Shot With Crimson by George Barr McCutcheon

Author:George Barr McCutcheon [McCutcheon, George Barr]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: anboco
Published: 2017-02-02T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER V

MR. PAUL ZIMMERLEIN’S telephone rang shortly before midnight. He lived in a small, exclusive hotel on one of the crosstown streets, near Fifth Avenue. A brief conversation over the wire ensued. A few minutes later he appeared at the desk in the office downstairs, dressed for the street. He was very angry.

“Why was I not informed when I came in this evening that Mr. Prince had called up and was expecting me to join his party at the Helvetia for supper, Mr. Rogers? He rang me up at nine o’clock and instructed you to put the message in my box.”

“I have no recollection of—”

“Of course you haven’t. You never do have any recollection. None of you. I shall take the matter up with the manager in the morning, Rogers. It has happened before. The least you could have done was to stick the message in my box.”

“I will inquire of the telephone operator. The regular boy is off tonight. If there has been any carelessness, Mr. Zimmerlein, it has been with her,—not with us, sir,” said the clerk, with the servility that is sometimes mistaken for civility on the part of hotel clerks.

“I haven’t time to listen to her excuses. They have been waiting for me since eleven o’clock, and I have been in my room since ten.”

“I know, sir. It was a little before ten when you came in.”

“Well, be good enough to investigate. I warn you that I intend to complain in the morning.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” began the clerk, but Zimmerlein was already on his way to the street.

The night-clerk scowled after him, and then retired behind the key-rack to consult the operator.

“What’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “Zimmerlein’s sore as a crab about not getting a message that came in at nine,—he says,—and he ‘s going to raise hell about it.”

“Nobody called him up,—not till just a few minutes ago. It’s the old gag. I heard what the guy said to Zimmerlein,—about calling up at nine and giving directions and all that bunk,—and I had to hold my tongue between my teeth to keep from butting in and telling him he was a liar, and—”

“Tell that to Mr. Coxhorn in the morning,” broke in the clerk, and moved languidly away. That was the extent of his investigations.

The Helvetia was a brisk five minutes’ walk from Zimmerlein’s hotel. He did it in three.

“Is Mr. Prince entertaining in his rooms or in the café?” he inquired at the desk.

“In the café, Mr. Zimmerlein.”

“Thanks.”

Fifteen minutes later, he sauntered up to a table at which a party of seven or eight people were seated. Nodding and smiling in his most amiable manner to the ladies, he laid his hand on the shoulder of one of the men.

“Sorry, old man, but they didn’t give me your message. I should have been sitting on the doorstep waiting for you, if I’d known you really wanted me. Thanks for calling me up again. It was good of you, and I’ll try to make up for all the lost time and trouble by being as agreeable as I know how to be.

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