"You'll have to make a formal statement to the police," the clerk snapped.
"In the morning," Zircon said. "In the morning we intend to see the American consul. You will hear more about this incident than you expect, my dear sir. Now clear out. We need our sleep. This has been most unsettling."
One of the policemen pointed to Zircon's bloodstained sleeve. "But you need medical attention, sir."
"I happen to be a doctor," Zircon said. That was true enough, but he was a doctor of science, not of medicine.
"You expect to treat yourself?" the clerk asked incredulously.
"Nothing to it," Zircon boomed. "A trifle. Why, once, when hunting in Africa, I had my back clawed by a lion. I stitched the wounds up myself."
The clerk was on the verge of a stroke. "You couldn't treat your own back," he almost screamed. "Impossible! How could you?"
"He turned around so he could see what he was doing," Scotty said. "Good night, all." He shepherded them through the door and closed it.
For a moment there was excited conversation from outside, then the clerk, the policemen, and the coolies retreated down the hall.
"They'll be back," Zircon said wearily, "but not before morning, I hope."