Cyro

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“YOUR mail, Mr. Rowden.”

“Ah, yes. Thank you.”

The switchboard operator passed a stack of envelopes to the man who stood in front of the lobby desk. Rowden smiled as he received the mail. He scanned the envelopes; then thrust them in his pocket and strolled into the elevator.

The switchboard girl sighed as the door closed. It was not often that the Mallison Apartments received such debonair guests as Roke Rowden. Small and obscure in the midst of Manhattan, the Mallison catered chiefly to bargain-hunting tourists.

Roke Rowden was a novelty. He had the bearing of a man-about-town. Suave to the points of his sharp-tipped mustache, friendly of eye and manner, he had become the switchboard operator’s idol. Rowden’s slight swagger; the easy fashion in which he carried his gold-headed cane — these were gentlemanly mannerisms that the girl judged as perfection.

Even in the elevator, Roke Rowden lost nothing of his poise. Cane beneath his arm, he retained his studied pose until the car had reached the fifth floor. Then, with his accustomed gait, he strolled forth along a corridor and stopped at a door marked 516. Deliberately, Rowden unlocked the door and entered. He closed the door behind him.

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