Part 7 (1/2)
”You coward!” she cried, wrenching herself free with difficulty and mindful of her elevator gear. ”Take shame to yourself, sir, for insulting a defenseless girl!”
”Oh, come now, chicken, that didn't hurt you! I'm only a jollier. Forget it, and I'll give you a big box of candy.”
”I'll never forget it, sir, and if you try that again----”
The dire threat was not p.r.o.nounced, for just then the car reached the ground floor, and the girl flung the door open.
Nearby at the telephone switchboard was another girl, who looked up curiously as the Bun man came out of the elevator. She had overheard the angry voice that seemed to be threatening him, and she was not without knowledge of his ways herself.
But Sir Herbert waved his hand gayly at the telephone girl and also at the news stand girl. Indeed all girls were, in Binney's estimation, born to be waved at.
He had recovered his good nature, and he went along the onyx lobby with a quick stride, looking at his watch as he walked.
”Taxi ready?” he said to the obsequious doorman.
”Yes, sir,--yes, Sir Herbert. Here you are.”
”And here you are,” the Englishman returned, with a generous bestowal of silver.
”To the Hotel Magnifique,” he said, and his cab rolled away.
During the evening hours the attendants of The Campanile s.h.i.+fted. The elevator girls were replaced by young men, and the telephone operator was changed. The doorman, too, was another individual, and by midnight no one was on duty who had been on at dusk.
After midnight, the attendants were fewer still, and after two o'clock Bob Moore, the capable and efficient night porter, was covering the door, telephone and elevator all by himself.
This arrangement was always sufficient, as most of the occupants of The Campanile were average citizens, who, if at theater or party, were rarely out later than one or two in the morning.
On this particular night, Moore welcomed four or five theater-goers back home, took them up to their suites and then sat for a long time uninterruptedly reading a detective story, which was his favorite brand of fiction.
At two o'clock Mr Goodwin came in, and Moore took him up to the twelfth floor.
Returning to his post and to his engrossing book, the next arrival was Mr Vail. He belonged on the tenth floor and as they ascended, Moore, full of his story, said:
”Ever read detective stories, Mr Vail?”
”Occasionally; but I haven't much time for reading. Business men like more active recreation.”
”Likely so, sir. But I tell you this yarn I'm swallowing is a corker!”
”What's it called?”
”'Murder Will Out,' by Joe Jarvis. It's great! Why, Mr Vail, the victim was killed,--killed, mind you,--in a room that was all locked up----”
”How did the murderer get in?”
”That's just it! How did he? And he left his revolver,----”
”Left his revolver? Then he did get in and get out! Must have been a secret pa.s.sage----”
”No, sir, there wasn't! That is, the author says so, and all the people,--the characters, you know, try to find one, and they can't! Oh, it's exciting, I'll say! I can't guess how it's coming out.”