But that was all. They could form no theory to
account for his disappearance, until Steingall noticed the key, lying
on the dressing-table, which, with its odds and ends of small articles,
was the last place to invite scrutiny. He was gazing at it when the
blind flapped, and the door of the wardrobe creaked.
"Confound it!" he cried. "The bedroom door was fastened by accident!
The man forgot his key. Look here! I'll show you just how it came
about."
He illustrated the slipping of the clubs, and his theory was borne out
subsequently by the negro porter who had brought Curtis's belongings
upstairs. But an atmosphere of suspicion, of non-comprehension, had
been created around the missing man, and it was not to be dispelled,
even in Steingall's acute mind, by whittling away the mystery of the
blocked door to a minor incident which might occur in any hotel any day.
Leaving the mechanic and the negro to patch the shattered door
sufficiently to serve its purpose until it was replaced by another in
the morning, the clerk escorted the representatives of the law
downstairs. Of course, their departure from the hall and their
prolonged absence had been noted by the phalanx of reporters, and they
were surrounded instantly. Searching questions were fired at them, but
Steingall, who knew how to use the press for his own ends, countered by
asking genially:
"In your hunt for copy, have any of you boys come across Mr.
Pages:
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93