THE FACE FROM THE DARK
SEVERAL days had passed since the strange death of Stephen Laird, passenger on the Mountain Limited. The case had created a wide sensation at first. Now, with no solution toward the mystery, it had dropped into prompt oblivion.
It was evening, in San Francisco. A tall, well-dressed man entered the lobby of the Aldebaran Hotel, carrying a light suitcase. He stepped up to the desk to register. The clerk noted the name which the writer fashioned in a clear, sweeping hand.
The new guest’s name was Henry Arnaud.
“What kind of a room would you like, Mr. Arnaud?” questioned the clerk.
“I should prefer one on the top floor,” was the reply.
The clerk looked over the list of vacant rooms. The Aldebaran was a second-rate hostelry, and was never filled with guests. But due to its location on one of the noisy streets that angle northward from Market, the rooms on the upper floors were always occupied. At present, there was just one vacancy on the eighth floor, the highest story in the house. The clerk passed it by.
“I can give you something on the seventh—”
“No,” said Arnaud, shaking his head emphatically. “I want to be as high up as possible. If I can’t get a room on the top floor, I shall go somewhere else.”
“Wait a moment!” The clerk pretended to make a sudden discovery. “Here you are, sir — Room 806. A very nice room, Mr. Arnaud.”