The Secret of the Haunted Mirror - M. V. Carey [15]
Pete tried the knob. It turned. He pulled the door open and smelled of wax and dampness. He had found the broom closet.
“Nice going,” Pete told himself. He stepped into the closet, careful not to disturb the brooms and mops leaning against the wall, or to stumble over the vacuum cleaner.
He closed the door, all but an inch or two, leaned against a shelf that held an assortment of soap and furniture polish, and peeked out through the narrow opening.
He grinned. He could see Santora’s door. And if anyone opened that door he would be able to see right into Santora’s room.
He waited, not moving. The sound of thunder reached him from outside.
Down the hall, the elevator hummed, then stopped. Pete heard the door slide open. Footsteps sounded slightly on the carpeted floor. A man was coming towards Pete, walking heavily. Pete heard something muttered in Spanish. Then he saw Señor Santora pass the broom closet, stop at the door of Room 426, and put a key into the lock.
Pete opened the closet door another inch, anxious not to miss one thing that might happen.
Santora frowned, turned the key twice, then pushed open the door to his room. He went in and closed the door behind him. Pete slipped out of the closet, stepped across the hall, and was about to apply his ear to the panels of the door to 426 when he heard
something that made him freeze like a statue. He heard the sound of a blow, then the heavier sound of someone falling!
The door of Santora’s room opened. For a single tick of a clock, Pete and the black-clad burglar stared at one another
face to face.
“You!” snarled the burglar. He rushed
at Pete.
Pete dodged, and the man’s charge
carried him past Pete. He crashed into the
wall across from 426. It seemed to Pete
that he fairly bounced off the wall. Then
he was running down the hall towards the
stairs and Pete saw that he had something
white crumpled in one hand.
Pete dived for the man’s legs. He
connected. The man sprawled on his face
and the white thing he carried bounced
away. He kicked, thrashed, twisted, and at
last managed to bring his fist down on top
of Pete’s head.
Pete felt his senses slip away for a
moment. The man scrambled up and ran,
and the door to the stairwell banged open.
Pete managed to stand up, trembling.
He leaned against the wall. His gaze
blurred, then cleared and focused on that
white crumpled thing the man had carried. It lay on the edge of the carpeting near the wall. Almost without thinking, Pete picked it up and stuffed it into his pocket.
He went back to Room 426. The door stood open and Pete saw Señor Santora sprawled on the floor. Blood trickled from behind his ear and ran down his neck, staining his collar.
“My gosh!” Pete took four quick strides, reached, Santora, and knelt over him. His fingers searched for the man’s pulse, and he sighed with relief when he found it.
Santora might be seriously injured, but he was not dead.
There was a telephone on a desk amid a pile of papers that had been spilled from an open attaché case. Pete picked up the telephone.
“Can I help you?” said the pleasant voice of the hotel operator.
“Señor Santora has been hurt,” said Pete quickly. “Get the police and get a doctor here right away!”
Before the startled operator could answer, Pete had the telephone back in the cradle. He stepped over Santora and dashed down the corridor to the stairwell. As he went down the stairs he heard the elevator again. It was coming up from the lobby.
Pete reached the first floor and stepped out into the corridor. He forced himself to walk calmly across the lobby. There seemed to be no excitement here but the clerk was not at the desk.
Pete went on out to the boulevard. It was quite dark now and the rain had begun.
Thunder grumbled and rolled, and lightning flickered above the hills. Pete hurried, hunching himself again the rain. When the traffic signal at the corner changed, he ran across to the car where Worthington and Bob were waiting. Pulling the door open, he flung himself into the back seat.