Vincent breathed quietly as he waited. On no account must he betray his presence. Action was here, or would be, upon Scanlon’s return. Perhaps the shoe salesman, with all his appearance of fear, would be a worthy match for the ill-visaged Cronin.
Ten more minutes went by; endless minutes that held Vincent on edge. Then came the quick tap-tap of Scanlon’s footsteps with two or three of the familiar pauses; then the man was at the door of his room, the sound of his rapid breathing hissing in Vincent’s ears.
The key turned in the lock, then Vincent’s view was momentarily blocked as Cronin came by the crack of the doorway. He had moved noiselessly, and now his voice spoke low but sharply.
“Scanlon!”
Vincent could not see the shoe salesman, for the man had already started into his room. But he could hear the gasp that came from him.
“What do you want?”
The gruff voice, which quavered in a pitiful manner, came from Scanlon.
“I want to talk with you,” said Steve Cronin in an amiable tone. “I came up here to see you.”
“I thought you had an appointment.”
“I kept it. The man was not there to meet me.”
“How did you know I was stopping here?”
“You told me.”
“I did not.” There was a pause. The two were close together in Scanlon’s doorway, out of Vincent’s view. Steve Cronin broke the silence.
“We’re old friends, Scanlon,” he said. “I’m glad to see you again. You told me you were staying here; but you probably forgot you mentioned it. I think I can help you make some sales. I’ll only be with you a few minutes.”
“I don’t need your help,” replied Scanlon. His voice was firm again.
Vincent smiled despite the tension. Steve Cronin, wolf though he might be, seemed due to meet a fighting lamb.
“Why argue here in the corridor?” said Cronin suavely.
“I don’t like you, that’s why,” answered Scanlon.
“You don’t?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I have my reasons. You can go along. I don’t want to be bothered with you.”
“That’s just why I’ll stay. I’ll find out why you don’t like me.”
Vincent heard a hurried sound. Scanlon was trying to slam the door in Steve Cronin’s face.
“Easy now, Scanlon”, came the smooth words of Steve Cronin. “Easy now. I’m coming in.”
The door slammed, and Vincent heard hurried mumbled words. He stepped softly into the hallway.
Scanlon’s transom was still partly opened. The men were talking excitedly, but in low voices. Vincent could not catch their words. Still he listened, one hand reaching toward the door of his own room, his eyes watching down the corridor.
The voices became less excited. They were low and virtually inaudible. Something was being discussed between the two men, and Vincent - of all the persons in the great hotel - was the only one who knew of it.
The men must have approached the door, for Vincent could hear their voices despite the quiet tones. Scanlon was speaking.
“All right, Cronin - if that’s your name - tell me what you want.”
“You know what I want, Scanlon. I want the disk.”
“What disk? Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The Chinese disk. The coin. You have it.”
“I don’t understand you, Cronin.”
“You know what I’m asking for. Be reasonable. I’ll buy it. Name your price.”
Scanlon’s reply was a mumble. The voices lessened, and Vincent could hear nothing. He tiptoed back into his own room; there he listened at the window. The night was not cold; the maid probably left the sash raised in Scanlon’s room. Yet no sound came from the room next door.
Vincent slipped off his shoes and removed his coat, vest and collar. He lay on the bed a few moments, wondering what should be his next move. As he pondered on this question he fancied he heard a dull sound from the room next door. What was it - a table overturning - a falling body?
He peered through the crack of his own door, then crept into the corridor and listened. He looked at the door of the other room and his eyes were riveted there for an instant. The knob of the door was slowly turning!
Three steps carried Vincent back into his own room. As he peered through the crack of the door, he saw Steve Cronin tiptoe into the hallway. With furtive glances in both directions, the mustached man stole along the corridor and disappeared through the exit to the fire tower.
With tingling nerves, Vincent placed his hand upon the knob of the door to Scanlon’s room. It yielded to his touch. Cronin had closed the door silently and the latch could not have caught. It was Vincent’s turn to glance up and down the hall; seeing no one, he entered the room that was Scanlon’s.
Dim light, the reflection of Manhattan’s glare, enabled him to find his way to the open window. As he looked to his right, he shuddered. A form lay sprawled on the floor, one hand stretched upward against the side of the telephone table.
It was the body of Scanlon. Vincent was sure that the man was dead. Something white was near him; without touching the object, Vincent recognized it as a pillowcase.
Instinctively he knew what had transpired. The dull sound had either been a shot or the fall of Scanlon’s body. Steve Cronin had forced the man into the closet - Vincent could see the opened door behind the body - and had shot the shoe salesman, using the pillowcase to muffle the revolver’s report.
It was murder - cold, brutal murder - and Vincent was alone in the room with the murdered man. He felt that he should leave at once, but the tragedy held a lure that kept him there.
He stepped toward the closet and something pressed into the sole of his stockinged foot. It was a dull, upright edge, and Vincent reached down mechanically to inspect it.
His fingers touched a flat, round object wedged in a crack at the entrance to the closet door. He had no idea what it might be - his nerves were too strained to take notice, for his thoughts were concerned with the body that lay near him.
Scarcely knowing what he did, he pulled the object from the crack and dropped it into his vest pocket.
It might be a clew. A clew he thought - but what better clew could anyone find than a man in the room with a murdered body? Terror came over Vincent as he thought of his precarious position, and what it might mean if some one were to come upon him at that moment.
He must get back to his own room at all cost - yet he must, prodded by his sense of duty as an American citizen, give some signal of Scanlon’s murder.
An idea came to him. He reached out and pushed the telephone from the table. It clattered on the floor, and Vincent, now thoroughly alarmed, hurried from the room and slipped through his own door.
There was no one in the hallway to see him. He was safe!
How long would it be before anyone would come to investigate Scanlon’s room? The telephone receiver, fallen from its hook, would give the alarm; the lack of an answering voice would surely arouse the suspicions of the girl down at the switchboard.
Vincent went to bed and lay there through endless moments. At last there was a noise in the hall. He could hear some one opening Scanlon’s door. Some one was talking in the hallway; more voices joined in, and finally there came a thumping upon Vincent’s door.
Feigning sleepiness, Vincent opened his door, appearing in his pajamas. He could see that the door of Scanlon’s room was open, and that the lights were on.
The man who stood before Vincent was evidently the house detective.
“What’s going on?” inquired Vincent drowsily.
“Man killed in there,” said the house detective. “Did you hear a revolver shot a while ago?”
