XIV

The doors and the walls of the private dining-rooms were almost soundproof. No stir followed the shot. In the hall outside, the porter lifted his head and listened.

“What was that?” he asked the waiting elevator man.

“Didn’t hear anything,” said the other laconically. “Somebody slammed a door.”

“Maybe,” said the porter, and went back to his book. He was filling in the names of that night’s visitors, an indispensable record in such a club, and he was filling them in with pencil, an equally necessary act of caution, for sometimes the club members desired a quick expungement of this evidence.

In Room 13 silence reigned. A thin blue cloud floated to the ceiling; the door opened a little farther, and Johnny Gray came in, his right hand in his overcoat pocket.

Slowly he crossed the room to where the huddled figure lay, and, stooping, turned it upon its back. Then, after a brief scrutiny, his quick hands went through the man’s pockets. He found something, carried to it the light, read with a frown and pushed the paper into his own pocket. Going out, he closed the door carefully behind him and strolled back to the hall.

“Not staying, Captain?” asked the porter in surprise.

“No, nobody I know here. Queer how the membership changes.”

The man on duty was too well trained to ask inconvenient questions.

“Excuse me. Captain.” He went over to Johnny and bent down. “You’ve got some blood on your cuff.”

He took out his handkerchief and wiped the stain clean. Then his frowning eyes met the young man’s.

“Anything wrong, Captain?”

“Nothing that I can tell you about,” said Johnny; “Good night.”

“Good night, sir,” said the porter.

He stood by his desk, looking hard at the glass doors of the elevator, heard the rattle of the gate as it opened, and the whine of the lift as it rose again.

“Just stay here, and don’t answer any rings till I come back,” he said.

He hurried along the corridor into the side passage and, coming to No. 13, knocked. There was no answer. He turned the handle. One glance told him all he wanted to know. Gently he closed the door and hurried back to the telephone on his desk.

Before he raised the receiver he called the gaping lift-boy.

“Go to all the rooms, and say a murder has been committed. Get everybody out.”

He was still clasping the telephone with damp hands when the last frightened guest crowded into the elevator, then:

“Highlow Club speaking. Is that the Charing Cross Hospital?⁠ ⁠… I want an ambulance here⁠ ⁠… Yes, 38, Boburn Street⁠ ⁠… There’s been an accident.”

He rung off and called another number.

“Highlow Club. Is that the police station?⁠ ⁠… It’s the porter at the Highlow Club speaking, sir. One of our members has shot himself.”

He put down the instrument and turned his face to the scared elevator man who had returned to the high level. At the end of the passage stood a crowd of worried waiters.

“Benny,” he said, “Captain Gray hasn’t been here tonight. You understand? Captain⁠—Gray⁠—has⁠—not⁠—been⁠—here⁠—tonight.”

The guest-book was open on the desk. He took his pencil and wrote, on the line where Johnny Gray’s name should have been, “Mr. William Brown of Toronto.”