The group had entered the elevator, the bell boy had disappeared around
the farther end of the hall into the wing of the hotel--the corridor
was empty. In a moment he was standing before the door of No. 148;
in another, under the persuasion of a little steel instrument, deftly
manipulated by Jimmie Dale's slim, tapering fingers, the lock clicked
back, the door opened, and he stepped inside, closing and locking the
door again behind him.
It was already a quarter past nine, but no one was as yet in the
connecting room--the fanlight next door had been dark as he passed. His
flashlight swept about him, located the connecting door--and went out.
He moved to the door, tried it, and found it locked. Again the little
steel instrument came into play, released the lock, and Jimmie Dale
opened the door. Again the flashlight winked. The door opened into a
bathroom that, obviously, at will, was either common to the two rooms or
could, by the simple expedient of locking one door or the other, be used
by one of the rooms alone. In the present instance, the occupant of the
adjoining apartment had taken "a room with a bath."
Jimmie Dale passed through the bathroom to the opposite door. This was
already three-quarters open, and swung outward into the bedroom, near
the lower end of the room by the window. Through the crack of the door
by the hinges, Jimmie Dale flashed his light, testing the radius of
vision, pushed the door a few inches wider open, tested it again with
the flashlight--and retreated back into No.
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