I confess to having been half-inclined, when I returned home that night,
to take Mabel into my confidence. But I hesitated, because I knew that
her frankness and sense of justice would lead her to suggest that I
should go to New Scotland Yard and lay the whole facts before the
Criminal Investigation Department.
I had no secrets from her--I loved her far too well. But in this
crooked affair I had most foolishly given my word of honour to say
nothing.
All Kirk's strange declarations and allegations now recurred to me.
Hence I was compelled to abandon all idea of making Mabel my confidante.
I knew, however, by the way she looked at me, that she was troubled and
puzzled by my manner. Indeed, that evening when I returned and found
her beside the fire in our cosy sitting-room, her slim fingers busy with
some fancy needlework, I recognised by her pointed questions that she
regarded me with considerable apprehension.
Again she asked me what was the matter, and again I replied evasively
that I had just then a good many business worries. And we dropped the
subject because Gwen, her younger sister, entered the room.
All next day I debated within myself what course I should now adopt,
but, alas! I could not decide upon any. The whole affair was such an
entire enigma. The more I had tried to probe the mystery, the more
utterly inexplicable did it seem.
Reflect for a moment, and you will fully realise the peril of my
position. To me, it seemed quite plain that I had by my readiness to
accept Kirk's friendship, given myself entirely into the hands of the
conspirators.
If Kirk were truly an honest man and not afraid, he certainly would have
called in the police. Yet had he not openly admitted his inability to
prove an alibi?
That afternoon, a damp and dismal one, I had to run out on a car to
Tunbridge Wells to see a customer who was purchasing the car which I
drove. I took Dick with me, and, the car being a "forty-eight," we sped
along pretty swiftly until we halted before the entrance to that
old-world promenade, the Pantiles, near which my customer lived.
Before we got home again it was near midnight, but on that night drive I
resolved that on the morrow I would embark upon the work of amateur
detective, and endeavour to discover something on my own account.
To solve such a complete enigma as that now presented one must, I
realised, begin at the beginning. And that was what I intended to do.
Therefore, on the following night, at half-past eleven, I left King's
Cross in a sleeping-car for Edinburgh, having first ascertained that the
conductor was the same who had travelled by that train on the night of
the Professor's alleged journey.
He was a tall, lean, fair-whiskered Scot, whose uniform seemed too big
for his shrunken frame, but who bustled up and down the corridor as soon
as the train had started, inquiring of the passengers at what hour they
would like to be called, and whether they would take tea.
I waited until he came to my compartment, and then I put to him certain
questions regarding his passengers on the night of Sunday, the
thirteenth, asking whether he remembered Professor Greer.
"Why, yes, sir," was his answer with a strong northern accent. "Another
gentleman asked me about the Professor when I got back to King's Cross."
"Did you take the Professor up to Edinburgh?"
"Certainly, sir. I remember the name. Indeed, here it is in my book,"
and, turning back a few pages, he showed me the name among those who had
secured sleeping berths in advance. "As I told the other gentleman who
inquired, he wouldn't have any tea, and told me to call him at Dunbar."
"And when you called him did you then see him in his berth?"
"Yes, sir, he pulled the door back and inquired what kind of a morning
it was."
"Where did he alight?"
"At Waverley, of course. I handed him out his bags, and one of the
porters of the North British Hotel took them."
"You're quite certain of that?"
"As certain as we're going north to-night, sir," replied the man.
Then I drew forth the Professor's photograph from my pocket and showed
it to him.
"That's the same gentleman, and a very nice gentleman he was, too, sir,"
he declared, the instant his eyes fell upon it. "But for what reason do
you ask this? You're the second person who has made inquiries."
"Only--well, only because the Professor is a little eccentric," I
replied diplomatically, "and we are rather anxious to know of his doings
up in Scotland. Nearly all great men of genius," I added, "are slightly
eccentric, you know."
"Well, he went to the North British," replied the conductor. "They'll
be certain to recollect him there."
"Do you know the porter who took his bag?"
"Yes, it was Walter Macdonald. I'll call him when we get to Waverley in
the morning, and you can ask what questions you like."
