The Lie of the Land
When Joan and Ellery determined upon their course of action, Ellery’s
immediate part was to make a thorough investigation of Carter
Woodman’s movements. Apparently he had a perfect _alibi_—as good as
Ellery’s own—absolving him of all part in the events of the fatal
Tuesday night. Indeed, in the eyes of the law he had scarcely needed
an _alibi_, for nothing had occurred to throw any real suspicion upon
him. Ellery suspected him nevertheless almost to certainty; but he
admitted to himself that even now his suspicion was based on what
others would regard as no more than a guess. Tuesday, therefore,
seemed the best starting-point; for if Woodman’s _alibi_ for that
occasion held good, that would finish the matter, and prove that the
whole edifice of suppositions which Ellery had built up was founded on
nothing.
It was easy enough for Ellery to walk into the Cunningham Hotel, where
he was already known, under pretext of a visit to Marian Brooklyn.
But, having made his entry, he did not proceed to the suite of rooms
which she shared with the Woodmans. His object was to explore the
hotel in order to discover whether there was in fact, as the porter
and the manager had stated to Inspector Blaikie, only one possible
exit. The porter, who had been at the door from ten o’clock onwards
through the night had been quite certain that Woodman had not gone out
that way. He had come in with his wife and Mrs. Brooklyn at about a
quarter past ten, and he had not returned to the entrance hall until
about a quarter to twelve, when he had given the porter his late
letters for the post, and had gone straight upstairs again. That
seemed clear enough; for the porter was very positive that Woodman had
not gone out at any time during the evening.
There was, the manager had told the police, another exit, of course,
for the hotel servants. But the only way to this from the club
quarters lay through the great kitchen, and it would be quite
impossible for a guest to leave by this way without being observed.
Ellery had chosen eleven o’clock at night for his visit to the hotel,
and meeting the manager, whom he knew, he asked to be shown into the
kitchens. The management was excessively proud of these, and made a
regular show of them to its guests. The manager readily agreed to take
him round, and even a cursory inspection was enough to show Ellery
that, even at that hour in the evening, no guest could possibly have
left by the servant’s exit without being seen by at least half a dozen
persons. The preparation of theatre suppers was in full swing, and the
kitchens were alive with chefs and waiters at least until midnight.
Leaving the manager, as if he were going up to the Woodmans’
apartment, Ellery resumed his prowl. On the ground floor he speedily
discovered there was no possible means of exit except the main door.
There remained the basement, occupied mainly by a vast grill room
which was closed at ten o’clock. Ellery descended the stairs, and
pushed open the grill room door communicating with the hotel. The
place was in darkness and, without turning on the light, he made a
tour of the huge room. At the far end were cloak rooms and another
flight of stairs communicating with the street. So far it would be
fully possible for a guest to make his way without attracting
attention. Ellery went up the far stairs, and approached the door
leading from the grill room to the street. It was heavily barred and
bolted, as well as locked. But the key was in the lock, and there
seemed to be nothing to prevent the bolts from being withdrawn from
the inside. As quietly as he could Ellery took down the bars, slid
back the bolts, and unlocked the door. He stood, not in the street,
but in a small outer hall with another locked door in front of him.
This door also could be undone from the inside, and, opening it
cautiously, Ellery found himself looking out into St. John’s Street.
He had established the fact that it was possible at night for a guest
to leave the Cunningham Hotel unobserved. Quietly he re-locked the
doors and slid back the well-oiled bolts and bars, surprised for the
second time to find how little noise his operations made.
Woodman, then, could have both left and returned to the hotel without
being seen. But had he? The very lack of possible observers seemed to
make it impossible to prove the case either for or against him. If no
one had seen Ellery make his investigations—and as he returned to the
ground floor he was certain that no one had noticed him, at least
until he reached the top of the basement stairs—why should any one
have seen Carter Woodman when he had followed the same route? The
effect of Ellery’s investigations was to make Woodman’s _alibi_
insecure. But it afforded absolutely no positive evidence of his
guilt.
Still, it was something to have shown that the _alibi_ was not
conclusive, and Ellery was fairly well pleased with the result of his
visit. But he had not yet done. According to Woodman’s story, he had
written his letters in a small and little used writing-room on the
first floor, at the opposite end of the hotel from his own rooms, but
quite near the basement stairs, to which another small flight of
stairs led directly from the first floor almost from the writing-room
door. Ellery went into the writing-room and found it deserted. He
remembered that Woodman had stated that he had had it to himself
throughout the time he had spent there.
