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City Of Glass - New York Trilogy #1, City of Glass - CD 02 parte II (2)

City of Glass - CD 02 parte II (2)

After that, a strange thing happened. Quinn turned his attention to the young woman on his right, to see if there was any reading material in that direction. Quinn guessed her age at around twenty. There were several pimples on her left cheek, obscured by a pinkish smear of pancake makeup, and a wad of chewing gum was crackling in her mouth. She was, however, reading a book, a paperback with a lurid cover, and Quinn leaned ever so slightly to his right to catch a glimpse of the title. Against all his expectations, it was a book he himself had written—Suicide Squeeze by William Wilson, the first of the Max Work novels. Quinn had often imagined this situation: the sudden, unexpected pleasure of encountering one of his readers. He had even imagined the conversation that would follow: he, suavely diffident as the stranger praised the book, and then, with great reluctance and modesty, agreeing to autograph the title page, “since you insist.” But now that the scene was taking place, he felt quite disappointed, even angry. He did not like the girl sitting next to him, and it offended him that she should be casually skimming the pages that had cost him so much effort. His impulse was to tear the book out of her hands and run across the station with it.

He looked at her face again, trying to hear the words she was sounding out in her head, watching her eyes as they darted back and forth across the page. He must have been looking too hard, for a moment later she turned to him with an irritated expression on her face and said, “You got a problem, mister?”

Quinn smiled weakly. “No problem,” he said. “I was just wondering if you liked the book.”

The girl shrugged. “I've read better and I've read worse.”

Quinn wanted to drop the conversation right there, but something in him persisted. Before he could get up and leave, the words were already out of his mouth. “Do you find it exciting?”

The girl shrugged again and cracked her gum loudly. “Sort of. There's a part where the detective gets lost that's kind of scary.”

“Is he a smart detective?”

“Yeah, he's smart. But he talks too much.”

“You'd like more action?”

“I guess so.”

“If you don't like it, why do you go on reading?”

“I don't know.” The girl shrugged once again. “It passes the time, I guess. Anyway, it's no big deal. It's just a book.”

He was about to tell her who he was, but then he realized that it made no difference. The girl was beyond hope. For five years he had kept William Wilson's identity a secret, and he wasn't about to give it away now, least of all to an imbecile stranger. Still, it was painful, and he struggled desperately to swallow his pride. Rather than punch the girl in the face, he abruptly stood up from his seat and walked away.

At six-thirty he posted himself in front of gate twenty-four. The train was due to arrive on time, and from his vantage in the center of the doorway, Quinn judged that his chances of seeing Stillman were good. He took out the photograph from his pocket and studied it again, paying special attention to the eyes. He remembered having read somewhere that the eyes were the one feature of the face that never changed. From childhood to old age they remained the same, and a man with the head to see it could theoretically look into the eyes of a boy in a photograph and recognize the same person as an old man. Quinn had his doubts, but this was all he had to go on, his only bridge to the present. Once again, however, Stillman's face told him nothing.

The train pulled into the station, and Quinn felt the noise of it shoot through his body: a random, hectic din that seemed to join with his pulse, pumping his blood in raucous spurts. His head then filled with Peter Stillman's voice, as a barrage of nonsense words clattered against the walls of his skull. He told himself to stay calm. But that did little good. In spite of what he had been expecting of himself at this moment, he was excited.

The train was crowded, and as the passengers started filling the ramp and walking toward him, they quickly became a mob. Quinn flapped the red notebook nervously against his right thigh, stood on his tiptoes, and peered into the throng. Soon the people were surging around him. There were men and women, children and old people, teenagers and babies, rich people and poor people, black men and white women, white men and black women, Orientals and Arabs, men in brown and gray and blue and green, women in red and white and yellow and pink, children in sneakers, children in shoes, children in cowboy boots, fat people and thin people, tall people and short people, each one different from all the others, each one irreducibly himself. Quinn watched them all, anchored to his spot, as if his whole being had been exiled to his eyes. Each time an elderly man approached, he braced himself for it to be Stillman. They came and went too quickly for him to indulge in disappointment, but in each old face he seemed to find an augur of what the real Stillman would be like, and he rapidly shifted his expectations with each new face, as if the accumulation of old men was heralding the imminent arrival of Stillman himself. For one brief instant Quinn thought, “So this is what detective work is like.” But other than that he thought nothing. He watched. Immobile among the moving crowd, he stood there and watched.

