CHAPTER II
THE TRAIL
“PARDON me — that is my bag you have—”
The speaker was the sallow man who had entered the hotel lobby. He was springing forward just as the bell boy was about to pick up Dustin Cruett’s suitcases.
The bag which the sallow stranger indicated was a black one. It was actually Cruett’s, but it did bear a resemblance to the stranger’s bag which was beside the other two.
Cruett swung angrily as the stranger jostled against him. The man was motioning the bell boy to replace the bag beside the pillar. Cruett uttered an order to the contrary. He scowled as he glared into the face of the interrupter.
“Your bag?” he inquired, hotly. “Where do you get that idea? Both of those bags are mine!”
The sallow-faced man was meeting Cruett’s gaze. His left shoulder was thrust against Cruett’s right. As the argument threatened, the stranger’s hand was busy. With deft fingers, he was drawing the pack of paper matches from Cruett’s right vest pocket.
“Don’t become excited,” purred the intruder. “I laid this bag here myself — just a moment ago. Examine it more closely — you will admit that it is mine.”
Cruett stooped toward the bag. So did the stranger. Cruett uttered an irritated laugh as he tapped his hand upon the black leather. He tipped the bag on end.
“Yours?” he questioned, sarcastically, “with my initials?”
The stranger stared at the gold letters, D. C., as Cruett indicated them. Both men were stooping; the fellow with the sallow face turned to Cruett with a blank, apologetic look upon his features.
“I guess — I guess” — he was stammering in apparent confusion — “I guess it isn’t my bag after all. But I put my bag down here—”
Cruett was laughing at the man’s chagrin. He never gained an inkling of an action which the stranger was performing. The sallow-faced man had dropped Cruett’s matches in his pocket. With the same swift deftness of his hand, he had produced a packet of his own. Edged close against Cruett’s shoulder, he cleverly inserted this new pack into the pocket from which he had purloined the first.
“Here’s another bag, sir,” came the bell boy’s statement.
Both Cruett and the stranger looked toward the pillar.
“Ah!” The sallow-faced man uttered a pleased exclamation. “That’s my bag. I must apologize to you, sir” — he was bowing to Cruett as he spoke — “for my hastiness. I thought that the boy had made a stupid mistake—”
“That’s all right,” interrupted Cruett. “I don’t blame you. The bags do look a lot alike.”
Again the stranger bowed. He stepped over and picked up his own suitcase. He carried it with him to the desk. There, as he reached for the registration card, he threw a sidelong glance back toward the pillar. The sallow face showed satisfaction. Dustin Cruett was drawing a cigarette from his pocket.
“Take the bags up to my room,” ordered Cruett, handing the bell boy a tip. “Leave the key at the desk when you come down. I am going out.”
AS the bell boy started for the elevator, Cruett reached in his right vest pocket and drew out the pack of matches that he found there. He lighted a match and applied it to the tip of his cigarette. The flame seemed to die as Cruett puffed. The light went out; a thin curl of greenish smoke came from its tip.
Cruett lighted a second match. Again, he puffed heavily while the flame died. Suspecting a draft, he cupped his bands for the third match. This time, quick puffs sucked up the flame. Cruett threw the match upon the floor. A tiny green stain appeared upon the whitened marble.
The sallow-faced stranger had registered. As a bell boy took his bag, he headed to the telephone booths. Entering one, he dialed as he watched Cruett stroll from the lobby. A voice came over the wire. The sallow man spoke.
“Hello,” he said. “I met your friend tonight… Yes… The meeting was a pleasant one… Yes… The matter is already under way…”
Hanging up, the stranger left the booth and crossed the lobby to the elevators. Dustin Cruett had passed out of view — through the door to the side street.
It was the doorman now who was watching Dustin Cruett. The green lights were still glowing as Cruett stood for a moment and puffed his cigarette, then tossed it, half-smoked, into the gutter. Evidently it had tasted bad.
After a moment’s pause, Cruett drew another cigarette from his pocket. He required two matches to light it. Smoking, he started along the side street.
The doorman’s gaze went upward toward the distant sign. A slow smile appeared upon his face. Another change had come. In the center of each cluster of green, a single red light was glowing.
The signal had been changed. Green had indicated that the quarry was in readiness. Red, within green, told that a trapper had acted!
The doorman of the Hotel Zenith, stepping to his telephone, pressed the switch beneath the ledge. Twenty seconds elapsed. Four blinks came from the ribboned borders of the electric sign.
The sandwich-board man, slouching along the side street, spotted that signal just as Dustin Cruett came strolling by. He noted Cruett’s face. He shambled along a short distance behind. He saw Cruett toss a half-smoked cigarette into a grating.
A squatty, pug-faced fellow was standing at the door of a garage, a block away from the Hotel Zenith. In shirt sleeves, with the butt of a cigar projecting from the side of his mouth, this man was obviously an employee of the garage.
He, too, had watched the blinking border. He could see the small red lights, each in its circle of green. Looking up the street, he observed Dustin Cruett approaching, with the sandwich man a dozen yards behind.
The garage man reached behind the rough edge of the doorway. He pressed a hidden switch. It was his report that Dustin Cruett was nearing this spot. Fifteen seconds passed. Just as Cruett reached the door, the border lights of the sign blinked once; then, after a pause, twice.
The sandwich-board man saw it. He stopped and turned in the opposite direction. It was the garage man who was observing Dustin Cruett. He saw Cruett stop to draw a cigarette from his pocket. Cruett was an inveterate smoker. A match flickered and went out; another did the same. A third — Cruett obtained his light.
BY the glow of the match, the garage man saw a peculiar pallor on Cruett’s face. He laughed as Cruett went on and turned a corner. There were throngs here, but Cruett scarcely noticed them. He felt dizzy. Looking ahead, he spied a subway kiosk on the avenue. He headed for it, for he intended to take a train uptown to the home of Maurice Bewkel.
Then his footsteps failed. At the next corner, Cruett staggered. Some people at a soft-drink stand saw him fall. A taxi driver whistled to a policeman. The officer hurried over to render first aid.
A crowd was gathering. More police hurried. The group formed about the spot where Dustin Cruett had collapsed. Then, as uniformed men pushed the people back, Cruett’s form was lifted into a taxi. With a policeman on the running board, the taxi shot along Seventh Avenue.
One of the observers approached the soft-drink stand, where the industrious counter man was serving a white drink called “Chromo” in tall, tapering glasses.
“Looks like the guy dropped dead,” commented the observer. “He didn’t move when the cops picked him up.”
The counter man stretched a white-sleeved arm beneath the portion of the counter where the cash register was located. He pressed a tiny switch three times. As he moved back to serve up more glasses of Chromo to new patrons, he watched the big electric sign which was visible from this booth.
Two short blinks — a pause — then a third. This was the signal that located the spot near the Chromo counter. Then came another change. In each corner of the sign a red light remained glowing while the green lights faded. Red lights replaced the green. Solid red, in every corner.