And the man left me and bustled away, while soon afterwards, as the
great express began to gather speed towards Hatfield, I turned into the
narrow little bed, while we roared along through the dark night.
When I drew aside the blind next morning we were skirting the grey misty
sea, within sight of the Bass Rock. Therefore I leisurely dressed, and,
punctual to time, stepped out upon the long platform at Edinburgh at
half-past seven.
At a whistle from the conductor, a smartly-uniformed hotel porter
stepped up, and I explained, in a few brief words, the object of my
visit to Edinburgh.
"I remember the gentleman quite well, sir," replied Macdonald, after I
had exhibited the photograph. "I took his suit-case and kit-bag and
gave them over to the hall-porter. The gentleman did not engage a room,
I think. But his first inquiry was for the telegraph-office, and I
directed him to the General Post Office, which is almost next door here.
That's about all I know of his movements."
I gave the man a tip, and, ascending in the hotel lift, passed through
the lounge and entered the big coffee-room which overlooks Princes
Street, where I breakfasted.
Afterwards I lounged about the main hall which opens upon Princes
Street--the entrance from the station being from deep below at the back
of the premises.
I saw that outside the reception office, upon a green baize-covered
board and placed beneath tapes, telegrams for visitors were exhibited,
and the addressees took them themselves. It would, therefore, be quite
easy for anyone not staying in the hotel to have a telegram addressed
there, and to receive it in secret. It would also be just as easy for a
person to take anybody else's telegram that happened to be there.
Two young lady clerks were behind the brass grille, and presently I
addressed the elder of the pair, and showed her the photograph.
Neither, however, recognised it.
I turned up the visitors'-book, and saw that on Monday the fourteenth no
person of the name of Greer had registered.
"He was a chance customer, evidently," remarked the elder of the girls
in neat black. "He arrived, you say, by the morning East Coast express,
therefore he may just have had breakfast and gone on. Many people do
that, and catch their connections for the North. In such a case we
never see them. Both myself and my friend here were on duty all day on
Monday."
"I certainly have never seen the gentleman to my knowledge!" declared
the other.
"But he must, I think, have received two telegrams."
"I remember one telegram, but I do not recollect the other. We have so
many wires here in the course of the day, you know," the girl replied.
"But what I do recollect is being rung up on the telephone from London
on the following day, with an inquiry whether the gentleman was staying
here."
"You don't know who rang you up?" I asked.
"I haven't any idea!" she laughed. "It may have been the police.
They've done so before now."
"Of course he might have stayed here in another name and taken telegrams
addressed to him as Greer," I suggested.
"I scarcely think so," replied the elder of the pair, a tall, smart,
business-like woman. "If he had, one of us would, no doubt, have
remembered him. I'd have a chat to the hall-porter at the
station-entrance if I were you," she added.
I therefore sought out the tall, liveried man she had indicated, and
again to him exhibited the portrait.
He remembered the Professor quite distinctly, he told me. The visitor
deposited in his charge a kit-bag and suit-case, remarking that he was
not quite certain if he would remain the night, and passed on into the
hotel. "That was about 7:35 in the morning."
"When did you see him again?"
"About noon, when he passed through to the lift, and descended into the
station. I noticed that he was then wearing a different hat from the
one he had on when he arrived from London," the hall-porter replied.
"When did he take his luggage?"
"About half-past three. A porter took it below, and it was placed in
the cloak-room."
"You didn't see him again?"
"No, sir. He probably left by a later train that day."
That was all the information I could gather in that quarter. The
remainder of the morning I spent idling about Princes Street, that
splendid thoroughfare which has few equals in the world, trying to
decide upon my next course of action. I had exhausted Edinburgh, it
seemed, and clearly my way lay south again.
Suddenly, on re-entering the hotel to get lunch, a thought occurred to
me, and I sought out the hair-dressing department, making inquiry of the
man in charge, a fair-haired, well-spoken German.
As soon as I showed him the portrait, he exclaimed:
"Ja! I recollect him--quite well."
"Tell me what you know of his movements," I urged.