to her strapped sandals, then up again. "You name the time, and I'll be there, I guarantee!"

They were still laughing, nudging each other with elbows when, smiling faintly, she moved away from them, down the bar. She didn't want two men. She wanted one man.

Searching, she saw a woman seated at the bar gathering up purse and gloves. Her escort, standing alongside, had just received his bill and was counting money onto the bar.

Sidling swiftly through the press, protecting her glass of wine with a cupped hand, and saying, "Pardon. Pardon. Pardon," Zoe Kohler succeeded in claiming the barstool a second after the woman slid off.

"Got it all warm for you, honey," the brassy blonde said. Then she took a closer look at Zoe, and said, "Good luck!"

"Yes," Zoe said. "Thanks." And turned swiftly away.

To her right was a noisy group of five men engaged in a loud debate on professional football teams. It was the single man seated to her left who interested Zoe. He was staring straight ahead, hunched over what appeared to be a martini-rocks. He was apparently oblivious to the hubbub around him.

"Pardon me, sir," Zoe Kohler said, leaning toward him. "Could you tell me what time it is, please?"

He turned his head slowly to look at her, then glanced down at his gold wristwatch.

"Almost eleven-fifteen," he said.

"Thank you, sir," she said, then swung partly around on her barstool to search the room with anxious eyes. As she swung, her knees brushed his fat thigh.

"What's the matter?" the man said. "He didn't show up?"

She swung back, then turned her head to face him, looking into his eyes.

"What makes you think it's a man?" she said. "Maybe I'm waiting for my girlfriend."

"No way," he said, his eyes lowering to her bosom. "A beautiful woman like you, it's got to be a man. And he's a fool for being late."

"Well," she said, giggling, "to tell you the truth, it's me that's late-by about an hour!"

Five minutes later, he had become more animated, had bought a round of drinks, and they knew all about each other-all they wanted to know.

His name was Fred (no last name offered), and he was in New York to attend a convention of electrical appliance marketing managers in that very hotel. He was from Akron, Ohio, and couldn't wait to get back. Zoe judged him to be in his early fifties.

She was Irene (no last name offered), and she was originally from Minneapolis. She had come to New York seeking a career as model and actress. But now she was executive assistant to an independent TV producer who made commercials and educational films.

They had swung around to face each other. Their knees rubbed.

"Why are you sitting here alone?" Zoe asked. "A convention and all that. Why aren't you out with the boys, tearing up the town?"

"Oh, I was," he said. "Earlier. But then things got a little raunchy. They wanted to go down to Greenwich Village and see the freaks. That's not my idea of a good time. So I cut out."

"What's your idea of a good time?" she challenged, but when she saw the flicker of fear in his eyes, she wondered if she was moving too fast.

"Oh," he said, looking down, "you know… A nightcap, and then up to my room to watch TV. I'm really a very quiet guy."

"You say," she scoffed. "You quiet ones are the worst. Hell on wheels when you get rolling."

He laughed, chest swelling with pride.

"Well…" he said, "maybe. I guess I've sowed my share of wild oats."

He was heavy, heavy. His florid face was pudgy, neck thick, torso soft. Collops flapped at the corners of his mouth. He had the sandpaper cough of a heavy smoker. In addition to the gold wristwatch, he wore gold cufflinks, a pearl tie tac, a pinkie ring set with a square diamond. He was not drunk, exactly, but he was on his way: a little dazed, beginning to slur.

He ordered another round of drinks. She reached for her wine, and he grabbed her wrist and turned the chain so he could read the words: why not?

He raised his eyes to stare at her.

"Why not?" he said hoarsely.

She leaned close to him, her cool cheek against his hot, sweated jowl. She whispered into his ear:

"I told you that you quiet ones are hell on wheels. Can we go to your room? Have a little party?"

He nodded dumbly.

They drained their drinks. He paid his bill from a thick wallet. They pushed their way through the throng. She gave him her coat check and he paid to reclaim her trenchcoat.

"I left my coat in my room," he said. "I'm on the thirtieth floor."

"Way up in the sky," she said.

"That's right, girlie," he said, staggering and catching her arm to steady himself. "Way up with the birdies."

"It's your own room?" she said in a low voice. "Or do you have a roommate?"

"It's all mine," he mumbled. "Yours and mine."

They had to jam their way into a crowded elevator filled with laughing, yelling, drunken convention-goers. Another couple got off on the 30th floor, but turned down the long corridor in the opposite direction. Fred led the way around one turn to Room 3015.

He halted before the flush door.

"Take a look at this door, Irene," he demanded. "Tell me what you see. Or don't see!"

She knew immediately what it was-she had read about it in the hotel trade magazine-but she could not deny him his moment of triumph.

"It just looks like an ordinary door to me," she said, shrugging.

"No keyhole!" he said. "Just that thing…"

He pointed to a narrow, metal-rimmed slot directly under the knob. Then he took a white plastic card from his jacket pocket. It was no larger than a credit card.

"Magnetic," he explained to Zoe. "The printed code is between two pieces of solid plastic. You can't see it. And no way for your friendly neighborhood locksmith to copy it. Not yet there isn't."