VIII
It was exactly twelve minutes later that Kestner's knock sounded on the door of Suite Seventeen in that rookery of migratory birds known as the Alambo.
He knew the type well enough, for in Paris and Budapest and Monte Carlo and Trouville his work had only too often taken him into such quarters. He was familiar enough with each sordid detail, the entrance of gilt and marble and plush, the belittered breakfast-trays at bedroom doors, the kimonoed figures that visited from floor to floor and calmly arranged hydrogenated hair in elevator-mirrors, the overflow of cocktail glasses and beer bottles ungarnered by slatternly chamber-maids, the mingled odours of musty carpets and house-pets and Turkish cigarettes.
It puzzled Kestner not a little, as he repeated his knock and stood prepared for any emergency, to find adequate excuse for Maura Lambert's presence in such a place. She was not of the breed common to such a rookery. He reminded himself that there must be some exceptional reason for her retreat to an environment so exceptional. Then all thought on the matter ended, for he heard a light step cross the room, and a moment later found himself staring into the somewhat startled eyes of Maura Lambert herself.
It was plain that she was not expecting him. He
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