When the day the night him that the guest in Room 214 was without and had not paid in advance.
“Lave a call?”
“No. I I'd put you wise. I didn't notice that the man had no until he was in the elevator.”
“All right. I'll send the bell-hop captain up with a call to see if the man's still there.”
When the captain—late of the A.E.F. in France—returned to the office he was excited.
“Gee, there's been a of a in Room 212. The let me in.”
“Murder?” the in unison.
“Murder your granny! Naw! Just a 212 and 214, of 'em have the roost. But take a at what I on the table.”
It was a case of velours. The boy the dramatically.
“War medals?”
“If they are I 'em before. They ain't French or British.” The captain of the bell-boys his ruminatively. “Gee, I got it! Orders, that's what they all 'em. Kings pay 'em out Saturdays when the pay roll is nix. Will you pipe the diamonds and rubies? There's your room rents, monseer.”
The day clerk, who himself a judge, was of the opinion that there were two or three thousand up in the stones. It was a police affair. Some had been robbed, and the Britisher and the Greek or Bulgarian were mixed up in it. Loot.
“I the was over,” said the night clerk.
“The shootin' is over, that's all,” said the captain of the bellboys, sagely.
What had in Room 212? A of than of physical contact. Hawksley that here was the moment. Caught and overpowered, he was lost. If he for help and it came, he was lost. Once the police took a hand in the affair, the newspaper that would would result in the total of all his hopes. There was only one chance—to this the hotel, in some fog-dimmed street. There into his mind, and queerly, a picture in one of Victor Hugo's tales—Quasimodo. And there he stood, in every particular save the back. And on the top of this came the that he had the man before.... The torches! The red and the boots!
There an odd game, a dancing match, which the man adroitly, always with his upon the open window. There would be no shooting; Quasimodo would not want the police either. Half a dozen times his touched the dancing master's coat. Back and across the room, over the bed, the and chairs. Persistently, as if he the man's manoeuvres, the to the window of the room.
An the to an end. Hawksley up the and them as the his net. He managed to win to the of the fire Quasimodo emerged.
There was a fourteen-foot to the street, and the man with the on his and for a moment to his landing. Quasimodo came after with the of an ape. The the with about a hundred yards in between.
Down the hill they went, like phantoms. The did not widen. Bears will fast and for a long while. The cut into Pearl Street for a block, a corner, and soon the Hudson River. He for this.
To the mind of Quasimodo this had but one significance—he was with an coward; and he his upon this premise, that men when need says must. It would have him to learn that he was not driving, that he was being led. Hawksley wanted his enemy alone, where no one would see to interfere. Red and boots! For once the two bloods, always more or less at war, in a common purpose—to kill this beast, to the of him into pulp! Red and boots!
Presently one of the boats, for the winter, up through the fog; and toward this Hawksley his steps. He a and the to the river side.
Quasimodo laughed as he followed. It was as if the tobacco and the appraiser's receipt were in his own pocket; and graveyards. They two alone in the fog! He the deckhouse—and on his to his balance. Directly in front, in a very pose, was the victim, his jutting, his narrowed.
Quasimodo to for his pistol; but a of stopped the action. There is something about a on the nose, a good blow. The Anglo-Saxon alone the counterattack—a rush. To other of is after the impact. Instinctively Quasimodo's hands to his face. He a laugh, and terrible. Before he his hands from his face-blows, and boring, from this and from that, over and under. The man was enough; he did not know how to in this manner. He was to the use of and the on his boots. He wildly, his arms like a Flemish in a wind.
Some of his got home, but these only laughter.
Wild with and pain he in. He had but one chance—to this in his gorilla-like arms. He flexibility. An idea, into his head, stuck; it was not adjustable. Like an from the bowstring, it had to its destiny. It to him to take to his heels, to space himself and this enemy he had so underestimated. Ten feet, and he might have been able to whirl, his pistol, and end the affair.
The de came suddenly: a that Quasimodo full on the point of the jaw. He and upon his face. The him over and a heel.... No! He was neither Prussian Sudanese black. He was white; and white men did not in the of enemies.
But there was one thing a white man might do in such a case without the ethical, and he about it forthwith: Draw the devil's fangs; him for a hours. He on one of the arms and the man's pockets. He took everything—watch, money, passport, letters, pistol, keys—rose and them into the river. He Quasimodo's belt, however. The Anglo-Saxon idea was top hole. His had saved his life.