With about half the passengers now gone, Quinn had his first sight of Stillman. The resemblance to the photograph seemed unmistakable. No, he had not gone bald, as Quinn had thought he would. His hair was white, and it lay on his head uncombed, sticking up here and there in tufts. He was tall, thin, without question past sixty, somewhat stooped. Inappropriately for the season, he wore a long brown overcoat that had gone to seed, and he shuffled slightly as he walked. The expression on his face seemed placid, midway between a daze and thoughtfulness. He did not look at the things around him, nor did they seem to interest him. He had one piece of luggage, a once beautiful but now battered leather suitcase with a strap around it. Once or twice as he walked up the ramp he put the suitcase down and rested for a moment. He seemed to be moving with effort, a bit thrown by the crowd, uncertain whether to keep up with it or to let the others pass him by.

Quinn backed off several feet, positioning himself for a quick move to the left or right, depending on what happened. At the same time, he wanted to be far enough away so that Stillman would not feel he was being followed.

As Stillman reached the threshold of the station, he put his bag down once again and paused. At that moment Quinn allowed himself a glance to Stillman's right, surveying the rest of the crowd to be doubly sure he had made no mistakes. What happened then defied explanation. Directly behind Stillman, heaving into view just inches behind his right shoulder, another man stopped, took a lighter out of his pocket, and lit a cigarette. His face was the exact twin of Stillman's. For a second Quinn thought it was an illusion, a kind of aura thrown off by the electromagnetic currents in Stillman's body. But no, this other Stillman moved, breathed, blinked his eyes; his actions were clearly independent of the first Stillman. The second Stillman had a prosperous air about him. He was dressed in an expensive blue suit; his shoes were shined; his white hair was combed; and in his eyes there was the shrewd look of a man of the world. He, too, was carrying a single bag: an elegant black suitcase, about the same size as the other Stillman's.

Quinn froze. There was nothing he could do now that would not be a mistake. Whatever choice he made—and he had to make a choice—would be arbitrary, a submission to chance. Uncertainty would haunt him to the end. At that moment, the two Stillmans started on their way again. The first turned right, the second turned left. Quinn craved an amoeba's body, wanting to cut himself in half and run off in two directions at once. “Do something,” he said to himself, “do something now, you idiot.”

For no reason, he went to his left, in pursuit of the second Stillman. After nine or ten paces, he stopped. Something told him he would live to regret what he was doing. He was acting out of spite, spurred on to punish the second Stillman for confusing him. He turned around and saw the first Stillman shuffling off in the other direction. Surely this was his man. This shabby creature, so broken down and disconnected from his surroundings—surely this was the mad Stillman. Quinn breathed deeply, exhaled with a trembling chest, and breathed in again. There was no way to know: not this, not anything. He went after the first Stillman, slowing his pace to match the old man's, and followed him to the subway.

It was nearly seven o'clock now, and the crowds had begun to thin out. Although Stillman seemed to be in a fog, he nevertheless knew where he was going. The professor went straight for the subway staircase, paid his money at the token booth below, and waited calmly on the platform for the Times Square Shuttle. Quinn began to lose his fear of being noticed. He had never seen anyone so lost in his own thoughts. Even if he stood directly in front of him, he doubted that Stillman would be able to see him.

