Heavy rimmed glasses found plenty of room on his nose, and the thick black ribbon lost itself some place beneath his jacket.
“Really, you gave me quite a start.” He spoke in a low, soft voice that was almost a whisper, as the wrinkles in his forehead stretched themselves up on to the baldness of his head beneath the light.
I looked at him coldly enough as I took in the room, but I stayed put not far from the bathroom door, which was open.
“I guess,” I said slowly, “I’ll give you another start. On your way! Or perhaps this isn’t my room — the right room.” The last was supposed to be heavy sarcasm. But it didn’t register.
“You are in your room.” He folded up his paper, dropped it on the floor beside him, carefully brushed the ashes from his vest, and then he leaned forward and peered at me over the glasses. “That is, of course, if you are, as I presume, Mr. Clovelly — Mr. Hulbert Clovelly.”
I stepped into the bathroom and out again. Then I walked about the room; jerked open the closet door, found it empty; half bent to look under the bed — then stepping to the open window, held the curtains aside and peered out.
The room was on a court. My visitor smoked serenely on as I tried to make sure there wasn’t a fire-escape, or if there was, to make sure that no one was occupying it. He cut in on my stage business.
“Don’t be so fussy. There’s a red light at the end of the corridor; another down the hall, if you turn left. I assure you the hotel is amply protected against fire hazards. There is no fire-escape outside your window, and no man—”
And as I took my eyes off him for a moment and pushed back the curtain, peering into the darkness — I saw it, or at least I thought I saw it. A distant shadow across the court; a figure, perhaps, in a window; a long pointed cylinder. I jumped back and ducked low.
There was a distinct humming sound. I recognized it even as I ducked. The whir of a high powered air rifle.
I did feel the tiny jar to my hat, and I did hear the dull thud as the leaden pellet struck into the wall across the room. Then I stepped aside and pulled down the shade, and was facing my visitor in the chair.
He looked up at me and smiled, pointed a finger at my hat and said:
“There’s a hole in it. Very close to the brim.” Then he got to his feet and walked across the room, felt in his vest pocket, produced a pen knife, opened it with a quick jerk and proceeded to dig into the tiny hole in the wall.
“Rather powerful for an air gun,” he said, as he lifted the bit of lead from the hole with two fingers. “But very effective, my dear Mr. Clovelly.” And he kept looking at me over his glasses, his head cocked, his chin down on his chest. “It flattened quite a bit, you see. It had a soft nose, that would spread out and tear a rather ghastly hole in one’s anatomy — and cause considerable damage, even later death. Death, while one had a chance to consider his past mistakes and—”
“Give me that bullet.” I stepped forward and held out my left hand. My right was still stuck in my jacket pocket.
“Why — certainly.” He held the little flat disk of metal up, so that the roughened, sharp edges showed — then dropped it daintily into my hand. “It is yours. It was meant for you.”
I put it into my pocket and still looked at him. He certainly was very sure of himself.
“You wanted to have me killed. Why?”
“I!” And his eyebrows went up. “I thought you understood my attitude distinctly on that subject. Didn’t Wacco give you my message? To avoid all misunderstanding, I am Sam Wentworth — Whispering Sam Wentworth.” And after a pause: “You know why I’m here, of course.”
“I can guess,” I said, in a tone of deep meaning.
“Of course you can. We’ve never met, but it’s not too late for us to become friends.” He paused, turned in the center of the room. “I want to see you live for a long time. Indeed, so much so that I’m here to offer you one hundred thousand dollars for the diamond, Mr. Hulbert Clovelly — alias Carl Fisher.”
“Yeah!” I showed an interest. It was real.
“Don’t be foolish. Bronson is back with us now. He didn’t think we’d find out who you were. Sometimes I think he always knew. He’ll get the ‘ice’ and kill you. I tell you, he’s changed from the old days. He’s a killer. He’d double-cross me. He’d double-cross you. He offered me an extra split to put out Rita.” And suddenly leaning forward: “I know you sent it to the little girl down South. She won’t have it on her, of course — but she’ll talk, if properly persuaded. Come on, now. I’m in a position to swing the deal and take the short end of the purse.”
“I’ll think it over.” The thing was all Greek to me. “Now— Get out!”
“Get out!” he cried — and the polished man of the world disappeared. “You’ll think it over, eh? Well, you can’t. The girl came up to see you tonight. And they got her. I arranged that. Bronson don’t know about that racket yet. I hire everyone who works for him. Look here! You know Bronson. You know how far he’ll go for information. I’ve kept the girl from him until I could see you. Now — he’ll have her in half an hour.”
“So you think you have the girl.” I tried that one out.
“You don’t believe it? It was I who sent for her, under your name. Oh, I figured it out that you’d sent the rock to her. And I have her now. You don’t believe me? Listen!”
And he recounted to me the kidnaping of the girl I had saved. He told me of the two men he had planted, to take off the regular taxis. And he gloated over the girl’s suffering, painting a picture of what Bronson would do to her if I didn’t come through with the “diamond.”
“So you got her, did you?” I said. “How do you know the deal went through?” And the thing in my face began to register in his mind.
“You wouldn’t dare,” he cried out. But just the same, he drew back from me. “You’re a coward. You’re only an amateur in this racket. You’re yellow — you’re a stool-pigeon. You’re— Don’t do that. By— I’m armed.”
And I raised my right hand and smacked it across his mouth, like to knock his teeth out. His hand half stole to his hip, and my other hand came up and swiped him another back handed stroke. Why? Don’t ask me. I said I don’t like kidnapers. And I liked that kid. And, damn it! I didn’t like this lad.
His hand was close to his hip now. There was blood on his mouth. Tiny bubbles of saliva, too, smeared with red. I liked that. He fought to control his impulse to draw a gun.
“Don’t! Don’t!” He backed away. “You know, or have heard, of my reputation with a gun. Must I—”
“Why not — if you have the guts for it?”
“You’re mad — mad,” he cried. And I had him by the throat, forcing him to his knees.
“Listen.” I guess I hissed the word like any ten, twenty and thirty stock company villain myself. “If anything happens to that girl — anything — through you or Bronson or anyone — you’ll die. I’ll kill you.”
“You’re mad.” He choked out the words again as I tightened my fingers upon his neck. His bulging eyes looked into mine. What he read there didn’t help him any. “My — you’re going to strangle me.” And his fingers tore frantically at mine, upon his thick throat.
Was I? I guess not. I never lose my head that much. His tongue was out. His lips were a bluish black. His fingers were only twitching, helpless efforts. I didn’t let him go altogether. There was abject terror in his face — his blackening face. I loosened my fingers a bit.