THE HOTEL RAVENNA
Once closeted together in the private room at Halfpenny and Farthing's
office, Mr. Halfpenny, who had seemed somewhat mystified by the
happenings at the bank, looked inquiringly at Professor Cox-Raythwaite
and snapped out one suggestive monosyllable:
"Well?"
"Very well indeed," answered Cox-Raythwaite. "I consider we have done
good work. We have found things out. That bank manager is a pompous ass;
he's a man of asinine, or possible bovine, mind! Of course, he ought to
have revealed these things at both the inquest and the magisterial
proceedings!--they'll certainly have to be put in evidence at Barthorpe
Herapath's trial."
"What things?" demanded the old lawyer, a little testily.
"Two things--facts," replied the Professor, composedly. "First, that
Jacob Herapath drew five thousand pounds in hundred pound notes at three
o'clock on the day of his death. Second, that at some hour of that day
he drew a cheque in favour of one Luigi Dimambro, which cheque was
cashed as soon as the bank opened next morning."
"Frankly," observed Mr. Halfpenny, "frankly, candidly, Cox-Raythwaite,
I do not see what these things--facts--prove."
"Very likely," said the Professor, imperturbable as ever, "but they're
remarkably suggestive to me. They establish for one thing the fact that,
in all probability, Jacob Herapath had those notes on him when he was
murdered."
"Don't see it," retorted Mr. Halfpenny. "He got the fifty one-hundred-pound
notes from the bank at three o'clock in the afternoon. He's supposed to
have been murdered at twelve--midnight. That's nine hours. Plenty of time
in which to pay those notes away--as he most likely did."
"If you'll let your mind go back to what came out in evidence at the
inquest," said the Professor, "you'll remember that Jacob Herapath went
to the House of Commons at half-past three that day and never left it
until his coachman fetched him at a quarter-past eleven. It's not very
likely that he'd transact business at the House."
"Plenty of time between three and half-past three," objected Mr.
Halfpenny.
"Quite so, but we haven't heard of any transaction being carried out
during that time. Make inquiry, and see if he did engage in any such
transaction," said the Professor. "If he didn't, then my theory that he
had the notes on him is correct. Moreover, Barthorpe has told Selwood
that he picked up one note from the desk in his uncle's private room."
"One note!" exclaimed Mr. Halfpenny.
"One note--quite so," agreed the Professor. "May it not have been--it's
all theory, of course--that Jacob had all the notes on the desk when he
was murdered, that the murderer grabbed them afterwards, and in his
haste, left one? Come, now!"
"Theory--theory!" said Mr. Halfpenny. "Still, I'll make inquiries all
around, to see if Jacob did pay five thousand away to anybody that
afternoon. Well, and your other point?"
"I should like to know what the cheque for three thousand guineas was
for," answered the Professor. "It was paid out to one Luigi Dimambro,
whose address was written down by himself in endorsing the cheque as
Hotel Ravenna, Soho. He, presumably, is a foreigner, an Italian, or a
Corsican, or a Sicilian, and the probability is that Jacob Herapath
bought something from him that day, and that the transaction took place
after banking hours."
"How do you deduce that?" asked Mr. Halfpenny.
"Because Dimambro cashed his cheque as soon as the bank opened its doors
next morning," answered the Professor. "If he'd been given the cheque
before four o'clock on November 12th, he'd have cashed it then."
"The cheque may have been posted to him," said Mr. Halfpenny.
"May be; the point is that it was drawn by Jacob on November 12th and
cashed at the earliest possible hour next day," replied the Professor.
"Now, though it may have nothing to do with the case, I want to know
what that cheque referred to. More than this, I have an idea. May not
this man Dimambro be the man who called on Jacob Herapath at the House
of Commons that night--the man whom Mountain saw, but did not recognize
as one of his master's usual friends or acquaintances? Do you see that
point?"
Mr. Tertius and Selwood muttered expressions of acquiescence, but Mr.
Halfpenny shook his head.