They travelled to the West Side on the shuttle, walked through the dank corridors of the 42nd Street station, and went down another set of stairs to the IRT trains. Seven or eight minutes later they boarded the Broadway express, careened uptown for two long stops, and got off at 96th Street. Slowly making their way up the final staircase, with several pauses as Stillman set down his bag and caught his breath, they surfaced on the corner and entered the indigo evening. Stillman did not hesitate. Without stopping to get his bearings, he began walking up Broadway along the east side of the street. For several minutes Quinn toyed with the irrational conviction that Stillman was walking toward his house on 107th Street. But before he could indulge himself in a full-blown panic, Stillman stopped at the corner of 99th Street, waited for the light to change from red to green, and crossed over to the other side of Broadway. Halfway up the block there was a small fleabag for down-and-outs, the Hotel Harmony. Quinn had passed it many times before, and he was familiar with the winos and vagabonds who hung around the place. It surprised him to see Stillman open the front door and enter the lobby. Somehow he had assumed the old man would have found more comfortable lodgings. But as Quinn stood outside the glass-paneled door and saw the professor walk up to the desk, write what was undoubtedly his name in the guest book, pick up his bag and disappear into the elevator, he realized that this was where Stillman meant to stay.

Quinn waited outside for the next two hours, pacing up and down the block, thinking that Stillman would perhaps emerge to look for dinner in one of the local coffee shops. But the old man did not appear, and at last Quinn decided he must have gone to sleep. He put in a call to Virginia Stillman from a pay booth on the corner, gave her a full report of what had happened, and then headed home to 107th Street.



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City of Glass - CD 02 parte II (2)

After that, a strange thing happened. Quinn turned his attention to the young woman on his right, to see if there was any reading material in that direction. Quinn guessed her age at around twenty. There were several pimples on her left cheek, obscured by a pinkish smear of pancake makeup, and a wad of chewing gum was crackling in her mouth. She was, however, reading a book, a paperback with a lurid cover, and Quinn leaned ever so slightly to his right to catch a glimpse of the title. Against all his expectations, it was a book he himself had written—Suicide Squeeze by William Wilson, the first of the Max Work novels. Quinn had often imagined this situation: the sudden, unexpected pleasure of encountering one of his readers. He had even imagined the conversation that would follow: he, suavely diffident as the stranger praised the book, and then, with great reluctance and modesty, agreeing to autograph the title page, “since you insist.” But now that the scene was taking place, he felt quite disappointed, even angry. He did not like the girl sitting next to him, and it offended him that she should be casually skimming the pages that had cost him so much effort. His impulse was to tear the book out of her hands and run across the station with it. Su impulso fue arrancarle el libro de las manos y atravesar corriendo la estación con él.

He looked at her face again, trying to hear the words she was sounding out in her head, watching her eyes as they darted back and forth across the page. Volvió a mirarla a la cara, tratando de escuchar las palabras que pronunciaba en su cabeza, observando sus ojos mientras se movían de un lado a otro de la página. He must have been looking too hard, for a moment later she turned to him with an irritated expression on her face and said, “You got a problem, mister?” Debió haber estado mirando demasiado, porque un momento después ella se volvió hacia él con una expresión irritada en el rostro y dijo: "¿Tiene un problema, señor?"

Quinn smiled weakly. “No problem,” he said. “I was just wondering if you liked the book.”

The girl shrugged. “I've read better and I've read worse.”

Quinn wanted to drop the conversation right there, but something in him persisted. Before he could get up and leave, the words were already out of his mouth. “Do you find it exciting?” “¿Lo encuentras emocionante?”

The girl shrugged again and cracked her gum loudly. “Sort of. "Algo así como. There's a part where the detective gets lost that's kind of scary.” Hay una parte en la que el detective se pierde que da un poco de miedo”.

“Is he a smart detective?” "¿Es un detective inteligente?"

“Yeah, he's smart. But he talks too much.”

“You'd like more action?” "¿Te gustaría más acción?"

“I guess so.”

“If you don't like it, why do you go on reading?”

“I don't know.” The girl shrugged once again. “It passes the time, I guess. Anyway, it's no big deal. De todos modos, no es gran cosa. It's just a book.”

