Marion turned slowly away and retraced her steps spiritlessly to the foot of the stairs; then, after some hesitation, came again to the desk.
“Will you see if there is a message for me?”
Obediently he went through the motions of inspecting several pigeonholes on the wall behind him and thumbed a pack of letters, looking for something neither of them expected he would find.
It poured hard all night, and the Villa Serbelloni—if not the loneliest place in the world—was a close runner-up to the Continental Hotel in Milan, for that distinction.
XIII
The girl with the pink hair, languorous lashes gummy with an overdose of mascara, and ugly black muffins over her ears, was informing Mr. Brent that a Doctor Merrick was in the lobby and wished to see him … No, he hadn’t said.
“Mr. Brent is dressing for dinner and can’t come down,” she said coyly, with one hand over the mouthpiece. “He says can you tell him on the phone what you want. Just step into booth number two, please.”
“Tell him I’ll be right up.”
She relayed the message, while the tall young man with the shoulders of a discus-thrower and the tapering waist of a fencer tapped the high counter in front of the switchboard with slender, impatient fingers.
“He says it won’t be convenient,” she reported, visibly reluctant to transmit the blunt discourtesy.
“What’s his room number?” inquired Doctor Merrick, unruffled.
“Three hundred and seventy-eight; but—he said he couldn’t see you, you know.”
“Here, boy,” to the bellhop at his elbow, “put those bags in check, and then show me up to three hundred and seventy-eight.”
Mr. Brent was not dressing for dinner. He was packing a trunk; and chairs, bed and table were littered with clothing, papers, books, toilet articles and mussy linen. The room was in great disorder. It was with a very surly scowl that he opened the door to inspect his visitor.
“Merrick—you say? Never heard of you. What’s wanted?” He planted his short, stocky bulk defiantly in the doorway, hands on hips.
“Ask me in and I’ll tell you,” said Merrick quietly.
Brent reluctantly stepped back.
“Oh, very well,” he snapped, peevishly. “But make it peppy. I’m busy—as you see … Thought I’d sent word down that I didn’t care to be bothered.”
The loud-checked coat that matched the trousers he had on was lifted from the back of a chair and tossed on the bed.
“Sit down—if you want to.”
Young Merrick ignored the sour invitation and proceeded to state his errand.
“I live in Detroit where I am associated with Brightwood Hospital.”
Brent’s face, pallid, and bristly with two days’ beard, went a shade paler.
“Yeah?”
“You may recall that Brightwood Hospital was brought into prominence by your cousin’s late husband—Doctor Hudson.”
“Well—and then what?” growled Brent, insolently.
“It came to our attention, about thirty days ago, that Mrs. Hudson—now in Italy, as you know—was obliged to dispose of her interest in the hospital.”
“And how’s that any of your damn business?” demanded Brent, stepping toward Merrick belligerently. “You’re just a doctor, aren’t you? Couldn’t she sell her hospital stock, if she wanted to, without consulting you?”
“Quite true,” replied Merrick, determined not to lose his temper. “She had no occasion to confide in me, and didn’t. But if we are interested in her welfare, I should think that might meet with your approval. You’ve been managing her affairs, haven’t you?”
“Yeah! And I don’t need any help!”
“I happen to know that you do. That’s what I came here to talk about.”
“And what makes you so powerfully interested in my cousin?” Brent sneered. “Trying to get your fingers on her money?”
The fingers were restless.
“I advise you not to presume too far on my patience, Brent.”
“When you get too impatient, you can leave! … You want to marry my cousin, I suppose—but have to make sure, first, that she has plenty to keep you!”
“Just for the moment,” cautioned Merrick, “we’ll not be talking about Mrs. Hudson. We’re going to talk about you! … And that Northwestern Copper stock!”
“What do you mean, you low-down, sneaking spy?”
“I mean that in the last twelve months you’ve lost upwards of one hundred thousand dollars on the ticker and the ponies … That last big flyer in oil—along in May, wasn’t it?—wiped out the Northwestern Copper completely! … I’m here, as Mrs. Hudson’s friend, to find out exactly what you propose to do about it.”
Brent’s face was livid. He stamped to the door and threw it open.
“Now—out you go, damn you!—or I’ll call the house detective!”
Merrick turned to the untidy desk and took up the telephone.
“I’ll save you the trouble,” he said quietly, lifting the receiver.
“Put that down!” screamed Brent, slamming the door.
Merrick smiled and obeyed.
“You’re not anxious to talk to a detective, Brent. But you’re going to talk to me! Do you want to come clean on all this, now, and tell me about it—or do I have to break you in two over that table? I can do it, you know; and I’d like to!”
Blind with fury, Brent lunged savagely with his fist. Stepping aside to let it go by, Merrick caught the shaking wrist in a vice-like grip of his left hand. With the other, he gathered up a large handful of Brent’s throat, pushed him to the table, and bent him over it—back—back farther, until the purple neck was corded with distended veins, and his laboured breathing signed it was a good time to ease up.
“Like to talk business now?”
Brent raised heavily to one elbow, and his hand fumbled in the desk drawer.
“Drop that gun!” Merrick closed down on the wrist until Brent’s fingers released their hold on the automatic. It fell to the floor. “That shooting project costs you extra.” Once more Brent’s Adam’s apple and environs were compressed until his breath came in agonizing little whistles.
Merrick stooped and picked up the gun, emptied it, pocketed the cartridges, and waited for his host to recover.
After some minutes he sat up, rubbed his bloodshot eyes clumsily with his fists, and felt gingerly of his neck.
“Well,” he croaked, “now