"Can't see anything much in it," he said. "If this foreign fellow,
Dimambro, was the man who called at the House, I don't see what that's got
to do with the murder. Jacob Herapath, of course, had business affairs
with all sorts of queer people--Italians, Spaniards, Chinese--many a Tom,
Dick, and Harry of 'em; he bought curios of all descriptions, and often
sold them again as soon as bought."
"Very good suggestion," said Professor Cox-Raythwaite. "He may have
bought something extremely valuable from this Dimambro that day, or that
night, and--he may have had it on him when he was murdered. Clearly, we
must see this Luigi Dimambro!"
"If he's the man who called at the House, you forget that he's been
advertised for no end," said Selwood.
"No, I don't," responded the Professor. "But he may be out of the
country: may have come to it specially to see Jacob Herapath, and left
it again. I repeat, we must see this man, if he's to be found. We must
make inquiries--cautious, guarded inquiries--at this hotel in Soho,
which is probably a foreigners' house of call, a mere restaurant. And
the very person to make those inquiries," he concluded, turning to
Selwood and favouring him with a smack of the shoulder, "is--you!"
Selwood flinched, physically and mentally. He had no great love of the
proposed role--private detective work did not appeal to him. And he
suggested that Professor Cox-Raythwaite had far better apply to Scotland
Yard.
"By no means," answered the Professor calmly. "You are the man to do the
work. We don't want any police interference. This Hotel Ravenna is
probably some cafe, restaurant, or saloon in Soho, frequented by
foreigners--a place where, perhaps, a man can get a room for a night or
two. You must go quietly, unobtrusively, there; if it's a restaurant, as
it's sure to be, or at any rate, a place to which a restaurant is
attached, go in and get some sort of a meal, keep your eyes open, find
out the proprietor, get into talk with him, see if he knows Luigi
Dimambro. All you need is tact, caution, and readiness to adapt yourself
to circumstances."
Then, when they left Mr. Halfpenny's office he took Selwood aside and
gave him certain hints and instructions, and enlarged upon the
advantages of finding Dimambro if he was to be found. The Professor
himself was enthusiastic about these recent developments, and he
succeeded in communicating some of his enthusiasm to Selwood. After all,
thought Selwood, as he went to Portman Square to tell Peggie of the
afternoon's doings, whatever he did was being done for Peggie; moreover,
he was by that time certain that however mean and base Barthorpe
Herapath's conduct had been about the will, he was certainly not the
murderer of his uncle. If that murderer was to be tracked--why, there
was a certain zest, an appealing excitement in the tracking of him that
presented a sure fascination to youthful spirits.
That evening found Selwood, quietly and unassumingly attired, examining
the purlieus of Soho. It was a district of which he knew little, and for
half an hour he perambulated its streets, wondering at the distinctly
foreign atmosphere. And suddenly he came across the Hotel Ravenna--there
it was, confronting him, at the lower end of Dean Street. He drew back
and looked it well over from the opposite pavement.
The Hotel Ravenna was rather more of a pretentious establishment than
Selwood had expected it to be. It was typically Italian in outward
aspect. There were the usual evergreen shrubs set in the usual green
wood tubs at the entrance; the usual abundance of plate-glass and garish
gilt; the usual glimpse, whenever the door opened, of the usual vista of
white linen, red plush, and many mirrors; the waiter who occasionally
showed himself at the door, napkin in hand, was of the type which
Selwood had seen a thousand times under similar circumstances. But all
this related to the restaurant--Selwood was more interested that the
word "Hotel" appeared in gilt letters over a door at the side of the
establishment and was repeated in the windows of the upper storeys. He
was half-minded to enter the door at once, and to make a guarded inquiry
for Mr. Luigi Dimambro; on reflection he walked across the street and
boldly entered the restaurant.
It was half-past seven o'clock, and the place was full of customers.
Selwood took most of them to be foreigners. He also concluded after a
first glance around him that the majority had some connection, more or
less close, with either the dramatic, or the musical, or the artistic
professions. There was much laughter and long hair, marvellous neckties
and wondrous costumes; everybody seemed to be talking without regard to
question or answer; the artillery of the voices mingled with the
rattling of plates and popping of corks. Clearly this was no easy place
in which to seek for a man whom one had never seen!
