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Page 49
Of a sudden he understood that murder had been attempted in his
presence and knowledge: a stark and hideous fact, jarring upon the
semi-humorous indulgence with which hitherto he had been inclined to
regard the unfolding of this night of _outr�_ adventure. Twice the man
had shot to kill with that singular weapon of silent deadliness--and
both times had missed his mark by the barest margin....
At once, like a demon of exceptional malignity, a breathless and
overpowering rage possessed P. Sybarite. Without the least hesitation
he stretched forth a hand, snatched the pistol from the grasp of the
woman--who seemed to relinquish it more through surprise than
willingly--threw himself halfway down the stairs, and took a hasty
pot-shot at the man--almost invisible in the darkness as he rounded
the turn of the next flight.
Missing, P. Sybarite flung on recklessly. As he gained the lower
floor, the hall lights flashed up, switched on from the upper landing
by the woman of the house. Thus aided, he caught another glimpse of
his prey midway down the next flight, and checked to take a second
shot.
Again he missed; and as the bullet buried itself in splintering
wainscoting, a cry of almost childish petulence escaped him. With but
one thought, he hurled on, swung round to the head of the stairs, saw
his man at the bottom, pulled up to aim, and....
Beneath him a small rug slipped on polished parquetry of the landing.
P. Sybarite's heels went up and his head down with a sickening thump.
He heard his pistol explode once more, and again visioned a reeling
firmament fugitively coruscant with strange constellations.
Then--bounding up with uncommon resiliency--he saw the street door of
the house close behind the fugitive and heard the heavy slam of it.
In another breath, pulling himself together, he was up and descending
three and four steps at a stride. Reaching the door, he threw it open
and himself heedlessly out and down a high stone stoop to the
sidewalk--pulled up, bewildered to discover himself the sole living
thing visible in all that night-hushed stretch between Fifth Avenue
and Sixth: of the assassin there was neither sign nor sound....
He felt perilously on the verge of tears--would gladly have bawled and
howled with temper--and gained little relief from another short-lived
break of heartfelt profanity--something halting and inexpert, truth to
tell.
Above him, on the stoop, the lady of the house appeared; paused to
peer searchingly east and west; looked down at the trembling figure of
the small man in his overgrown police tunic, shaking an impotent fist
in the face of the City of New York; and laughed quietly to herself.
"Come back," she called in a guarded tone. "He's made a clean getaway.
Got to hand him _that_. No use trying to follow--you'd never catch up
in a thousand years. Come back--d'you hear?--and give me my gun!"
A trifle dashed, P. Sybarite raked the street with final reluctant
glances; then in a spirit of witless and unquestioning docility
returned.
The woman retired to the vestibule, where she closed and locked the
door as he passed through, further ensuring security by means of a
chain-bolt; then entering the hallway, closed, locked, and similarly
bolted the inner doors.
"Now, then!" she addressed the little man with a brilliant smile--"now
we can pow-wow. Come into the den"--and led the way toward the rear of
the house.
Trotting submissively in her wake, his wrinkled nose and batting
eyelids were eloquent of the dumb amaze with which he was reviewing
this incredible affair.
Turning into a dark doorway, the woman switched light into an electric
dome, illuminating an interior apartment transformed, by a wildly
original taste in eccentric decoration, into a lounging room of such
distressful uniquity that it would have bred unrest in the soul of a
lotus-eater.
Black, red, and gold--lustreless black of coke, lurid crimson of fresh
blood, bright glaring yellow of gold new-minted--were the predominant
notes in a colour scheme at once sombre and violent. The walls were
hung with scarlet tapestries whereon gold dragons crawled and fought
or strove to swallow dead black planets, while on every hand black
imps of Eblis writhed and struggled over golden screens, golden devils
mocked and mowed from panels of cinnabar, and horrific masks of
crimson lacquer, picked out with gold and black, leered and snarled
dumb menaces from darkened corners.
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