Chapter 2

When the day clerk arrived the night clerk sleepily informed him that
the guest in Room 214 was without baggage and had not paid in advance.

“Lave a call?”

“No. I thought I'd put you wise. I didn't notice that the man had no
grip until he was in the elevator.”

“All right. I'll send the bell-hop captain up with a fake call to see if
the man's still there.”

When the captain--late of the A.E.F. in France--returned to the office
he was mildly excited.

“Gee, there's been a whale of a scrap in Room 212. The chambermaid let
me in.”

“Murder?” whispered the clerks in unison.

“Murder your granny! Naw! Just a fight between 212 and 214, because
both of 'em have flown the roost. But take a peek at what I found on the
table.”

It was a case of blue velours. The boy threw back the lid dramatically.

“War medals?”

“If they are I never piped 'em before. They ain't French or British.”
The captain of the bell-boys scratched his head ruminatively. “Gee, I
got it! Orders, that's what they all 'em. Kings pay 'em out Saturdays
when the pay roll is nix. Will you pipe the diamonds and rubies? There's
your room rents, monseer.”

The day clerk, who considered himself a judge, was of the opinion that
there were two or three thousand dollars tied up in the stones. It was
a police affair. Some ambassador had been robbed, and the Britisher and
the Greek or Bulgarian were mixed up in it. Loot.

“I thought the war was over,” said the night clerk.

“The shootin' is over, that's all,” said the captain of the bellboys,
sagely.

What had happened in Room 212? A duel of wits rather than of physical
contact. Hawksley realized instantly that here was the crucial moment.
Caught and overpowered, he was lost. If he shouted for help and it came,
he was lost. Once the police took a hand in the affair, the newspaper
publicity that would follow would result in the total ruin of all his
hopes. There was only one chance--to finish this affair outside the
hotel, in some fog-dimmed street. There leaped into his mind, obliquely
and queerly, a picture in one of Victor Hugo's tales--Quasimodo. And
there he stood, in every particular save the crooked back. And on the
top of this came the recollection that he had seen the man before....
The torches! The red torches and the hobnailed boots!

There began an odd game, a dancing match, which the young man led
adroitly, always with his thought upon the open window. There would be
no shooting; Quasimodo would not want the police either. Half a dozen
times his fingers touched futilely the dancing master's coat. Back
and forth across the room, over the bed, round the stand and chairs.
Persistently, as if he understood the young man's manoeuvres, the squat
individual kept to the window side of the room.

An inspiration brought the affair to an end. Hawksley snatched up the
bedclothes and threw them as the ancient retiarius threw his net. He
managed to win to the lower platform of the fire escape before Quasimodo
emerged.

There was a fourteen-foot drop to the street, and the man with the
golden stubble on his chin and cheeks swung for a moment to gauge his
landing. Quasimodo came after with the agility of an ape. The race down
the street began with about a hundred yards in between.

Down the hill they went, like phantoms. The distance did not widen.
Bears will run amazingly fast and for a long while. The quarry cut into
Pearl Street for a block, turned a corner, and soon vaguely espied the
Hudson River. He made for this.

To the mind of Quasimodo this flight had but one significance--he was
dealing with an arrant coward; and he based his subsequent acts upon
this premise, forgetting that brave men run when need says must. It
would have surprised him exceedingly to learn that he was not driving,
that he was being led. Hawksley wanted his enemy alone, where no one
would see to interfere. Red torches and hobnailed boots! For once the
two bloods, always more or less at war, merged in a common purpose--to
kill this beast, to grind the face of him into pulp! Red torches and
hobnailed boots!

Presently one of the huge passenger boats, moored for the winter, loomed
up through the fog; and toward this Hawksley directed his steps. He made
a flying leap aboard and vanished round the deckhouse to the river side.

Quasimodo laughed as he followed. It was as if the tobacco pouch and
the appraiser's receipt were in his own pocket; and broad rivers made
capital graveyards. They two alone in the fog! He whirled round the
deckhouse--and backed on his heels to get his balance. Directly in
front, in a very understandable pose, was the intended victim, his jaw
jutting, his eyelids narrowed.

Quasimodo tried desperately to reach for his pistol; but a bolt of
lightning stopped the action. There is something peculiar about a blow
on the nose, a good blow. The Anglo-Saxon peoples alone possess the
counterattack--a rush. To other peoples concentration of thought is
impossible after the impact. Instinctively Quasimodo's hands flew to his
face. He heard a laugh, mirthless and terrible. Before he could drop
his hands from his face-blows, short and boring, from this side and from
that, over and under. The squat man was brave enough; simply he did not
know how to fight in this manner. He was accustomed to the use of steel
and the hobnails on his boots. He struck wildly, swinging his arms like
a Flemish mill in a brisk wind.

Some of his blows got home, but these provoked only sardonic laughter.

Wild with rage and pain he bored in. He had but one chance--to get this
shadow in his gorilla-like arms. He lacked mental flexibility. An idea,
getting into his head, stuck; it was not adjustable. Like an arrow sped
from the bowstring, it had to fulfill its destiny. It never occurred to
him to take to his heels, to get space between himself and this enemy he
had so woefully underestimated. Ten feet, and he might have been able to
whirl, draw his pistol, and end the affair.

The coup de grace came suddenly: a blow that caught Quasimodo full on
the point of the jaw. He sagged and went sprawling upon his face. The
victor turned him over and raised a heel.... No! He was neither Prussian
nor Sudanese black. He was white; and white men did not stamp in the
faces of fallen enemies.

But there was one thing a white man might do in such a case without
disturbing the ethical, and he proceeded about it forthwith: Draw the
devil's fangs; render him impotent for a few hours. He deliberately
knelt on one of the outspread arms and calmly emptied the insensible
man's pockets. He took everything--watch, money, passport, letters,
pistol, keys--rose and dropped them into the river. He overlooked
Quasimodo's belt, however. The Anglo-Saxon idea was top hole. His fists
had saved his life.