Selwood allowed a waiter to conduct him to a vacant seat--a plush throne
half-way along the restaurant. He ordered a modest dinner and a bottle
of light wine, and following what seemed to be the custom, lighted a
cigarette until his first course appeared. And while he waited he looked
about him, noting everything that presented itself. Out of all the folk
there, waiters and customers, the idle and the busy, he quickly decided
that there was only one man who possessed particular interest for him.
That man was the big, smiling, frock-coated, sleek-haired patron or
proprietor, who strode up and down, beaming and nodding, sharp-eyed and
courteous, and whom Selwood, from a glance at the emblazoned lettering
of the bill-of-fare, took to rejoice in the name of Mr. Alessandro
Bioni. This man, if he was landlord, or manager, of the Ravenna Hotel,
was clearly the person to approach if one wanted information about the
Luigi Dimambro who had given the place as his address as recently as
November 12th.
While he ate and drank, Selwood wondered how to go about his business.
It seemed to him that the best thing to do, now that he had seen the
place and assured himself that it was a hotel evidently doing a proper
and legitimate business, was to approach its management with a plain
question--was Mr. Luigi Dimambro staying there, or was he known there?
Since Dimambro, whoever he might be, had given that as his address,
something must be known of him. And when the smiling patron presently
came round, and, seeing a new customer, asked politely if he was being
served to his satisfaction, Selwood determined to settle matters at
once.
"The proprietor, I presume?" he asked.
"Manager, sir," answered the other. "The proprietor, he is an old
gentleman--practically retired."
"Perhaps I can ask you a question," Selwood. "Have you got a Mr. Luigi
Dimambro staying at your hotel? He is, I believe"--here Selwood made a
bold shot at a possibility--"a seller of curios, or art objects. I know
he stops here sometimes."
The manager rubbed his hands together and reflected.
"One moment, sir," he said. "I get the register. The hotel guests, they
come in here for meals, but always I do not recollect their names, and
sometimes not know them. But the register----"
He sped down the room, through a side door, vanished; to return in a
moment with a book which he carried to Selwood's side.
"Dimambro?" he said. "Recently, then? We shall see."
"About the beginning or middle of November," answered Selwood.
The manager found the pages: suddenly he pointed to an entry.
"See, then!" he exclaimed dramatically. "You are right, sir. There--Luigi
Dimambro--November 11th to--yes--13th. Two days only. Then he go--leave
us, eh?"
"Oh, then, he's not here now," said Selwood, affecting disappointment.
"That's a pity. I wanted to see him. I wonder if he left any address?"
The manager showed more politeness in returning to the hotel office and
making inquiry. He came back full of disappointment that he could not
oblige his customer. No--no address--merely there for two nights--then
gone--nobody knew where. Perhaps he would return--some day.
"Oh, it's of no great consequence, thank you," remarked Selwood. "I'm
much obliged to you."
He had found out, at any rate, that a man named Dimambro had certainly
stayed at the Hotel Ravenna on the critical and important date.
Presumably he was the man who had presented Jacob Herapath's cheque at
Bittleston's Bank first thing on the morning after the murder. But
whether this man had any connection with that murder, whether to
discover his whereabouts would be to reveal something of use in
establishing Barthorpe Herapath's innocence, were questions which he
must leave to Professor Cox-Raythwaite, to whom he was presently going
with his news.
He had just finished his coffee, and was about to pay his bill when,
looking up to summon the waiter, he suddenly saw a face appear behind
the glass panel of the street door--the face of a man who had evidently
stolen quietly into the entry between the evergreen shrubs and wished to
take a surreptitious peep into the interior of the little restaurant. It
was there, clearly seen through the glass, but for one fraction of a
second--then it was withdrawn as swiftly as it had come and the panel of
glass was blank again. But in that flash of time Selwood had recognized
it.
Burchill!