He was about to tell her who he was, but then he realized that it made no difference. The girl was beyond hope. La chica estaba más allá de la esperanza. For five years he had kept William Wilson's identity a secret, and he wasn't about to give it away now, least of all to an imbecile stranger. Durante cinco años había mantenido en secreto la identidad de William Wilson, y no estaba dispuesto a revelarla ahora, y mucho menos a un extraño imbécil. Still, it was painful, and he struggled desperately to swallow his pride. Aún así, fue doloroso, y luchó desesperadamente por tragarse su orgullo. Rather than punch the girl in the face, he abruptly stood up from his seat and walked away. En lugar de golpear a la chica en la cara, se levantó abruptamente de su asiento y se alejó.

At six-thirty he posted himself in front of gate twenty-four. The train was due to arrive on time, and from his vantage in the center of the doorway, Quinn judged that his chances of seeing Stillman were good. He took out the photograph from his pocket and studied it again, paying special attention to the eyes. Sacó la fotografía de su bolsillo y la estudió de nuevo, prestando especial atención a los ojos. He remembered having read somewhere that the eyes were the one feature of the face that never changed. Recordó haber leído en alguna parte que los ojos eran el único rasgo del rostro que nunca cambiaba. From childhood to old age they remained the same, and a man with the head to see it could theoretically look into the eyes of a boy in a photograph and recognize the same person as an old man. Desde la infancia hasta la vejez siguieron siendo los mismos, y un hombre con cabeza para verla teóricamente podría mirar a los ojos de un niño en una fotografía y reconocer a la misma persona como un anciano. Quinn had his doubts, but this was all he had to go on, his only bridge to the present. Quinn tenía sus dudas, pero esto era todo lo que tenía para continuar, su único puente hacia el presente. Once again, however, Stillman's face told him nothing. Una vez más, sin embargo, el rostro de Stillman no le dijo nada.

The train pulled into the station, and Quinn felt the noise of it shoot through his body: a random, hectic din that seemed to join with his pulse, pumping his blood in raucous spurts. El tren entró en la estación y Quinn sintió que el ruido le atravesaba el cuerpo: un estruendo aleatorio y frenético que parecía unirse a su pulso, bombeando su sangre a chorros estridentes. His head then filled with Peter Stillman's voice, as a barrage of nonsense words clattered against the walls of his skull. Entonces su cabeza se llenó con la voz de Peter Stillman, mientras un aluvión de palabras sin sentido resonaba contra las paredes de su cráneo. He told himself to stay calm. But that did little good. Pero eso sirvió de poco. In spite of what he had been expecting of himself at this moment, he was excited. A pesar de lo que esperaba de sí mismo en este momento, estaba emocionado.

The train was crowded, and as the passengers started filling the ramp and walking toward him, they quickly became a mob. El tren estaba abarrotado, y cuando los pasajeros comenzaron a llenar la rampa y caminar hacia él, rápidamente se convirtieron en una multitud. Quinn flapped the red notebook nervously against his right thigh, stood on his tiptoes, and peered into the throng. Quinn agitó nerviosamente el cuaderno rojo contra su muslo derecho, se puso de puntillas y miró a la multitud. Soon the people were surging around him. There were men and women, children and old people, teenagers and babies, rich people and poor people, black men and white women, white men and black women, Orientals and Arabs, men in brown and gray and blue and green, women in red and white and yellow and pink, children in sneakers, children in shoes, children in cowboy boots, fat people and thin people, tall people and short people, each one different from all the others, each one irreducibly himself. Había hombres y mujeres, niños y ancianos, adolescentes y bebés, ricos y pobres, negros y blancas, blancos y negras, orientales y árabes, hombres de marrón y gris y azul y verde, mujeres de rojo. y blanco y amarillo y rosa, niños con tenis, niños con zapatos, niños con botas vaqueras, gordos y flacos, altos y bajos, cada uno diferente a todos los demás, cada uno irreductiblemente él mismo. Quinn watched them all, anchored to his spot, as if his whole being had been exiled to his eyes. Quinn los miraba a todos, anclado en su lugar, como si todo su ser hubiera sido exiliado a sus ojos. Each time an elderly man approached, he braced himself for it to be Stillman. They came and went too quickly for him to indulge in disappointment, but in each old face he seemed to find an augur of what the real Stillman would be like, and he rapidly shifted his expectations with each new face, as if the accumulation of old men was heralding the imminent arrival of Stillman himself. For one brief instant Quinn thought, “So this is what detective work is like.” But other than that he thought nothing. Por un breve instante, Quinn pensó: "Así que así es el trabajo de detective". Pero aparte de eso, no pensó en nada. He watched. Immobile among the moving crowd, he stood there and watched.

