The light from the hall spilled over this shoulder. Something on the bed glinted.

Isaac Bell was suddenly wide awake. He bounded sideways into the room so at not to present a silhouette in the open door. Flattened against the wall with all his senses on high alert, he whipped his Browning pistol from his shoulder holster and hit the light switch.

On the narrow bed was a box made of glass, so heavy that it pressed deep into the chenille spread. It was cube-shaped, about twenty-four inches on each side. Even the lid was glass. It was open. It dangled from sprung hinges as if whoever had opened it had hastily dropped the heavy slab, which had bent the metal hinges, and run for his life.

Bell felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck.

He shot a swift look around the small room. The dresser top was empty but for a box of his cuff links. On the night table was a reading lamp, a Pocket Guide to New York, Mahan’s The Influence of Sea Power Upon History, and Burgoyne’s Submarine Navigation. The door to the closet was closed and the small safe in the corner where he stored his weapons locked. Still pressing his back to the wall, Bell peered again at the glass box itself. The interior was mostly obscured by reflections on the glass. Slowly, he moved his head to view it from different angles.

The box was empty.

Bell stood still as a hunter. There was only one place the snake could be hiding and that was under the bed in the dark space hidden by the overhanging bedspread. Suddenly he saw movement. A long, forked tongue flickered from under the bedspread, testing the air for motion at which to strike. Tight against the wall, moving in minute increments, Bell eased toward the door to get out of the room and lock the reptile inside. Chloroform poured under the door would put it out of action.

But before he had moved half a foot the viper’s tongue began flickering faster as if it were about to make its move. He braced to hurl himself out the door in one jump. Just as he was about to spring, he heard the elevator door open. The Old Blues tumbled into the hall bellowing:

“Where’er upon life’s sea we sail:

For God, for Country and-”

Isaac Bell knew he had no choice. If he shouted for the alums to run, the old boys weren’t sober enough to understand even if they heard him. At the same time, his warning would either spook the creature into striking him or send it slithering out the door, straight at them.

He reached to the side with the barrel of his pistol and used it to swing the door shut. The air it stirred aroused the lance-head. In a sudden blur of motion, it shifted position under the bed and flew at his leg.

Bell had never moved so fast. He kicked out at the pointed head blazing toward him. The snake smashed against his ankle with an astonishingly muscular impact, staining his trouser cuff with a splash of yellow venom. Only his own animal reflexes and the fact that his boot covered his ankle saved Bell’s life. In the space of a breath, the animal spun itself into a tight coil and struck again. By then Bell was airborne. Diving for the bed, he grabbed the pillow and threw it at the snake. The snake struck, spraying the pillow yellow and leaving two deep holes in the cloth. Bell ripped the spread off the bed, twirled it like a toreador, and flung it over the snake to trap it in the cloth.

The snake slithered out from under, coiled again, and tracked Bell with malevolent eyes. Bell raised his pistol, aimed carefully at its head, and fired. The snake attacked at the same instant the gun roared, striking so swiftly that Bell’s bullet missed and smashed the dresser mirror. As glass flew, the snake’s needle-sharp fangs struck Bell in the chest, directly over his heart.

BELL DROPPED HIS GUN AND CLOSED HIS HAND AROUND the snake’s neck.

The animal was shockingly strong. Every inch of its four-foot length writhed with spasmodic, sinewy power as it squirmed to break his grip and strike him again. Its fangs were cocked inside its arrow-shaped head. Yellow venom dripped from its wide-open jaws. Bell imagined that he could see in its eyes a gleam of triumph, as if the serpent were sure that its deadly poison had already won the battle and that its prey would die in minutes. Gasping for breath, Bell reached with his free hand for the knife in his boot. “Sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Snake. But you made the mistake of sinking your fangs into my shoulder holster.”

An Old Blue threw open the door. “Who’s shooting guns in here?”

At the sight of the headless snake still twitching in Bell’s fist, he turned white and pressed both hands to his mouth.

Bell pointed commandingly with his bloody knife. “If you are going to be sick, the facilities are down the hall.”

Matthew the doorman stuck his head in the room. “Are you-”

“Where did that steamer trunk come from?” demanded Bell.

“I don’t know. It must have arrived before I came on.”

“Get the manager!”

The club manager arrived minutes later in his nightclothes. His eyes widened at the sight of the broken mirror, the headless snake twitching on the floor, its head resting on the dresser, and Isaac Bell wiping his knife with a ruined pillowcase.

“Assemble your staff,” Bell told him. “Either Lachesis muta here was not blackballed by the Membership Committee, or one of your people helped him into my room.”

ICEMAN WEEKS WAS HOOFING IT across town, having watched from a stable until Isaac Bell entered the Yale Club and waited to make sure he didn’t come out again. At Eighth Avenue he turned up several blocks, walked under the connector line that linked the Ninth Avenue and Sixth Avenue Els, and knocked on an unmarked door to a house just inside 53rd Street where Tommy Thompson had opened a gambling hall on the second floor. The Gopher guarding the door said, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Tell Tommy I got good news for him.”

“Tell him yourself. He’s on the third floor.”

“Figured he’d be.”

Weeks climbed the stairs, passed the gambling hall, guarded by another guy who looked surprised to see him, and headed for the third floor. One of the steps sagged a little under his foot, and he guessed it was rigged to dim the electric light in Tommy’s room above the gambling hall to warn him someone was coming.

Weeks waited, bouncing from leg to leg, while they sized him up through the peephole. Tommy himself opened the door. “I guess you did it,” he said. “Or you wouldn’t be here.”

“Are we square now?”

“Come on in. Have a drink.”

Tommy was drinking Scotch highballs. Weeks was so excited that the booze went straight to his head. “Wanna hear how I did it?”

“Sure. Just wait ’til we’re done here. Shut that light.”

Tommy’s bouncer pushed the switch, plunging the room into near darkness. He hinged open a trapdoor, and Weeks saw that they had cut a square hole in the floor down through the ceiling below and filled it with a smoky pane of glass. “Latest thing,” chuckled Tommy. “One-way mirror. We see down. All they see in the ceiling is their own mugs.”

Weeks peered down at the gambling floor where six men were seated around a high-stakes poker table. One of them Weeks recognized as the best card mechanic in New York. Another, Willy the Roper, specialized in rounding up players to be fleeced. “Who’s the mark?”

“The swell in the red necktie.”

“Rich?”

“Eyes O’Shay says that necktie means he’s a Harvard.”

“What’s his line?”

“Selling food to the Navy.”

Selling food to the Navy sounded to Iceman Weeks like a way to get rich. The Navy business was booming. That Commodore Tommy was engaged in separating so exalted a dude from his money by rigging a high-stakes poker game sounded like Tommy had moved up several notches from robbing freight cars. “What are you taking this Harvard for?” he asked casually.