The Penguin Book of Gaslight Crime - Michael Sims [80]
“Deep carpets!” repeated the magician. “It is well I know. I do not like deep carpets. And this room, where I shall be left alone behind locked doors——”
“It would have to be the cloak-room, on the left of the main entrance,” said Godahl. Yes, that would be the only available room for such a test. No other rooms off the street parlor could be locked, as there were no doors. In this cloak-room there were two doors—one on the main corridor and one on the first vestibule. There was a small window, but it was not to be thought of for one of Malvino’s girth. The doors were massive, of oak; and the locks—Godahl remembered the locks well, having had need to examine them on a recent occasion—were tumblerlocks. It would be rare business to see a man, even a magician, leave the cloak-room without help. And that, too, was in the bond—this sporting proposition.
“The locks have five tumblers,” laughed Godahl, more and more amused.
“Let there be fifty!” whispered the other contemptuously. “Tell me, my observing friend—who counts the tumblers of a lock from the outside—do these doors open in or out?”
“In,” said Godahl—and the long fingers closed on his wrist in a twinkling.
“In, you say?”
“In!” repeated Godahl; and he made a mental note to study the peculiar characteristics of doors that open in.
Malvino buried himself in his furs. The car sped on through the winding thoroughfares of the park, and Godahl fell to counting the revolving flashes of the gas-lamps as they rushed by.
“This is the one place in your great city where I find joy,” said the blind man at length. “There are no staring crowds; I can pick my thoughts; and the pavements are glass. Outside of these walls your city is a rack that would torture me. Tell me, why is blue so cool? June will be too late for the Mediterranean. We will start before. If you will but tell me, friend Godahl, so that I can feel it, I will give you the half——No! I will not. What is money to you? Are you quite sure about the doors opening in? Yes? That is good. Godahl, if I could see I think I would be like you—looking on and laughing. Let me tell you something of doors that open in——What! We are traveling at an unlawful speed! Mistair Offiçaire—indeed, yes, the Great Malvino! Pity his poor eyes! Here is money falling from your hair! You are not a frugal man—so careless!”
The park policeman who had stopped them to warn them against speed stood staring at the crisp bill the blind man had plucked from his hair, as the taxicab sped forward again. Malvino directed the driver to his hotel through the speaking tube, and a few minutes later they were set down there. Godahl declined dinner with his queer friend.
“I have here your wallet once more, friend Godahl!” laughed the blind magician. “The fifty little millionaires! Ha-ha! You promise? You will not be there when I am there?”
“You have my stickpin,” said Godahl. “I believe you are collecting bogus stones. That one is bogus, but it was thought to be a fine gift by a friend who is now dead.”
The other, with evident disappointment, returned the pilfered stickpin. “You promise! You will not be there when I am there, my friend?”
Godahl held the blue-white hand in his own for a moment as they parted. “No; I promise you,” he said; and he watched his queer friend away—Malvino erect, smiling, unfaltering in his fine stride, conscious to the last dregs of the interest he excited on all sides. He shunned the elevator and started up the broad marble stairs, his slender cane tap-tap-tapping, lighting the way for his confident