With about half the passengers now gone, Quinn had his first sight of Stillman. Con aproximadamente la mitad de los pasajeros ya desaparecidos, Quinn vio por primera vez a Stillman. The resemblance to the photograph seemed unmistakable. No, he had not gone bald, as Quinn had thought he would. His hair was white, and it lay on his head uncombed, sticking up here and there in tufts. He was tall, thin, without question past sixty, somewhat stooped. Era alto, delgado, sin duda más de sesenta años, algo encorvado. Inappropriately for the season, he wore a long brown overcoat that had gone to seed, and he shuffled slightly as he walked. Inapropiado para la temporada, vestía un largo abrigo marrón que se había estropeado y arrastraba un poco los pies al caminar. The expression on his face seemed placid, midway between a daze and thoughtfulness. La expresión de su rostro parecía plácida, a medio camino entre el aturdimiento y la reflexión. He did not look at the things around him, nor did they seem to interest him. No miraba las cosas a su alrededor, ni parecían interesarle. He had one piece of luggage, a once beautiful but now battered leather suitcase with a strap around it. Tenía una pieza de equipaje, una maleta de cuero una vez hermosa pero ahora maltratada con una correa alrededor. Once or twice as he walked up the ramp he put the suitcase down and rested for a moment. Una o dos veces, mientras subía la rampa, dejó la maleta y descansó un momento. He seemed to be moving with effort, a bit thrown by the crowd, uncertain whether to keep up with it or to let the others pass him by. Parecía moverse con esfuerzo, un poco aturdido por la multitud, sin saber si seguirle el ritmo o dejar que los demás lo adelantaran.

Quinn backed off several feet, positioning himself for a quick move to the left or right, depending on what happened. Quinn retrocedió varios metros, posicionándose para un rápido movimiento hacia la izquierda o hacia la derecha, dependiendo de lo que sucediera. At the same time, he wanted to be far enough away so that Stillman would not feel he was being followed. Al mismo tiempo, quería estar lo suficientemente lejos para que Stillman no sintiera que lo seguían.

As Stillman reached the threshold of the station, he put his bag down once again and paused. Cuando Stillman llegó al umbral de la estación, volvió a dejar su bolso y se detuvo. At that moment Quinn allowed himself a glance to Stillman's right, surveying the rest of the crowd to be doubly sure he had made no mistakes. En ese momento, Quinn se permitió mirar a la derecha de Stillman, observando al resto de la multitud para estar doblemente seguro de que no había cometido ningún error. What happened then defied explanation. Lo que sucedió entonces desafió toda explicación. Directly behind Stillman, heaving into view just inches behind his right shoulder, another man stopped, took a lighter out of his pocket, and lit a cigarette. Directamente detrás de Stillman, asomándose a la vista apenas unos centímetros por detrás de su hombro derecho, otro hombre se detuvo, sacó un encendedor de su bolsillo y encendió un cigarrillo. His face was the exact twin of Stillman's. Su rostro era el gemelo exacto del de Stillman. For a second Quinn thought it was an illusion, a kind of aura thrown off by the electromagnetic currents in Stillman's body. Por un segundo Quinn pensó que era una ilusión, una especie de aura emitida por las corrientes electromagnéticas en el cuerpo de Stillman. But no, this other Stillman moved, breathed, blinked his eyes; his actions were clearly independent of the first Stillman. Pero no, este otro Stillman se movía, respiraba, parpadeaba; sus acciones fueron claramente independientes de las del primer Stillman. The second Stillman had a prosperous air about him. El segundo Stillman tenía un aire próspero. He was dressed in an expensive blue suit; his shoes were shined; his white hair was combed; and in his eyes there was the shrewd look of a man of the world. Estaba vestido con un costoso traje azul; sus zapatos fueron lustrados; su cabello blanco estaba peinado; y en sus ojos había la mirada astuta de un hombre de mundo. He, too, was carrying a single bag: an elegant black suitcase, about the same size as the other Stillman's. Él también llevaba una sola bolsa: una elegante maleta negra, más o menos del mismo tamaño que la del otro Stillman.

