Sydney Blake strolled about leisurely. Though he felt a prodigious excitement, he had to admit that there was no apparent difference between the thirteenth and any other floor. Except—Yes, except—
He ran to a window and looked down. He counted. Twelve floors. He looked up and counted. Twelve floors. And with the floor he was on, that made twenty-five. Yet the McGowan was a twenty-four-story building. Where did that extra floor come from? And how did the building look from the outside at this precise moment when his head was sticking out of a window on the thirteenth floor?
He walked back in, staring shrewdly at G. Tohu and K. Bohu. They would know.
They were standing near the elevator door that was open. An operator, almost as impatient as the two men in black, said, “ Down? Down?”
“Well, Mr. Blake,” said the tall man. “Are the premises in good condition, or are they not?”
“Oh, they’re in good condition, all right,” Blake told him. “But that’s not the point.”
“Well, we don’t care what the point is,” said the tiny man to the tall man. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Quite,” said the tall man. He bent down and picked up his companion. He folded him once backward and once forward. Then he rolled him up tightly and shoved him in his right-hand overcoat pocket. He stepped backward into the elevator. “Coming, Mr. Blake?”
“No, thank you,” Blake said. “I’ve spent far too much time trying to get up here to leave it this fast.”
“Suit yourself,” said the tall man. “Down,” he told the elevator operator.