“By whom,” concluded Average Jones, shaking his head at the interruption. “Find out who occupied or reserved the apartments on either side.”
Mr. Thomas Colvin McIntyre lifted a wrinkling eyebrow. “Really, Jones,” he observed, “you seem to be employing me rather in the capacity of a messenger boy.”
“If you think a messenger boy could do it as well, ring for one,” drawled Average Jones, in his mildest voice. “Meantime, I’ll be in the Turk’s room here.”
Numbers 335 and 336, which the manager opened, after the prompt if somewhat sulky departure of Mr. McIntyre, proved to consist of a small sitting room, a bedroom and a bath, each with a large window giving on the cross-street, well back from Fifth Avenue.
“Here’s where he was found.” The manager indicated a spot near the wall of the sitting-room and opposite the window. “He had just pushed the button when he fell.”
“How do you know that?”
“Bronson, the bell-boy on that call, answered. He knocked several times and got no answer. Then he opened the door and saw Mr. Telfik down, all in a heap.”
“Where is Bronson?”
“At the hospital, unconscious.”
“What from?”