“Um!” was all the answer he received. Though the man with the hook shouted after him: “Tell him to git a move on.”
At first Bob had, it in mind to disobey the injunction he had received. He wasn’t going to deliver the message to the Italian. His chief objection to this was that to do so he would have to admit having been in the room of Pietro.
“But he’ll know it anyhow,” decided Bob. “Ill tell him, after all. Or, rather I’ll give him the message. Then later, if Pietro wants to know why I went to his room I can tell him I thought maybe he had another barrel to his organ. And I really wish he had—his tunes are getting monotonous.”
This was a way out—a fair and square way.
“I’ll tell him about the man with the hook!” decided Bob.
And when he gave the message, such a look of terror and despair came over the face of the Italian that Bob felt sorry for him. The jazz orchestra was playing its best or its worst, however you look at it, and the Italian had nothing to do. The guests were dancing and had partaken of some of the refreshments. No one seemed to have noticed the short absence of the young detective.
“You—say—man—with hook arm?” faltered the Italian.
“Yes—at your hotel—in your room. He wants you.”
“Wants me?”
“Yes—in a hurry.”