The window was a square of gray light at the narrow end of the small hotel room. Blake Walker regarded this evidence of another day with an odd detachment. He moved—to snub out a cigarette in the tray beside the bed. Then he collected his watch from the table. A minute past six. And what he had been waiting for the past hour must be very close now—
He pulled his six feet of lean muscle and fine bones out of the bed and padded into the bathroom to plug in his razor. From the mirror his own eyes, tired and dark, stared back at him without curiosity or interest. In the artificial light his thick cap of hair appeared as black as his brows and lashes—but in the sunlight it would be red, so dark a red as might rightly be termed mahogany. Only his skin was not fair, but a smooth and even brown, as if before birth he had acquired a permanent sun tan.
Shaving was a perfunctory business, conducted mostly from force of habit, since his area of beard was small and grew slowly. His black brows twisted together now in a familiar frown as he wondered, for perhaps the thousandth time, if he did have Asiatic blood. Only, who had ever heard of a red-haired Chinese or Hindu? Not that he could trace his parentage. Detective Sergeant Dan Walker had brought the resources of an entire city police force to bear on that problem some twenty years ago, after he had stumbled on the "alley baby." Patrolman Harvey Blake and Sergeant Dan Walker had found him and later Dan had claimed him for a son. But he would always wonder about the two years of his life before that.
Blake's well-cut mouth became a grim line under the pressure of memory. Sergeant—now Inspector—Dan going into the First National to buy traveler's checks for that long-awaited trip—running into a holdup in progress. Dan Walker had been shot down and it had not lessened Molly's heartache to know that he had taken his killer with him. After that there had been the two of them, Molly Walker and Blake. Then Molly went to bed one night and did not awake in the morning.
So now he was alone again, cut off from the only security he had known. Blake put down the razor carefully as if that motion was a part of some intricate and necessary action. His eyes were still on the mirror, but they saw no reflection there, certainly not the lines of tension suddenly aging his face. It was coming—it was very close now!
The last time that feeling had driven him into Molly's bedroom and his painful discovery there. Now it was urgently pushing him toward the hall. He listened, knowing of old that there was really nothing to hear—this he could only feel. Then, with quiet cat's feet, he went to the hall door without snapping on the room light.
With infinite caution he turned the key and eased the door open. He had no idea of what waited on the other side—he only knew that some action was being so forcibly demanded of him that he could not disobey even if he wished.
For one moment he stared. Two men stood, their backs toward him, one behind the other. A tall man wearing a loose coat, his dark hair still glistening with the sheen of sleet, was fitting a key into the door on the opposite side of the corridor. His companion held a gun jammed against his back.
Blake, his bare feet making no sound on the carpet, moved. His fingers locked about the gunman's throat and he jerked the fellow's head back. Instantly the other man whirled. Almost, Blake thought, as if he had known what was about to happen. His fist swung up and connected with just the right point on the threshing captive's jaw; then Blake was supporting the full weight of an unconscious man. But the other took hold, waving Blake back into his room, following him quickly, the prize in tow. Once inside he dropped his burden to the floor without ceremony and locked the door.
With a doubt or two, Blake sat down on the edge of the bed. Why so little fuss on the part of the suddenly released prisoner? And why come in here with the captive?
"Police—?" His hand went to the phone on the bedside table.
The tall man turned. He brought out a wallet and flipped it open for Blake to read the card inside. Then the younger man nodded.
"No police?"
The other shook his head. "Not yet. Sorry to barge in on you, Mr.—Mr.?"
"Walker."
"Mr. Walker. You helped me out of a tight hole there. But I'll have to ask you to let me handle this my own way. We won't bother you for long."
"I'll finish dressing," Blake got up.
The Federal Agent was squatting on his heels by the slumbering gunman. And Blake was knotting his tie when a scene, reflected in the mirror, drew him back to the bedroom. The self-introduced Kittson was searching his unconscious prisoner and the oddness of that search intrigued Blake.
Slowly the Federal man ran his fingers through the oily hair of the other, apparently in quest of something on the skull beneath. Then with a pencil flash he examined both ears and nostrils. Last of all he explored the gunman's half open mouth, withdrawing a dental plate. He made no sound but Blake sensed his triumph as he freed from underside of the plastic denture a small disc which he wrapped in his handkerchief and stowed away in an inner pocket.
"Care to wash now?" Blake asked casually.
Kittson stiffened. He looked up, straight into Blake's eyes. And his own eyes were strange ones—almost yellow, unblinking, like those of some hunting feline. They continued to bore into Blake—or to try to—but he met stare with stare. The agent got to his feet.
"I would, for a fact," his voice was mild, deceptively so, Blake believed. He was certain that in some way he had surprised the man, had failed to respond as the other had expected him to.
When Kittson was wiping his hands there came a knock at the door.
"My men," the agent appeared as certain of that as if he could see through the wall. Blake unlocked and opened the door.
Two men stood outside. Under any other circumstances Blake might not have given them a second glance, but now he watched them with double intentness.
