deadly bird, coaxing a clumsy prey within staking distance.
'Dusty took out his cigarettes, fumbled one from the package. Instantly, Kossmeyer was holding a match for him.
'Had a pretty rough time of it, haven't you, kid? Losing out on your schooling. Losing your mother. Working and trying to take care of a sick old man at the same time.'
'I don't mind,' Dusty said. 'I'm glad to do what I can.'
'Sure, you are, but it's plenty tough just the same. Well, I thought we'd gone pretty easy with you on money, but maybe we can make it a little-lighter still. That's your only objection to going on with the case, isn't it? The expense. If we can take care of that, you'd just as soon we went ahead.'
'Well, I – I wouldn't want you to-'
'We'll work something out,' Kossmeyer said. 'Maybe – y'know, it's just possible we can get by without any more expenses. If I can get your father to cooperate.'
'If…?' Dusty's head was beginning to ache. 'I don't understand.'
'You gave me an idea a minute ago. About your father signing that petition without knowing what he was doing. Now, that might be pretty hard for people to swallow, particularly at this late date. And I kind of think he wouldn't want to make such an admission anyway. If he wasn't any brighter than that, he shouldn't have been holding the job he was in…'
'But what-'
'That petition was floating around everywhere, different copies of it. Maybe someone signed your dad's name to it. You… Here! You're about to burn your fingers, kid.'
Kossmeyer reached behind him and procured an ashtray. He extended it in a lean, steady hand.
Dusty ground out his cigarette. 'Why would anyone sign his name?'
'Some joker maybe. Some guy who wanted to get him into trouble.'
'But why wouldn't Dad have said so if-'
'We-el' – Kossmeyer pursed his lips-' now, that's a question, ain't it? Ordinarily, I'd say he was standing on the principle of the thing. He had a right to sign it, and regardless of whether he did or not isn't important. It's the principle involved, not the physical action itself. But you say he doesn't feel that way, so – That is what you said, isn't it? – so I guess he must have another reason.'
He continued to stare at Dusty, frowning thoughtfully, interested and sympathetic: a man helping a friend with a puzzling problem. He waited, watched and waited, and Dusty could only look back at him wordlessly, his throat dry, a slow hot flush creeping over his face. The silence mounted. It became unbearable.
And then Kossmeyer shrugged, and grinned deprecatingly. 'Listen to me rave, huh? Who the hell would forge your old man's signature? It don't make sense any way you look at it. All your dad would have to do is call in a handwriting expert, and he'd be in the clear like that.'
He snapped his fingers, demonstrating. He slid off the desk, and held out his hand. 'Don't want to rush you off, kid, but I got a lot of people waiting and…'
'I've got to run along, anyway.' Dusty stood up hastily. 'I'll – thanks very much for seeing me, and-'
It wasn't what he wanted to say. He hadn't said anything he'd wanted to say. He'd gotten all twisted around, and all he could think of now was release. All he wanted now was to escape from this friendly, helpful and terrifying little man.
'I'll – I hope I see you again,' he mumbled weakly.
'Sure you will.' Kossmeyer gave him a hearty clap on the back. 'Any old time, kid. If it ain't convenient for you to come in, I'll look you up.'
He held the door open, beaming, ushered Dusty through it. He shook hands again. 'Yes, sir,' he said. 'I'll keep in touch. You can depend on it, Dusty.'
SIX
As it often did, after a scorching day, the night brought rain. It had started a Jew minutes before Dusty came to work; now, at three in the morning, it had settled down to a slow steady drizzle.
It was a quiet shift. No guests had come in on the late train, and there had been hardly a dozen room calls thus far. He and Bascom were practically through with their paper work; at least, there was little remaining that he could help with. Lounging at the side of the door of the lobby, he drank in the wonderfully cool clean air, watching the curtain of rain flow endlessly into the oily black pavement.
He was feeling good, all things considered, considering that he had had almost no sleep. It was cool, and Kossmeyer hadn't guessed anything – what the hell was there for him to guess, anyway? – and Bascom was being decent for a change. Bascom had been taking a lot out of him, Dusty decided. You were bound to be nervous and depressed when you had some guy riding you night after night.
Dusty flipped his cigarette into the street, and went back into the lobby. Bascom called to him pleasantly from the cashier's cage.
'How does it look, Bill? Still coming down pretty hard?'
'Not too bad. You can make it all right if you take an umbrella.'
'Good. Think I'll go get a bite to eat, then.'
Dusty went behind the desk. Bascom came out of the cashier's cage, locked the door behind him and got an umbrella. He opened the door at the rear of the keyrack, and emerged into the lobby.
'Well' – his voice was casual; he spoke almost over his shoulder – 'I guess you're not going to go back to college?'
'I'm still thinking about it,' Dusty said. 'I want to, but it'll take time to work it out.'
'I see,' Bascom nodded. 'At any rate, I don't suppose you could go back before the fall term.'
'No, sir. Not very well.'
'I'll be back in a few minutes,' Bascom said. 'You know where to reach me if anything comes up.'
He went out the side door, raising the umbrella as he stepped under the marquee. Dusty leaned his elbows on the marble desk top, and let his eyes wander around the lobby. He yawned pleasurably. A good night, any way you looked at it. Bascom, the weather, money-wise. Tug Trowbridge had given him a ten-dollar tip. If he didn't make another nickel between now and quitting time, he'd still have a good shift.
At his elbow, the bell captain's phone rang suddenly. Dusty jumped, startled, then picked up the receiver.
It was her, Marcia Hillis. He recognized her voice instantly, and she recognized his.
'Dusty? Can you bring me some stationery?'
'Yes, ma'am. Right away, Miss – I mean, I can bring them in a few minutes, Miss Hillis. The room clerk's gone out to eat, and I have to watch the desk.'
'Oh? Are you afraid it will run away?'
'No, ma'am, I-'
She laughed softly. 'I was teasing… As soon as you can, then.'
'Yes, ma'am.'
He hung the receiver up clumsily. Opening a drawer, he took out a stack of stationery, small and typewriter size, and laid it on the counter. He went behind the keyrack to the lavatory and combed his hair. He came out front again, and looked at the clock. Bascom had been gone… well, he'd been gone long enough. Should be back any minute. He looked at the stack of stationery, shook his head judiciously, and returned two thirds of it to the drawer.
Something in the action stirred his memory. Or, perhaps, it was the other way around: memory, a recollection, brought about the action. Something the superintendent of service had lectured him about at the time of his employment.
'… Very careful about waste, Bill. Lights not in use, leafy water taps, two trips with the elevator when one might suffice, more soap and towels and stationery than a guest can legitimately use. Little things… but they aren't little when you multiply them by several hundred. It's those little things that count. They made the difference between profit and loss…'
Dusty glanced at the clock again. For no reason that he could think of, merely to kill time, he walked up the aisle to the room rack. There was nothing to be learned there, of course. She was just another one of hundreds of small white slips… a capital-lettered composite name, place of residence, rate and date… He returned to the bell