Quinn froze. Quinn se congeló. There was nothing he could do now that would not be a mistake. No había nada que pudiera hacer ahora que no fuera un error. Whatever choice he made—and he had to make a choice—would be arbitrary, a submission to chance. Cualquier elección que hiciera, y tenía que hacer una elección, sería arbitraria, una sumisión al azar. Uncertainty would haunt him to the end. La incertidumbre lo perseguiría hasta el final. At that moment, the two Stillmans started on their way again. En ese momento, los dos Stillman reanudaron su camino. The first turned right, the second turned left. El primero giró a la derecha, el segundo giró a la izquierda. Quinn craved an amoeba's body, wanting to cut himself in half and run off in two directions at once. Quinn anhelaba el cuerpo de una ameba, queriendo cortarse por la mitad y correr en dos direcciones a la vez. “Do something,” he said to himself, “do something now, you idiot.” “Haz algo”, se dijo a sí mismo, “haz algo ahora, idiota”.

For no reason, he went to his left, in pursuit of the second Stillman. Sin motivo alguno, se dirigió a su izquierda, en persecución del segundo Stillman. After nine or ten paces, he stopped. Después de nueve o diez pasos, se detuvo. Something told him he would live to regret what he was doing. Algo le dijo que viviría para arrepentirse de lo que estaba haciendo. He was acting out of spite, spurred on to punish the second Stillman for confusing him. Estaba actuando por despecho, impulsado a castigar al segundo Stillman por confundirlo. He turned around and saw the first Stillman shuffling off in the other direction. Se dio la vuelta y vio al primer Stillman alejarse arrastrando los pies en la otra dirección. Surely this was his man. Seguramente este era su hombre. This shabby creature, so broken down and disconnected from his surroundings—surely this was the mad Stillman. Esta criatura andrajosa, tan descompuesta y desconectada de su entorno, seguramente era el Stillman loco. Quinn breathed deeply, exhaled with a trembling chest, and breathed in again. Quinn respiró hondo, exhaló con el pecho tembloroso y volvió a inhalar. There was no way to know: not this, not anything. No había forma de saberlo: ni esto, ni nada. He went after the first Stillman, slowing his pace to match the old man's, and followed him to the subway. Fue tras el primer Stillman, aminoró el paso para coincidir con el del anciano y lo siguió hasta el metro.

It was nearly seven o'clock now, and the crowds had begun to thin out. Eran casi las siete ahora, y la multitud había comenzado a disminuir. Although Stillman seemed to be in a fog, he nevertheless knew where he was going. Aunque Stillman parecía estar confuso, sabía a dónde iba. The professor went straight for the subway staircase, paid his money at the token booth below, and waited calmly on the platform for the Times Square Shuttle. El profesor fue directamente a la escalera del metro, pagó su dinero en la taquilla de abajo y esperó tranquilamente en el andén el transbordador de Times Square. Quinn began to lose his fear of being noticed. Quinn comenzó a perder el miedo a que lo notaran. He had never seen anyone so lost in his own thoughts. Nunca había visto a nadie tan perdido en sus propios pensamientos. Even if he stood directly in front of him, he doubted that Stillman would be able to see him. Incluso si se paraba directamente frente a él, dudaba que Stillman pudiera verlo.

