I
Kestner sat in a brown study. It was three full hours since the murder of Antonio Morello in the Alambo. Not a word had as yet come in to him, and here was a situation, he knew, where time was precious.
On the rosewood table in front of Kestner lay what was left of his third cigar. About his feet was a scattering of ashes, the residuary evidence of an hour's Vesuvian mental ferment. Confronting him on the polished table-top, not unlike huge pawns on an abandoned chessboard, stood three telephone transmitters. Two of them were Kestner's recently installed private wires. The third was the switch-board connection of the hotel itself.
Kestner sat between those transmitters, momentarily undecided as to what the next move should be. He sat where those wires converged, waiting, like a spider at the centre of its web. Yet for all the intricate network of espionage that had been so feverishly and yet so dexterously thrown out across the City, no slightest word of value had trickled in to him. He was still hesitating between the house-connection and his second private wire when the brisk tinkle of a bell brought an end to his indecision.
He caught up the receiver on his left and found Wilsnach on the wire.
"We've got something," announced Wilsnach. "Can I talk?"
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