Ellery had no definite idea that the writing-room would yield a clue,
but he thought that he might as well have a look round. He glanced at
the blotting pads which lay on each table, only to see that the
blotting paper was evidently changed very frequently. But, picking up
one of the blotters he discovered that, while the top sheet was
practically clean, the old used sheets of blotting paper had been left
underneath. Rapidly he examined every sheet. On several he saw marks
of Carter Woodman’s writing, and of his large bold signature. This,
however, showed only that Woodman often used the room. So far it bore
out his story. The pads bore impressions of several other
handwritings; but only one other recurred frequently. Ellery was able
to make out the signature by holding the paper up to the light. The
writing was curious and quite unmistakable. The name of the writer was
Ba Pu—evidently an Oriental.
Ellery had an idea. It was a chance and no more; but he made up his
mind to see Ba Pu, if he was still in the hotel, and to put a few
questions. Returning to the hall he asked the porter the number of his
room.
“Oh, you mean the Burmese gentleman,” said the porter. “He has a suite
on the first floor. His sitting-room is No. 17. He came in only a few
minutes ago.”
Ellery made his way to No. 17 and knocked. The Burmese—a small,
dark-skinned man with curious twinkling little eyes and quick
movements—was in his room and received him with ready courtesy. Ellery
presented his card and apologised for intruding upon him.
“Oh, no,” said the Burmese. “You not intrude. Very please.”
“You may think it very strange of me,” said Ellery, “but may I ask you
a question without explaining fully why I ask it? It is on a matter of
real importance.”
“Ask. Yes,” said the Burmese. “I help if I can.” He spoke English
quickly and jerkily, but he evidently understood the language well. “I
very glad meet you, Mr. Ellery. I Burmese, come here study the British
conditions. Go back Burma tell my people all about this country. You
help me. I help you.”
“Then that is a bargain, and I can ask you my question at once. Did
you use the writing-room opposite here at any time on the evening of
Tuesday, the 17th of this month?”
“Why, that the very day I come here. Yes, I use him that night. I came
here study your conditions. I want meet all your famous men. I go
there write letters ask them meet me. I write your Mr. Bernard Shaw,
your Mr. Wells, your Mr. Arnold Bennett.”
Ellery interrupted. “Can you tell me at what time that evening you
were in the writing-room?”
“Yes, I tell you. I come here to stay. Evening I wish write letters. I
wish at once to meet your famous men. I go to writing-room door. I
peep in. I see gentleman there, writing. He not notice me; but I shy.
I steal away.”
“What time was that?”
“Eleven by the clock—no earlier. It was what you call eleven less a
quarter.”
“I see, about 10.45.”
“Yes. I go back to my room and I wait. I leave door open and soon I
see gentleman come out of writing-room and go downstairs. Then I go
in. I write my letters.”
“Do you know when that was?”
“I go back to writing-room a few minutes after I go back to my room.
About eleven of the clock—it was then.”
“And how long did you stay there?”
“I stay there long time—what you call the three-quarters of hour,
perhaps.”
“And then you came back to your room?”
“Yes. I come back here.”
“You did not see the gentleman who was in the writing-room again.”
“Yes, I see him. He come upstairs there, outside my door, just after I
get back to my room.”
“You left the door open then.”
“Yes. There was no air. It is what you call stuffy here. I see him go
into writing-room.”
“And that was the last you saw of him?”
“Yes. But he stay in hotel. I see him later—days later—often times.”
“Then you would recognise him if you saw him. Is this he?” and Ellery
passed a photograph of Carter Woodman to the Burmese.
“Yes, that he.” And then the Burmese smiled blandly and added, “And
now you tell me why you wish know this.”
“I would rather not tell you just yet, Mr. Pu, if you will forgive me.
All I can say is that what you have told me affects a man’s life.”
“You not want to tell me, you not tell me. But you help me get
interview with Mr. Bernard Shaw. I help you. You help me. See?”
Ellery promised his good offices—for what they were worth.
“And Mr. H. G. Wells?”
Ellery again promised with rather more hesitation, to do what he
could.
“And Mr. Bennett?”
This time Ellery, foreseeing further additions to the list, suggested
that he should come back and have another talk with Mr. Pu in a day or
two. He would certainly do anything possible to help him.
“And Mr. Bertrand Russell?” the Burmese was saying, as Ellery managed
to talk himself out of the room.
Here at last, Ellery said to himself, as he left the hotel, was proof,
proof positive, even all but certainty. Woodman had lied about his
doings on Tuesday evening, and his _alibi_ was a fake. At the time
when he had said that he was writing letters in the small writing-room
he was really somewhere else. He had left the writing-room at a few
minutes before eleven, and he had only returned to it, by the stairs
which led directly to the basement, about three-quarters of an hour
later. The inference was obvious—to Ellery at least. But his new
certainty that Woodman was the criminal was still of course very far
from complete demonstration. A man might lie about his movements, and
still not be a murderer. What should the next step be? He would see
Joan, and convince her now that his suspicions had been rightly
directed. She could hardly still doubt.