They travelled to the West Side on the shuttle, walked through the dank corridors of the 42nd Street station, and went down another set of stairs to the IRT trains. Viajaron al West Side en el transbordador, caminaron por los húmedos pasillos de la estación de la calle 42 y bajaron otro tramo de escaleras hasta los trenes IRT. Seven or eight minutes later they boarded the Broadway express, careened uptown for two long stops, and got off at 96th Street. Siete u ocho minutos más tarde abordaron el expreso de Broadway, se dirigieron hacia el centro de la ciudad durante dos largas paradas y se apearon en la calle Noventa y seis. Slowly making their way up the final staircase, with several pauses as Stillman set down his bag and caught his breath, they surfaced on the corner and entered the indigo evening. Subieron lentamente la escalera final, con varias pausas cuando Stillman dejó su bolso y recuperó el aliento, salieron a la superficie en la esquina y entraron en la noche índigo. Stillman did not hesitate. Stillman no dudó. Without stopping to get his bearings, he began walking up Broadway along the east side of the street. Sin detenerse a orientarse, comenzó a caminar por Broadway por el lado este de la calle. For several minutes Quinn toyed with the irrational conviction that Stillman was walking toward his house on 107th Street. Durante varios minutos, Quinn jugó con la irracional convicción de que Stillman caminaba hacia su casa en la calle 107. But before he could indulge himself in a full-blown panic, Stillman stopped at the corner of 99th Street, waited for the light to change from red to green, and crossed over to the other side of Broadway. Pero antes de que pudiera dejarse llevar por el pánico, Stillman se detuvo en la esquina de la calle 99, esperó a que el semáforo cambiara de rojo a verde y cruzó al otro lado de Broadway. Halfway up the block there was a small fleabag for down-and-outs, the Hotel Harmony. A mitad de la manzana había un pequeño puerco para los pobres, el Hotel Harmony. Quinn had passed it many times before, and he was familiar with the winos and vagabonds who hung around the place. Quinn lo había pasado muchas veces antes, y estaba familiarizado con los borrachos y vagabundos que merodeaban por el lugar. It surprised him to see Stillman open the front door and enter the lobby. Le sorprendió ver a Stillman abrir la puerta principal y entrar en el vestíbulo. Somehow he had assumed the old man would have found more comfortable lodgings. De alguna manera había asumido que el anciano habría encontrado un alojamiento más cómodo. But as Quinn stood outside the glass-paneled door and saw the professor walk up to the desk, write what was undoubtedly his name in the guest book, pick up his bag and disappear into the elevator, he realized that this was where Stillman meant to stay. Pero cuando Quinn se paró frente a la puerta con paneles de vidrio y vio al profesor caminar hacia el escritorio, escribir el que sin duda era su nombre en el libro de visitas, recoger su bolso y desaparecer en el ascensor, se dio cuenta de que ahí era donde Stillman pretendía ir. Quédate.

Quinn waited outside for the next two hours, pacing up and down the block, thinking that Stillman would perhaps emerge to look for dinner in one of the local coffee shops. Quinn esperó afuera durante las siguientes dos horas, paseando de un lado a otro de la cuadra, pensando que tal vez Stillman saldría a buscar la cena en una de las cafeterías locales. But the old man did not appear, and at last Quinn decided he must have gone to sleep. Pero el anciano no apareció, y por fin Quinn decidió que debía haberse ido a dormir. He put in a call to Virginia Stillman from a pay booth on the corner, gave her a full report of what had happened, and then headed home to 107th Street. Llamó a Virginia Stillman desde una cabina de pago en la esquina, le dio un informe completo de lo que había sucedido y luego se dirigió a su casa en la calle 107.

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