“Where might he live?” he asked soberly, adding, “when the man is sick, we are all brothers.”
“I would not live against that proverb,” said the waiter. “The hotel is directly across the street—there—” The Chinaman pointed to a large bulb, glowing, but marked with age. “His room may be ascertained at the desk,” he added, bowing low.
“Thanks,” said Martin, as The Duke got to his feet, the horrified turmoil within pressing out through his eyes. He clung to the arm of his friend, but once inside the hotel, tried to dash to the stairs. He was stopped, however, by a quiet little gray-headed Chinese clerk.
“Let me get him up,” Martin said to the man. “I’ll see about his rent later.”
“We do not want Mr. Duke,” said the clerk mildly. He was wearing octagonal glasses which were useless but for their dignity.
“Then I must ask you for his room for only a few minutes,” continued Martin.
“A woman waits for him also,” said the Chinaman.
Martin became cold, as though he were facing a crisis of his own.
“Please show me his room,” he insisted, and perhaps it was his unequivocal stare that made the Chinese submit graciously to his demand.
The cranky elevator stopped and Martin helped The Duke into the hall.
As they approached his room a slim woman—a beautiful Eurasian, so Martin judged by the hall’s dim light, stepped from the door and ran at him.
“Fag!” she cried, as she tried to strike his face.
Martin wrapped her long hair around his wrist, and holding his friend and the woman, entered the room.
“I’ll jump!” he said. “This rat-hole’s too crowded. It’ll call the police.” He stood, bending down to the sill.
“Go ahead,” said Martin, watching him closely, his hand still wrapped in the beautiful long blue hair of the squirming girl.
“No, I’ll hide from them,” cried the Duke, and he began to crawl under the carpet.
The Eurasian, slant-eyed, watched him. Then quickly she turned to Martin.
“Babee!” she said, in a Dutch accent, her yellow eyes lifted to his. “Come with me. Let my hair go.”
Martin saw that The Duke, now flat under the carpet was quiet, and he loosened his own wrist from the woman’s soft hair.
“A mongrel boy,” he said, his teeth closing and unclosing. “Where do you wish me to go?”
Martin looked once more at the shaking body under the carpet and took the girl by the waist.