The Drums of Jeopardy | Page 4

poured into the
chauffeur's palm.
"Thank you, sir."
"You are an American?"
"Sure! I was born in this burg."
"Like the idea?"
"Huh?"
"The idea of being an American?"

"I should say yes! This is one grand little gob o' mud, believe me! It's
going to be dry in a little while, and then it will be some grand little old
brick. Say, let me give you a tip! The gas in this joint is extra if you
blow it out!"
Grinning, the chauffeur threw on the power and wheeled away into the
fog.
His late fare followed the vehicle with his gaze until it reached the
vanishing point, then he laughed. An American cockney! He turned and
entered the hotel. He marched resolutely up to the desk and roused the
sleeping clerk, who swung round the register. The unknown without
hesitance inscribed his name, which was John Hawksley. But he
hesitated the fraction of a second before adding his place of residence -
London.
"A room with a bath, if you please; second flight. Have the man call me
at seven."
"Yes, sir. Here, boy!"
Sleepily the bellboy lifted the battered kitbag and led the way to the
elevator.
"Bawth!" said the night clerk, as the elevator door slithered to the latch.
"Bawth! The old dear!"
He returned to his chair, hoping that he would not be disturbed again
until he was relieved.
What do we care, so long as we don't know? What's the stranger to us
but a fleeting shadow? The Odysseys that pass us every day, and we
none the wiser!
The clerk had not properly floated away into dreams when he was
again roused. Resentfully he opened his eyes. A huge fist covered with
a fell of black hair rose and fell. Attached to this fist was an arm, and
joined to that were enormous shoulders. The clerk's trailing,

sleep-befogged glance paused when it reached the newcomer's face.
The jaws and cheeks and upper lip were blue-black with a beard that
required extra-tempered razors once a day. Black eyes that burned like
opals, a bullet-shaped head well cropped, and a pudgy nose broad in the
nostrils. Because this second arrival wore his hat well forward the clerk
was not able to discern the pinched forehead of the fanatic. Not wholly
unpleasant, not particularly agreeable; the sort of individual one
preferred to walk round rather than bump into. The clerk offered the
register, and the squat man scratched his name impatiently, grabbed the
extended key, and trotted to the elevator.
"Ah," mused the clerk, "we have with us Mr. Poppy - Popo - " He
stared at the signature close up. "Hanged if I can make it out! It looks
like some new brand of soft drink we'll be having after July first. Greek
or Bulgarian. Anyhow, he didn't awsk for a bawth. Looks as if he
needed one, too. Here, boy!"
"Ye-ah!"
"Take a peek at this John Hancock."
"Gee! That must be the guy who makes that drugstore drink - Boolzac."
The clerk swung out, but missed the boy's head by a hair. The boy
stood off, grinning.
"Well, you ast me!"
"All right. If anybody else comes in tell 'em we're full up. I'll be a
wreck to-morrow without my usual beauty sleep." The clerk dropped
into his chair again and elevated his feet to the radiator.
"Want me t' git a pillow for yuh?"
"No back talk!" - drowsily.
"Oh! boy, but I got one on you!"
"What?"

"This Boolzac guy didn't have no baggage, and yuh give 'im the key
without little ol' three-per in advance."
"No grip?"
"Nix. Not a toot'brush in sight."
"Well, the damage is done. I might as well go to sleep."
It was not premeditated on the part of the clerk to give the squat man
the room adjoining that of Hawksley's. The key had been nearest his
hand. But the squat man trembled with excitement when he noted that
it was stamped 214. He had taken particular pains to search the register
for Hawksley's number before rousing the clerk. He hadn't counted on
any such luck as this. His idea had been merely to watch the door of
Room 212.
He had the feline foot, as they say. He moved about lightly and without
sound in the dark. Almost at once he approached one of the two doors
and put his ear to the panel. Running water. The fool had time to take a
bath!
A plan flashed into his head. Why not end the affair here and now, and
reap the glory for himself? What mattered the net if the fish swam into
your hand? Wasn't this particularly his affair? It was the end, not the
means. A close touch in Hong-Kong, but the fool had slipped