AMERICAN METHODS
115
wise you won't try to stop me. Good morning."
I backed to the door, opened it and slipped out, slamming it shut behind me. Nobody was in the hall. Down the stairs I went, the pistol in my fist, hid by my Derby hat. At the foot of the stairs I met the maitre d'hôtel. He opened the door to let me out with a polite "bon jour, M'sieu'."