One was almost as tall as Kittson and his wide boned, freckled face was surmounted by a thatch of bright red hair only partially concealed by his hat. The other, in contrast, was not only short but small, delicately boned, almost frail. They gave Blake flickering glances as they passed him, and he felt as though he had been measured, catalogued and filed for all time.
"Okay, chief?" asked the red haired one.
Kittson stepped aside to reveal the man on the floor. "He's all yours, boys—"
Between them they brought the gunman to partial consciousness and took him out. But Kittson remained and, when they were gone, locked the door for the second time.
Blake watched this move with raised eyebrows. "I assure you," he kept his tone light, "I have no connection with the departed."
"I am sure you have not. However—"
"This is a matter which should not concern me—is that it?"
For the first time Kittson's tight lips moved in a shadow smile. "Just so. We would rather no one knew about this little episode."
"My foster father was on the police force. I don't talk out of turn."
"You are from out of town?"
"I'm from Ohio, yes. My foster parents are dead. I came here to enter Havers," Blake answered with the exact truth.
"Havers—so you are an art student?"
"I have hopes," Blake refused to be drawn. "But five minutes of checking on your part will support all my statements."
Kittson's shadow smile broadened. "I don't doubt that at all, young man. But tell me one thing—just why did you open your door at the crucial moment? I'll swear you couldn't have heard us coming up the corridor, not through these walls and—" He was frowning now, watching Blake with that same hunting cat intensity, as if the young man presented a problem which must be solved.
Blake lost a fraction of his assurance. How could he possibly explain those queer flashes of foreboding, which he had had at intervals all his life, warning him of danger to come? How could he explain to this man that he had been sitting in the dark for at least an hour certain that trouble was ahead and that action on his part was necessary?
Then, moved perhaps by that unblinking, demanding stare, he plunged: "I just had a feeling that something was wrong—that I must open the door."
And those tawny eyes held his as if they would bore into his skull and lay bare every one of his thoughts. Suddenly he resented that suggestion of invasion, and found he was able to break away from that odd hold, that compulsion.
But to his surprise Kittson was nodding. "I'll buy that, Walker. I've faith in hunches. Well, it was a good thing for me that yours—" He paused, froze into immobility except for a gesture with one hand which held Blake as quiet. Kittson might be listening, but though Blake strained his own ears he could hear nothing at all.
A second later there was a discreet tap at the door. Blake got up. Kittson was as still as a hunter waiting for prey to come within striking distance. But his head turned to Blake and he shaped words with such exaggerated lip movements that the younger man could read them.
"Ask who?"
Blake went to the door, his hand dropped to the catch but he did not release it as he asked, "Who's there?"
"Hotel security officer." The reply was prompt, only slightly muffled by the barrier. A hand came over his shoulder with a scrap of paper. Block letters read, "Say—check with desk."
"Let me check with the desk," Blake called. He flattened himself against the door. There was no objection, no answer from without. But, after a moment, Blake heard the faint footfalls of someone moving away. He went back to his seat on the bed.
Kittson had preempted the single comfortable chair and was gazing out into the air shaft as if he found the brickwork beyond of absorbing interest.
"I take it that that was not the hotel dick?"
"No, he was not. Which puts us all in a jam of sorts." Kittson took out a cigarette case, offered its contents to Blake, and snapped a lighter for them both. "That was an attempt to discover what had happened here. Unfortunately it means that you have now been linked with us. And that leads to complications all around.
"There are good and sufficient reasons why we do not want our actions to become public. We shall have to ask you to cooperate with us."
Blake stirred. "I'm just an innocent bystander. I didn't come here to play cops and robbers. And I'm not even asking what I'm mixed up in—which I believe shows some restraint on my part." Again Kittson smiled faintly and Blake continued, "I just want to go about my own business. . . ."
Kittson tossed his hat on the desk and leaned back his black head to blow a perfect smoke ring. "And we'd like nothing better than to see you do just that. But I'm afraid it's too late for second thoughts now. You should have had those before you opened your door. Others have taken an interest in you, and that might prove—at the best—embarrassing. At the worst—" his eyes glinted like gem stones through the smoke and Blake felt an odd chill, almost a suspicion of that same uneasiness which had drawn him into this adventure. Kittson was implying things, and the force of his implications was heightened by the very vagueness of his words.
"I see that it begins to dawn on you that this is serious. When must you report at Havers for classes?"
"The new term begins next Monday."
"A week. I'm going to ask you to play along with us for that period. If we have any luck this case will be settled by then, or at least your part of it will. Otherwise—"
"Otherwise I might be taken care of for my own good and yours?" Blake demanded. But he recognized the voice of authority. This man was used to giving orders which were obeyed without question. If he said "Remove Blake Walker and put him on ice," Blake Walker would be removed with the same speed and efficiency as the gunman had earlier been extracted from this room. No one ever gained by ramming a stone wall head on. Better follow orders—at least until he could learn more about the setup.
"All right. What do I do?"
