The Firefly of France | Page 8

had turned in my
alarm a good five minutes before.
In an unenviable humor I stumbled across the room, tripping and
barking my shins over various malignant hassocks, tables, and chairs.
Finding the switch at last, I flooded the room with light, and saw
myself in the mirror, with tie and coat askew.
"Now," I muttered, straightening them viciously, "we'll see what he
took away." But the trunk seemed undisturbed when I examined it, and
my various bags and suitcases were securely locked. I had found
Forrest's power of attorney and was storing it in my pocket when voices
rose outside.
A group of four was approaching, comprised of a spruce, dress-coated
manager; a short thick-set, broad-faced man who was doubtless the
long-overdue detective; a professional-appearing gentleman with a
black bag, obviously the house-physician; and the policeman that I had
summoned from his stroll below. The latter, in an excited brogue, was
recounting his late vision of the thief, "hangin' between hivin and earth,
no less," while the detective scornfully accused him of having been
asleep or jingled, on the ground of my late telephone to the effect that I
was holding the man.
The manager, as was natural, took the initiative, bustling past me into
my room and peering eagerly around.

"I needn't say, Mr. Bayne," he orated fluently, "how sorry I am that this
has happened--especially beneath our roof. It is our first case, I assure
you, of anything so regrettable. If it gets into the papers it won't do us
any good. Now the important thing is to take the fellow out by the rear
without courting notice. Why, where is he?" he asked hopefully.
"Surely he isn't gone?"
"Sure, and didn't I tell ye? 'Tis without eyes ye think me!" The
policeman was resentful, and so, to tell the truth, was I. The whole
maddening affair seemed bent on turning to farce at every angle; the
doctor, as a final straw, had just offered /sotto voce/ to mix me a
soothing draft!
"Gone! Of course he's gone, man!" I exclaimed with some natural
temper. "Did you expect him to sit here waiting all this time? What on
earth have you been doing--reading the papers--playing bridge? A
dozen thieves could have escaped since I telephoned downstairs!"
"But you said," he murmured, apparently dazed, "that you could hold
him." A tactless remark, which failed to assuage my wrath!
"So I could," I responded savagely. "But I didn't expect him to turn into
a conjuring trick, which is what he did. He went out that window head
foremost, down the ladder, and into the room below. Let's be after
him--though we stand as much chance of catching him as we do of
finding the King of England!" and I turned toward the doorway, where
the manager, the doctor and the detective were massed.
The manager put his hand upon my arm. I looked down at it with raised
eyebrows, and he took it away.
"Excuse me, sir," he said, adopting a manner of appeal, "but if you'll
reflect for a moment you'll see how it is, I know. People don't care for
houses where burglars fly in and out of windows; it makes them
nervous; you wouldn't believe how easily a hotel can get a bad name
and lose its clientele. Besides, from what you tell me, the fellow must
be well away by this time. You'd do me a favor--a big one--by dropping
the matter here."

"Well, I won't!" I snapped indignantly. "I'll see it through--or start
something still livelier. Are you coming down with me to investigate
the room beneath us or do you want me to ring up police headquarters
and find out why?"
In the hall the policeman looked at me across the intervening heads and
dropped one slow, approving eyelid. "If the gintleman says so--" he
remarked in heavy tones fraught with meaning, and fixed a cold, blue,
appraising gaze on the detective, who thereupon yielded with
unexpectedly good grace.
"Aw, what's eating you?" was his amiable demand. "Sure, we was
going right down there anyhow--soon's we found out how the land lay
up here."
The five of us took the elevator to the lower floor. An unfriendly
atmosphere surrounded me. I was held a hotel wrecker without reason.
We found the corridor empty, the floor desk abandoned--a state of
things rather strikingly the duplicate of that reigning overhead--and in
due course paused before Room 303, where the manager, figuratively
speaking, washed his hands of the affair.
"Here is the room, Mr. Bayne, for which you ask." If I would persist in
my nefarious course, added his tone.
The detective, obeying the hypnotic eye of the policeman, knocked.
There was silence. The bluecoat, my one ally, was crouching for a
spring. Then light steps crossed the