Pink Ears

I

The Stratford is a hotel for men only, and has the air of quiet seclusion that usually is associated with a conservative club. The lobby is small and far from ornate. The smoking-room is large and comfortable. The dining-room is low-ceilinged and quaint, — a place where one can smoke comfortably, — and the kitchen produces viands that are worth a special trip to taste. Altogether, the Stratford is a place for those who want comfort, quiet, and the best of everything.

James Craig, from his air of wellbeing, had enjoyed it to the full. An hour before, he had arisen from his table with that sensation of internal comfort that can come only from a well-ordered and well-cooked meal. He had chosen a cigar with discrimination, and lighted it with care. He had spent possibly twenty minutes or more in the smoking-room, idling over his newspaper in comfortable repletion, and then had scribbled a note at a writing-desk. With the methodical air of one to whom life is an excuse for the perpetration of systematic actions, he drew out a small notebook and extracted a stamp. He affixed the stamp and made a note in the book. It read:

The note was just beneath three others:

He reached toward a button to summon a bell-boy, and then changed his mind. It was almost possible to read his thoughts by his actions. He glanced out of the window nearby, and saw the last golden rays of the evening sun striking upon street and passersby. One who watched him would have guessed at his mental processes so: —

“I’ll have a bell-boy mail this... No... This is a beautiful day... A walk after dinner will do me good... I’ll stroll out and mail it, or stroll out, anyway...”

He tucked the envelope carefully in his pocket, rose, and sauntered out of the doorway. He moved slowly, carelessly, idling with the relish of a man who finds little time to idle.

He was gone for less than ten minutes altogether. When he came back in the door and passed through the lobby his expression had grown subtly more content. The ten-minutes’ exercise had “shaken down” his dinner, his cigar had proved all that the brand warranted, and he was at peace with the world. As he made his way into the elevator he was even humming a little.

“Three,” he commented, as the car shot upward. “By the way, is there a good show in town tonight?”

“Yessuh, Ah reg’n so. Dey usual’ is. Y’might ax at de desk.”

The elevator-door clanged open at the third floor and he went out. The elevator-boy saw him fitting a key into the lock of his room. He was still humming. The elevator-door shut, and the cage dropped to the lobby floor again.

“Gosh,” said the elevator-boy to his confrere, the chief bell-hop. “Dem trabelin’ men sho’ has it easy. Dey goes to de shows an’ jes’ chahges it in d’ expense account. Y’ bettuh tote out half a pint. Dis gen’leman in three-eighty looks lak he mought be intrusted.”

The chief bell-hop rose.

“Bress Gawd fo’ Prohibition,” he commented piously. “Ef t’wasn’t fo’ de law, us hotel-help would hab t’ live on ouah tips.”

He sauntered into a small private closet and a little later stepped briskly up the stairs. It was certainly not more than two minutes from the time the elevator-boy saw Craig unlock the door, humming a little, to the time the bellhop knocked softly. But where the elevator-boy carried away an impression of carefree contentment and casual cheer, the bell-hop straightened involuntarily when he heard a voice from within.

“Come in!”

The voice was a harsh croak, a rasping gasp, metallic and unhuman. The bell-hop pushed open the door cautiously and peered in. The room looked as if a whirlwind had struck it. Sheets, rugs, pillow-cases were thrown helter-skelter about the place, and at the moment James Craig was on his knees before a suit-case. Where he had looked carefree and at peace with the world, he now looked ghastly. His face was a pasty, chalky white. His eyes seemed to have sunk into his head, and they stared at the bell-hop with a strange deadness.

“I’ve been robbed!” he croaked harshly. “I’ve been robbed!”

The bell-hop ducked instinctively.

“Bress Gawd!” he gasped. “Y’ don’ mean it!”

A choked sob burst from the throat of the chalky-faced man.

“I’ve been robbed!” he repeated in a certain strange calm. Then he sobbed again, his whole body writhing with the sound. “My God! Eighty thousand dollars!”

The bell-hop jumped a foot in the air at mention of that sum and departed swiftly. The result of his flight was seen a moment later in a pale and worried desk-clerk who came hurriedly into the room. Craig was moving dumbly about, looking hopelessly here, there — everywhere.

“You — you’ve been robbed, sir?”

“Eighty thousand dollars!” Craig seemed stunned by the calamity. “I’m ruined! Ruined! Eighty thousand dollars!”

He sat down suddenly in a chair and stared before him with lack-lustre eyes. The desk-clerk, alarmed as he was for the reputation of the house, could not but feel sympathy for the man who had changed so absolutely in so few minutes. His very lips were gray. His eyes seemed to have retreated deep into his skull. His voice was a pitiable parody of a living man’s voice. It was dead, harsh, lifeless.

“Carrying bonds from New Orleans to New York,” he said dully. “Nobody knew I had ’em. Can’t sleep on trains, and stopped over here to have a night’s rest. I went out for dinner... The bonds are gone.”

“I’ll send for the police,” the desk-clerk assured him. “We’ve a splendid detective force here. If anybody could find them, Jamison can.”

Craig’s fingers unclenched and he automatically began to look through the articles in his suit-case again, in the utterly forlorn hope that he might yet be mistaken, and might yet find the bonds.

“Eighty thousand dollars!” he said apathetically. “I’m ruined! They’ll suspect me, even me, of stealing them. And nobody knew I had them!” He groaned. “Nobody knew I had them!”

The clerk slipped from the room and telephoned frantically, while he gave orders that assured the continued presence of every one of the hotel employees and a careful note of every guest who left the place. He would be able to give the police a list of every man who slipped out, and would be able to produce all the hotel help. It was quick and efficient work. But once that was done, the desk-clerk allowed himself to think sympathetically of the man in the room above. He had seen Craig stroll into the elevator, pleasantly flushed by his dinner and walk. And now that chalk-white man with sunken eyes, croaking of ruin and disgrace...

The desk-clerk shook his head in genuine regret.