Rhoda Koline, playing her part as though she had been carefully schooled in it by several rehearsals, moved toward the body, then recoiled.
“Look!” she said, “there’s something in his hand! Something that he was writing on — a paper or something.”
Thelma Grebe moved swiftly forward.
“I’ll take it,” she said.
“Just a moment,” Brokay said, and moved quickly, so that he was standing shoulder to shoulder with her as they bent over the figure and stared at the paper.
Brokay read, then looked accusingly at Thelma Grebe.
“Are you the Thelma that he referred to?” he asked. “That’s your name, I believe.”
“Certainly not,” she said. “It’s some other Thelma. What’s more, that doesn’t look like Sam West’s writing. I don’t believe Sam West could possibly have written anything after he received that stab wound in the back. That must have been instantaneous. This is some kind of a frame-up.”
Brokay shrugged his shoulders. “At any rate,” he said, “the paper is evidence.”
“No it isn’t!” she said and swooped for it.
Brokay bent swiftly, caught her wrist with his hand, pulled her back and picked up the paper. He folded it and slipped it in his pocket. “Oh yes,” he said, smiling frostily, “it’s evidence.”
She stepped back, stared at him with blazing eyes. “You can’t get away with that sort of stuff,” she said. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Brokay shrugged his shoulders again. “I am,” he said, “a friend of Sam West — that is, I was a friend of his.”
“You’re a great friend!” she blazed. “You were left here alone in the room with him, and he was murdered. That may be what you call friendship.”
“I was down at the end of the hall,” he said, “in the social room — Room Ten.”
“You’re a liar!” she said. “You weren’t there at all.”
“Oh yes I was, and this young lady was with me.”
“This young lady talked with you a moment and then went back to her room,” said Thelma Grebe. “You can’t pull that stuff on me. You’re dealing with somebody that’s not a greenhorn, you know. I wasn’t born yesterday.”
She suddenly whirled and stormed from the room, slamming the door behind her.
“Quick, Miss Koline,” Brokay said, “I think you’d better get back to your room.”
“No,” she said, her lips white. “We’ve got to get out of here. Don’t you understand what’s going to happen?”
“I understand perfectly” he said, “but I’m on my guard.”
“No, no,” she told him, “let’s go. We can notify the police. Certainly they can trace down the clue of this monkey. I believe that the dealer would be able to identify the people. You could tell your story, and—”
“And it wouldn’t be believed,” he said, interrupting her. “You know your reaction to the story.”
“But it’s different now,” she said. “Please come. We can leave here, and—”
“No,” he said, “you’ve got to go to your room, and keep out of this. Go to your room and promise me that you’ll keep the door locked.” He took her by the arm, gently pushed her across the corridor to her room.
“And you’re going to stay here alone?” she asked.
He nodded. “It’s my only chance,” he said, “to get the thing cleared up. It’s got to be done for your sake, as well as mine.”
“But that doesn’t mean that you should take any risks,” she said.
Brokay gently but firmly pushed her across the corridor and into her room. “Stay there and don’t come out,” he said curtly.
He pulled the door shut with a bang, walked back across the corridor to the room where the dead burglar lay sprawled on the bed, and waited.
After a while, he thought he heard steps on the stairs. He braced himself and watched the handle of the door.
Nothing happened.
He frowned and looked at his watch.
More than fifteen minutes had elapsed since Thelma Grebe had left the room. Brokay couldn’t believe that she would summon the police; neither could he believe that she had intended simply to run away and leave the place. He kept thinking of those steps on the stairs; there had been something furtive about them, something—
Suddenly he gave a convulsive start. He strode to the door, jerked it open, crossed the corridor, twisted the knob of Rhoda Koline’s room and opened the door.
Thelma Grebe was standing just within the doorway. Standing beside her was a heavily built man, with a small star-shaped scar on the left side of his forehead. The man was carrying a cane in his right hand; his left hand held his hat and gloves.
“But surely, my dear young lady,” he was saying, “you can’t—” They turned as the door opened.
“Here he is now,” said Rhoda Koline with a quick catch in her voice.
The man faced Brokay. “Ah!” he said. “I was going to see you in a moment, my friend. I’m on special duty with the police. I am very friendly to Thelma Grebe, but I understand there has been a serious crime committed here.”
“There’s been a murder, if that’s what you mean,” George Brokay said, watching him closely.
“Where?” asked the man.
“In the room across the hall,” Brokay said.
The man bowed. “Kindly lead the way,” he said. “That is what I was trying to find out. Miss Grebe was rather indefinite about the entire affair. She wanted to get the thing hushed up in some way. I explained to her that it was impossible to hush up a murder.” He gestured toward the door.
Brokay turned his back to the than, put his hand on the knob of the door.
Several things happened almost at once. Rhoda Koline screamed. George Brokay flung himself down in a quick duck. Something hissed through the air above his head, and struck the panels of the door with an ominous thunk.
The man behind Brokay had lunged forward with the cane. The covering of the cane, which, apparently, was wood, had slipped back from a long, thin blade of keen steel, and the blade had embedded itself in the door.
Thelma Grebe, realizing what had happened, flung up her arm, and sunlight glinted upon blued steel as she pointed an automatic at Brokay. Brokay, still crouching under the blade which had pushed itself into the doorway, went forward in a long, low tackle, catching the legs of the man with the scarred forehead.
Thelma Grebe fired. The shot crashed through the panels of the door, missing Brokay by not more than an inch. Rhoda Koline flung herself upon Thelma Grebe, struggling for the gun. The man with the scarred forehead crashed down under the impact of Brokay’s rushing tackle. They squirmed about on the floor together. Brokay felt the man’s hand pushing its way under his coat lapel. He grabbed the arm with his left hand. The man lurched and twisted. Brokay caught a brief glimpse of a gun. He flung himself to one side, smashed his right fist over and across.
Another shot rang out, the gun so close to Brokay’s ear that the report was deafening. There was a shower of powdered plaster as the bullet struck the ceiling. The two women were struggling and twisting, Rhoda Koline hanging onto Thelma Grebe’s arm with the grim tenacity of a fighting bulldog.
The man with the scarred forehead gave a lurch, got to his hands and knees, flung up the weapon once more. Brokay pushed the weapon aside, sent everything he had in a terrific right which crashed through, full to the other’s face. As the man staggered backward and rolled inertly to the floor, Brokay grabbed the weapon from the man’s limp fingers. At that moment Rhoda Koline staggered backward. Thelma Grebe raised the gun once more, this time not at Brokay, but straight at Rhoda Koline’s breast.