"You vanish. Here and now. How much luggage do you have?"
Kittson was on his feet, across the room to open the closet before Blake really understood that reply to his question.
"One bag." Something, perhaps the power of the other's personality swept Blake into action he would not have considered an hour before. He snapped the suitcase shut and took out his wallet to count out some bills on the top of the chest.
"I take it that we do not check out formally." It was more a statement than a question and he was not surprised as Kittson swiftly agreed.
The gray light outside the window had brightened very little. It was five minutes after seven, but the dusk within the room was that of evening as the agent snapped off the light. Blake shrugged into his top coat, picked up his hat and bag, ready to follow as the other beckoned him out into the hall.
They did not take the turn leading to the elevator, but instead went to a firedoor. Stairs, five floors of them, silent and deserted as the hall had been—then Kittson paused for a moment before another door, giving the impression of listening. Down another flight of stairs, narrower, not so well lighted, threading through a place of storage compartments to more steps going up. They emerged on the open street with the chill drizzle of sleet in their faces. Blake was sure that his guide not only knew exactly where he was going, but that they had been unobserved throughout that flight. His belief in the efficiency of the agent's organization was settled for all time as a taxi came in at the curb almost as they crossed the strip of pavement. Kittson opened the door and Blake obeyed the implied order. But to his surprise the agent did not join him. Instead the door slammed shut and the cab pulled away.
For the moment Blake was content to follow orders and see where all this stage managing would leave him. But, as he had more time to think and was out of the range of Kittson's electric personality, he was surprised at his own compliance with every suggestion the agent had made. If this wasn't some weird dream it came very close to it. Undoubtedly the wisest thing for him to do would be to stop this cab and disappear on his own. Only he had a very strong suspicion that Kittson would sooner or later catch up with him again and that then their relationship would be on a far less easy footing.
The taxi wove through the narrow roads in the central park in a shuttle pattern which completely baffled Blake's scant knowledge of the city. Then they came out on the main streets once more. Morning traffic was on the move and the cab rounded busses, bored between trucks and private cars. It slowed at last to whip into a narrow alley running between blank walled buildings which might be warehouses. About three-quarters of the way down this the driver pulled to a stop.
"Here y' are."
Blake reached for his wallet. But the driver said, without turning around, "It's already paid, Mac. You go in that door, see? Elevator there. Punch the top button. Now make it snappy, Mac, this here's no place to park!"
Blake went on in to be confronted by the glass frosted panel of a self-operating elevator. He punched the top button and tried to count the floors as he moved upward creakily, but he was not sure whether they came to stop before nine or ten.
Beyond was a scrap of hall, hardly more than standing room before a single blank door. Blake knocked and the portal opened so speedily that he thought they must have been awaiting him.
"Come in, Walker."
Blake had been expecting Kittson. But the man who greeted him was the elder of the agent by at least ten years. He was shorter and his hair was brindled with gray threads among the dark brown. But, as inconspicuous as he might have been in a crowd, there was a quiet distinction in his air. He was as much a personality in his way as the more aggressive Kittson.
"I am Jason Saxton," he introduced himself. "And Mark Kittson is waiting. Just leave your things here."
Deftly separated from coat, hat and bag, Blake was ushered into an inner office where he found not only Kittson but the red haired man who had helped remove the gunman in the Shelborne.
The room was bare except for a wall range of files, a desk and three or four chairs. There was not even a window to break the gray walls, matched in shade by a carpet under foot. And the lighting came from a concealed source near the ceiling.
"This is Hoyt," Kittson indicated the redhead abruptly. "You made the trip without incident, I see."
Blake wanted to ask what kind of an "incident" Kittson had expected him to encounter, but he decided that his wisest move now was to let the other fellow do the talking.
Hoyt was slumped down in his chair, his long legs stretched out, his hands, with their fringing of coarse red hairs, finger-laced across his flat middle.
"Joey knows his stuff," he observed lazily. "Stan will report if anyone showed undue interest."
"I believe you said your father was a policeman. Where? In Ohio?" Kittson paid no attention to his colleague's comment.
"In Columbus, yes. But I said my foster father," corrected Blake. He was on guard, aware that every word he spoke was being noted, weighed by all of the three fronting him.
"And your real parents?"
Blake told his story in as few words as possible. Hoyt might have dozed off during that recital, his eyes were closed. Saxton gave it the courteous attention a personnel man would grant that of a job applicant. And Kittson continued to study him with those hard, amber eyes.
"That's it," he ended.
Hoyt arose in one lithe and strangely graceful movement. His eyes, now fully opened, Blake noticed, were green, as vivid in color and as compelling when he turned them on one, as were Kittson's.
"I take it Walker is staying?" he asked of the room at large.
Instinctively Blake glanced at Kittson; the final decision lay with the agent he was sure. And on the desk he now noticed something new. In the middle of the green blotter was a small ball of crystal. Some movement of the agent's must have disturbed it for it began to roll toward Blake. It had almost reached the edge of the desk when he put out his hand and caught it.