The night breeze stirred the fronds of the palm above the street wall of the Café of Many Tongues; the jasmine scented the heavy tepid air, and glasses clinked lazily, but Linda was not to be seen circling among the clusters of rosily-twinkling cigarettes.
He ascended the flight of stairs, and knocked at the door of the room where she had cared for him. There was no answer.
In the dark passageway behind him, he heard an almost noiseless footfall and turned to greet her as he thought, but instead of her soft fingers a knife descended, slashing his sleeve about the wrist. Again the swift agility and strength of the Frenchman were surprising, and the innkeeper's gnarled body crashed down the stairway, his head banging on the stone edge of each step as he rolled to the bottom, to the very feet of the sailor, Pierre.
The latter turned to bind and gag him, but there was no necessity for this. One clawlike hand opened and closed spasmodically twice—then fell. The head with its surly grin frozen on the thin lips, lay very still in the dark puddle.
"Quick, Pierre—this way!"
The two entered the narrow room, gathered up his luggage, crowding it into a sailor's sack, as the jabbering voices over the huddled body at the foot of the stairs gathered in volume.
Even then the stranger risked a precious half-minute in scribbling a note of farewell to Linda, which he placed before the sorrowful crucifix on the wall, opposite her bed.
It was only fourteen feet from the window to the alley and, throwing the sack before them, they achieved it in turn.
