Suddenly from out of the darkness came three rifle-shots. They sounded very close. Morecombre sprang to his feet. “Did you hear that?” he asked, rather unnecessarily.
Quentin was already up and crossed the room to turn out the light. Then he stumbled over to the window and peered out. But for the flickering lights on the waterfront he could see nothing. They listened in the darkness. Faintly they could hear someone shouting, and then two more shots sounded. This time they caught a glimpse of the flash from a rifle. It was just outside the hotel.
“Maybe the sentry’s gettin’ the wind-up,” Quentin said. “I noticed a man at the gate this afternoon.”
Morecombre fumed. “He must be shooting at something,” he said, going out on to the verandah.
Quentin reached forward and jerked him back. “Keep off there, Bill,” he advised. “In this moonlight you’d be quite a target.”
Morecombre hastily stepped into the room and put on the light again. “Well, I suppose this is about all we can do,” he said irritably, “just sit around and wonder. I tell you I’m getting mighty fed up with doing nothing.”
The door jerked open, and a young lieutenant walked in. Behind him stood two soldiers, their rifles hovering in the direction of the two Americans. “You’ll pardon me,” the Lieutenant said in careful English, “for interrupting you.”
Quentin said, “What was that shooting?”
The Lieutenant shrugged. “A little disturbance. It is purely a local affair. I assure you it is well in hand by now.”
Quentin concealed his impatience. “Well, Lieutenant, what can I do for you?”