Then there were projecting extensions, so that the windows of 600 and 690 faced each other across a narrow court.
All windows must either front on the street or on that court; for there were other suites that took the outer corners of the hotel.
Carpenter saw no signs of watchers. He was sure he knew the reason. This little-used stairway was the path by which Hooks Borglund was to come.
Boldly, with steady step, Carpenter walked across the hall and turned the knob of the door marked 600. The door opened. Carpenter entered.
He had been right about the anteroom. He encountered a blank wall, with a doorway to the left. He went through and found himself in a living room. His entrance, easy and quiet, was perfect in every detail.
Revolver in hand, Carpenter stood in the dimly lighted room. Two men looked toward him from the opposite side. There, on a couch, lay an unconscious girl. One of the men was holding a large cloth in his hand. The odor of chloroform pervaded the room.
Before the two men could make a move, Carpenter was speaking. His stub-nosed revolver glittered in keeping with his words.
“Stick up your mitts!” ordered Carpenter. “One word out of either of you and — it’s curtains!”
The men obeyed. Carpenter had taken them entirely by surprise. They had entered here; they had overpowered the girl; they were expecting Hooks Borglund. A rescuer had come instead.
Covering the men with his revolver, Carpenter walked toward the door, where a telephone table stood. He placed one hand upon the instrument. He knew what lay before him.