Crocker was not in his room, at the Wagon-lits. I knocked several times;
then, turning the knob and finding that the door was unlocked, walked in
and looked around.
I was about to leave when the thought of that sheath knife came to me.
It was an unpleasant thought; but once it had got into my mind I could
not, it: seemed, get it out. I stood there in the middle of the room,
thinking about it. The suitcase was still on the chair by the wall,
closed.
I took a step toward it. Then another. Then, suddenly conscious of my
weakness, I went over to it and threw back the cover.
The knife was not there. I rummaged through the garments and the odds
and ends that filled the suit-case. But the knife was gone.
I rushed out of the room and ran the length of the corridor. I hurried
down the stairs; looked about the office and lounge; went to the bar.
There was no sign of him.
I was turning away from the barroom door, when I realized that a fat man
was beckoning to me from a table by the opposite wall. He was sitting
alone, an empty liqueur glass before him. Across the table was another
empty glass.
He was beckoning violently, with his whole arm. I had seen that round
face somewhere. Then I remembered. He was on the ship with us, crossing
the Pacific--the vaudeville manager from Cincinnati--played fan-tan all
the lime. I never did know his name. He wore a genial grin now. Perhaps
he would have some information for me. At least, I could ask him. So I
crossed over.
He wrung my hand. “How's little Mr. Music Master,” he cried. “Sit down.
Oh, sure you can--sit right down there!”
I looked at my watch. It was ten minutes of two. I had said that I would
be at Crocker's room at two. It was pretty important that I should keep
my word. Why could n't I think more clearly? He might be somewhere about
the hotel, of course. If only the knife hadn't disappeared! Suddenly I
wanted to rush back upstairs and look through that suit-case again. The
knife might have slipped down one side. Yes, he might have done that in
getting something else cut of the suit-case.... Come to think of it, I
had n't looked in the dining-room!
Then I heard what the fat vaudeville manager was saying:
“Remember the Port Watch? Big fellow--walked the deck so much--and kept
a sort o' slow bun sizzling all the time? Well--”
“Have you seen him?” I asked quickly.
“Sure, right here. Not five minutes back. Had a couple of drinks with
me. But say, I don't think he knew me. He acted funny--walked and sat
very erect--looked solemn and did n't say much.”
“Which way did he go?” said I, trying to appear composed. But I felt
him looking quizzically at me, as if saying to himself, “Well, here's
another of 'em.”
“Did he have his hat?” said I, on the heels of my other question.
“No. I think he went up to get it. Funny thing. I did n't make out what
was the matter until he pulled out a big knife--in a lacquered sheath,
it was--and said--what was it he said?--Oh, yes--'They pretty near put
it over on me, but I'm too smart for them.' That was it. He whispered
it, real mysterious--'They pretty near put it over on me, but I'm too
smart for them.' Do you know, he made me feel damn uncomfortable. I
think the man ain't safe.”
I listened to all this, in a way. At least, I seem to recall it now,
word for word. But I was trying to decide whether to go upstairs on the
chance of heading him off there, or to hurry directly back to the _Hôtel
de Chine_.
I decided on the latter course. I think the vaudeville man had just
about uttered the last sentence recorded above when I turned and ran out
of the room. He must have been puzzled.
Yes, I ran. One or two of the drinking crowd shouted after me, I think.
I ran down the corridor, through the lounge, and out to the street.
T remember that two Chinese hall boys stood gaping as I passed. And
parties of tourists looked up from their after-tiffin coffee and their
drinks--always the drinks.