“Kirsakoff!” he whispered. “Kirsakoff—and his daughter Katerin Stephanovna!” and then his voice rose in a hysterical wailing burst of laughter above the playing of the orchestra.
XXI
THE CAT’S PAW HAS CLAWS
THE electric lamp on Peter’s writing table was still glowing under its shade, but it gradually waned as morning whitened the frost-bound windows.
Peter sat by the table near the door. He was fully dressed, just as he had come from the dining room after Lutoff had warned him to have no more dealings with the Kirsakoffs. Peter’s left arm lay limply on the dingy cloth, his automatic pistol close at hand lying on its side. He was wide-eyed awake and staring at the door into the hall, as if he were waiting for some one to enter. His jaw was set grimly, and at the right side of his mouth his upper lip was askew, as if he had spent the night in thoughts which resulted in nothing but a cynical smile. His face was pale under the night’s growth of beardy stubble. The soles of both his boots rested flatly on the floor, and were pulled back slightly under his knees as he had gradually slipped down into the chair. His shoulders were bent forward in a crouching attitude, and his chin rested upon the front of his tunic.
When full daylight finally vanquished the darkness of his side of the room, he lifted his head and pulled up the sleeve of his left arm to look at his wrist-watch. He thought a moment, as if in doubt what to do next, and wound the watch. He turned and looked at the windows behind him, rubbed his jaw reflectively with the tips of his fingers, and got up wearily to look for his shaving kit on the shelf under the mirror between the windows.
He studied himself in the mirror, smoothed his rumpled hair with his hand, and went about the business of getting out his razors. But he pushed the kit away irritably, and returned to the table. He picked up his pistol, took a cautionary glance at the catch which was so arranged that it revealed the weapon to be ready for firing, and slipped the pistol into its holster on his hip. Yet he did not button down the flap of the holster, but sprung the stiff leather flap back and tucked it in behind the belt. This left the butt of the pistol ready to his hand for instant use—he could draw and fire it without the trouble of unbuttoning the flap.
He went to the little wall sink near the wardrobe and dashed water in his face. Drying himself with a handkerchief, he went once more to the mirror and combed his hair with infinite pains. This done to his satisfaction, he stood before the door leading into Katerin’s room, in an attitude of listening.
He looked at his watch again after a time, and as if he had made a decision, walked to the door and rapped gently upon it. He waited, listening. He heard nothing. Finally he went to the push-button near the door to the hall and pressed it three times in the usual signal for a samovar. Then he fell to pacing the floor, head down, and his hands clasped behind his back.
After a considerable delay, the peasant girl who had served him when he first came to the hotel brought the samovar. She seemed to be still half asleep, and having set the samovar upon the table, departed promptly without so much as a look at Peter.