“Birsey de g il. Adiyo.” He bowed and went.
A moment later, the Assistant Manager bustled in with the coffee, set it down with a businesslike flourish clearly intended to indicate that he, too, was about to return to his bed, and collected the bottle of whisky.
“You may leave that,” said Graham; “a friend is on his way to see me. You might tell the porter …”
But as he spoke, the telephone rang, and the night porter announced that Kopeikin had arrived. The Assistant Manager retired.
Kopeikin came into the room looking preternaturally grave.
“My dear fellow!” was his greeting. He looked round. “Where is the doctor?”
“He’s just left. Just a graze. Nothing serious. I feel a bit jumpy but, apart from that, I’m all right. It’s really very good of you to turn out like this. The grateful management has presented me with a bottle of whisky. Sit down and help yourself. I’m having coffee.”
Kopeikin sank into the arm-chair. “Tell me exactly how it happened.”
Graham told him. Kopeikin heaved himself out of the arm-chair and walked over to the window. Suddenly he stooped and picked something up. He held it up: a small brass cartridge case.
“A nine millimetre calibre self-loading pistol,” he remarked. “An unpleasant thing!” He dropped it on the floor again, opened the window and looked out.