In the Onyx Lobby Part 7

"You coward!" she cried, wrenching herself free with difficulty and mindful of her elevator gear. "Take shame to yourself, sir, for insulting a defenseless girl!"

"Oh, come now, chicken, that didn't hurt you! I'm only a jollier. Forget it, and I'll give you a big box of candy."

"I'll never forget it, sir, and if you try that again----"

The dire threat was not p.r.o.nounced, for just then the car reached the ground floor, and the girl flung the door open.

Nearby at the telephone switchboard was another girl, who looked up curiously as the Bun man came out of the elevator. She had overheard the angry voice that seemed to be threatening him, and she was not without knowledge of his ways herself.

But Sir Herbert waved his hand gayly at the telephone girl and also at the news stand girl. Indeed all girls were, in Binney's estimation, born to be waved at.

He had recovered his good nature, and he went along the onyx lobby with a quick stride, looking at his watch as he walked.

"Taxi ready?" he said to the obsequious doorman.

"Yes, sir,--yes, Sir Herbert. Here you are."

"And here you are," the Englishman returned, with a generous bestowal of silver.

"To the Hotel Magnifique," he said, and his cab rolled away.

During the evening hours the attendants of The Campanile s.h.i.+fted. The elevator girls were replaced by young men, and the telephone operator was changed. The doorman, too, was another individual, and by midnight no one was on duty who had been on at dusk.

After midnight, the attendants were fewer still, and after two o'clock Bob Moore, the capable and efficient night porter, was covering the door, telephone and elevator all by himself.

This arrangement was always sufficient, as most of the occupants of The Campanile were average citizens, who, if at theater or party, were rarely out later than one or two in the morning.

On this particular night, Moore welcomed four or five theater-goers back home, took them up to their suites and then sat for a long time uninterruptedly reading a detective story, which was his favorite brand of fiction.

At two o'clock Mr Goodwin came in, and Moore took him up to the twelfth floor.

Returning to his post and to his engrossing book, the next arrival was Mr Vail. He belonged on the tenth floor and as they ascended, Moore, full of his story, said:

"Ever read detective stories, Mr Vail?"

"Occasionally; but I haven't much time for reading. Business men like more active recreation."

"Likely so, sir. But I tell you this yarn I'm swallowing is a corker!"

"What's it called?"

"'Murder Will Out,' by Joe Jarvis. It's great! Why, Mr Vail, the victim was killed,--killed, mind you,--in a room that was all locked up----"

"How did the murderer get in?"

"That's just it! How did he? And he left his revolver,----"

"Left his revolver? Then he did get in and get out! Must have been a secret pa.s.sage----"

"No, sir, there wasn't! That is, the author says so, and all the people,--the characters, you know, try to find one, and they can't! Oh, it's exciting, I'll say! I can't guess how it's coming out."

"I suppose you wouldn't peek over to the last page?"

"No, that spoils a story for me. The fun I get out of it is the trying to ferret out the solution, on my own. That's sport for me. Why, you see, Mr Vail,--but, excuse me, sir, I'm keeping you."

The elevator had stopped at the tenth floor, and Vail had left the car, but he stood waiting till the enthusiastic Moore should pause.

"Oh, well, go on,--what were you saying?"

"Only this, sir. To me, a good detective story is not the one that keeps you guessing,--nor the one that keeps you in fearful suspense as to the outcome, but the one that gives you a chance to solve the riddle yourself. The one that puts all the cards on the table, and gives you a chance at it."

"And you can usually work it out?"

"Sometimes,--not always. But the fun is in trying."

"You ought to have been a detective, Moore. You've the taste for it evidently. Well, good-night; hope you discover the clue and solve the mystery. Shall you finish your book to-night?"

"Oh, yes, sir. I'm more than half way through it."

"Well, tell me in the morning if you guessed right. Good-night, Moore."

"Good-night, Mr. Vail."

The elevator went down, and Bob Moore left the car to return to his book.

But he did not return to the story. A more engrossing one was opened to him at that moment. A glance toward the front doorway showed him a figure of a man, lying in a contorted heap on the floor, about half way between himself and the entrance.

He went wonderingly toward it, his heart beating faster as he drew near.

"Dead!" he breathed softly, to himself, "no, not dead!--oh, my G.o.d, it's Sir Herbert Binney!"

In the onyx lobby, at the very foot of one of the tall ornate capitaled columns was the prostrate Binney. Apparently he was a dying man; blood was flowing from some wound, his face was drawn in convulsive agony, from his stiffening fingers he let fall a pencil, but his lips were framing inarticulate words.

Bob Moore's wits did not desert him. Instead, his thoughts seemed to flash with uncanny quickness.

"Binney's dying," he told himself, "he's been murdered! Gee! what an excitement there will be! He's babbling,--he's going to tell who killed him! If I scoot for Doctor Pagett, this chap'll be dead before I get back,--if I wait,--I'll be called down for not going--but I must get it out of him,--if I can--what is that, Sir, try to tell me----"

Bending over the stricken man, Moore listened intently, and caught the words,--or words which sounded like,--"Get--them--get J--J--anyway,--get--J----"

With a sudden gasping gurgle, the man was dead.

Bewildered, but striving hard to grasp the situation and do his exact duty, Moore looked about, and quickly concluded his next move was to call the doctor.

Pagett, on the second floor, was the physician of the house, and Moore raced up the stairs to his apartment.

Ringing the bell continuously brought the doctor to the door.

"What's happened?" he said, sleepily.