I thumped the door again and called: "Open the door." The voice said something that was nothing to me. I repeated my thumping and calling. Down the corridor a door opened and a pasty-faced boy with patent-leather hair stuck his head out to ask: "What's the matter?"
I said, "None of your damned business," and pounded 416 again.
The voice inside rose strong enough now for us to know that it was complaining, though no words could be made out.
Then a bed creaked. Feet rustled on carpet. Presently the key rattled on the other side of the lock.
When the lock clicked, I turned the knob and pushed the door open.
"Good God!" Eric Collinson exclaimed chokingly.
Gabrielle Leggett stood there, swaying a little. Her face was white as paper. Her eyes were all brown, dull, focused on nothing, and her tiny forehead was wrinkled, as if she knew there was something in front of her and was trying to decide what it was.
She had on one yellow stocking, a brown velvet skirt that was wrinkled as if it had been slept in, and a yellow chemise. Scattered around the room were a pair of brown slippers, the other stocking, a brown and gold blouse, a brown coat and a brown and yellow hat.
I pushed Collinson into the room, followed him, and closed the door, turning the key. He stood gaping at the girl, his jaw sagging, his eyes as vacant as hers, though more horrified. She leaned unsteadily against the wall beside the door and started at nothing with her dark, blank eyes and ghastly, puzzled face.
I put an arm around her and led her to the bed, telling Collinson:
"Gather up the clothes." I had to tell him twice before he came out of his trance.
The girl went docilely across the room with me—if I had let go of her she would have stopped still where I left her—and let me set her down on the edge of the rumpled bed.
Collinson had finished gathering up her clothes when fingers drummed on the door.
"Well?" I called.
Weber's voice, full of curiosity:
"Everything all right?"
"Swell! Will you send a boy down to the corner and tell the man in the Chrysler roadster to drive up to the door and wait. The boy can't miss him—a big man with ears like a pair of red wings and a wide, red face."
With disappointment in his voice, Weber promised to send, and went away from the door. I began dressing the girl.
Collinson dug his fingers in my shoulder and protested in a tone that would have been appropriate if I had been robbing an altar:
"No! You can't—"
I pushed his hand away, growling:
"What the hell? You can have the job if you want it."
He was sweating. He gulped and stuttered:
"No. No. It—I couldn't—" He broke off and walked to the window.
"She told me you were an ass," I said to his back, and discovered that I was putting the brown and gold blouse on backward.
She gave me no more assistance than if she had been a wax figure, but at least she didn't struggle when I pushed her around and she stayed in whatever position I shoved her. Putting on her stockings, I found another physical peculiarity to add to the list Fitzstephan and I had made. There were only four toes on her foot, three small ones—instead of the normal four—beside the big toe. I felt her other foot through its stocking and found it the same.
By the time I had got her into hat and coat, Collinson had come away from the window and was spluttering questions at me. What was the matter room with her? Oughtn't we get a doctor? Was it safe to take her out? And when
