Part 20 (1/2)

”An accident?”

”Yes, sir,” was the laconic answer.

”Anything serious?”

”No, sir. He--he hurt his hand,” and the waiter disappeared without another word. Carroll thought nothing more of it at the time, but later, over his coffee and a good cigar, a sudden idea struck him. Could it be that Felix was one of the men whom he had surprised the night before, the one he had fired at and hit? No, that was too much of a coincidence.

But then Felix was manifestly of foreign origin, and, while he claimed to be Swiss, there was a distinct Teutonic rasp to his words upon occasion.

Signaling to his waiter, Dave inquired whether he knew where Felix lived. ”I'd like to know if there is anything that I can do for him,” he gave as his reason for asking.

”I haven't the slightest idea,” came the answer, and Carroll was aware that the man was lying, for his demeanor was sullen rather than subservient and the customary ”sir” was noticeable by its absence.

Once in the lobby, Dave noticed that the pretty telephone operator was again at the switchboard, and the idea occurred to him that he might find out Felix's address from the hotel manager or head waiter.

”I understand that my waiter has been hurt in an accident,” the operative explained to the G.o.ddess of the wires, ”and I'd like to find out where he lives. Who would be likely to know?”

”The head waiter ought to be able to tell you,” was the reply, accompanied by the flash of what Carroll swore to be the whitest teeth he had ever seen. ”Just a moment and I will get him on the wire for you.” Then, after a pause, ”Booth Number Five, please.”

But Carroll got no satisfaction from that source, either. The head waiter maintained that he knew nothing of Felix's whereabouts and hung up the receiver in a manner which was distinctly final, not to say impolite. The very air of mystery that surrounded the missing man was sufficient to incline him to the belief that, after all, there might be something to the idea that Felix was the man he had shot at the night before. In that event, it was practically certain that Lord Wimbledon was the object of the Germans' attention--but that didn't solve the question of where the bomb was to be placed, nor the location of ”Conner's.”

”Just the same,” he muttered, half aloud, ”I'm going to stick around here to-night.”

”Why that momentous decision?” came a voice almost at his elbow, a voice which startled and charmed him with its inflection.

Looking up, he caught the eyes of the pretty telephone girl, laughing at him.

”Talking to yourself is a bad habit,” she warned him with a smile which seemed to hold an apology for her brusqueness of the night before, ”particularly in your business.”

”My business?” echoed Dave. ”What do you know about that?”

”Not a thing in the world--except,” and here her voice dropped to a whisper--”except that you are a government detective and that you've discovered something about Lord Wimbledon, probably some plot against His Lords.h.i.+p.”

”Where--how--what in the world made you think that?” stammered Carroll, almost gasping for breath.

”Very simple,” replied the girl. ”Quite elementary, as Sherlock Holmes used to say. You called the headquarters number every night when you came down--the other girls tipped me off to that, for they know that I'm fond of detective stories. Then everybody around here knows that Felix, the waiter that you inquired about, is really German, though he pretends to be Swiss, and that he, the head waiter, and the pastry cook are thick as thieves.”

”You'd hardly expect me to say 'Yes,' would you? Particularly as I am supposed to be a government operative.”

”Now I know you are,” smiled the girl. ”Very few people use the word 'operative.' They'd say 'detective' or 'agent.' But don't worry, I won't give you away.”

”Please don't,” laughed Carroll, half banteringly, half in earnest, for it would never do to have it leak out that a girl had not only discovered his ident.i.ty, but his mission. Then, as an after-thought, ”Do you happen to know of any hotel or place here in town known as 'Conner's'?” he asked.

”Why, of course,” was the reply, amazing in its directness. ”The manager's name--” But then she halted abruptly, picked up a plug, and said, ”What number, please?” into the receiver.

Carroll sensed that there was a reason for her stopping in the middle of her sentence and, looking around, found the p.u.s.s.y-footed head waiter beside him, apparently waiting for a call. Silently d.a.m.ning the custom that made it obligatory for waiters to move without making a sound, Carroll wandered off across the lobby, determined to take a stroll around the block before settling down to his night's vigil. A stop at the information desk, however, rewarded him with the news that Lord Wimbledon was giving a dinner in his apartments the following evening to the British amba.s.sador--that being all the hotel knew officially about his Grace's movements.

”I'll take care to have half a dozen extra men on the job,” Carroll a.s.sured himself, ”for that's undoubtedly the time they would pick if they could get away with it. A single bomb then would do a pretty bit of damage.”

The evening brought no further developments, but shortly after midnight he determined to call the Rennoc, in the hope that the pretty telephone girl was still on duty and that she might finish telling him what she knew of Conner's.