“No answer,” said Exchange.
Mr. Carver rubbed his nose irritably and glanced up at the clock. Then
he lifted the instrument again.
“Give me Hertford 906,” he said.
In five minutes the call was signalled.
“Miss Ardfern--Carver speaking, I’m very, very sorry--got you out of
bed, did I--so sorry! What time did Tab leave--half-past eight--you
don’t say so? Oh yes, he’s all right--gone to the office--oh yes, he
does some Saturday nights. Don’t worry--not at all. Only he promised to
call--can’t trust love-smitten young men, eh--certainly I’d call you if
there was anything wrong.”
He put the instrument back and looked up at the clock. Then he pressed
a bell. The sergeant who answered was dressed as if he expected to go
out into the storm at any moment.
“Men ready--good. Pitts Hotel; two men to each entrance, one to the
upper floor in case he breaks that way. Four good men for his room--men
sharp enough to dodge his quick firing batteries--he’ll shoot.”
“Who is the man, sir?”
“Mr. Rex Lander. I want him for murder and forgery; attempted murder
and burglary. If he’s not at home it will be easy. We’ll take him as
he comes into the hotel. One of the night porters is probably being
well paid by him. He was the fellow who stalled me last night and gave
Lander a chance to get to his room and use the telephone. So we’d
better get there before the room clerk goes off duty. And don’t forget
to impress upon the men that Lander will shoot! If the night porter is
on duty we’ll take him. He’s not to get to the telephone. Beat his head
off if he tries. I’ll be with you in five minutes.”
He made another attempt to get in touch with Tab but was no more
successful. Then a thought struck him. He remembered that Tab had told
him the name of the sporting tenant who occupied the flat below. But
Tab had also told him that this gentleman was seldom at home. Still,
there was a chance.
He waited, the receiver at his ear.
“Is that Mr. Cowling? Why, I am sorry to disturb you. I’m Inspector
Carver, a friend of Holland’s, who lives above you. You haven’t any
idea whether he is at home? I’ve been trying to get him--you’ve heard
the ’phone going? Yes, that was me.”
“He came in about an hour ago,” said the tenant’s voice, “then somebody
called him. I can hear the ’phone very plainly from my room. Bex or Wex
or some such name.”
“Rex?” asked the inspector quickly, “yes, yes--he went out did he?
Thank you.”
He sat staring down at his blotting pad for a minute, then he got up
and pulled on his raincoat.
His squad were getting into cabs as he came out of the station and he
entered the first of these.
Had he left it too long, he wondered? The warrant had been issued,
after he had taken the sworn statement of the man Green, formerly
butler to Jesse Trasmere. He had brought this witness from Australia,
had cabled to him the very day that Trasmere was found murdered;
Green’s reply had confirmed his suspicions.
Too late now to regret his delay. Accompanied by his sergeant he
strolled into the hotel. The lounge was empty, half the lights had been
extinguished and, as he had expected, the room clerk had gone, leaving
a stalwart night porter in charge.
“Mr. Lander, sir? No, I don’t think he is in. I’ll get through to his
room.”
“Don’t touch that telephone!” said the inspector, “I am an officer of
the police. Show me to his room.”
The man hesitated the fraction of a second and then:
“If you monkey with the switch-board I’ll put you where the rats won’t
bite you,” said Carver sharply. “Come out of that!”
The man obeyed sulkily.
“I’ve done no wrong,” he said, “I was only trying to--”
“Watch this man,” said Carver. “Now give me the key of Lander’s room.”
The man took down a key from the hook and threw it on the counter.
Rex Lander’s suite was empty as Carver had expected.
“I want a thorough search made of these rooms,” he said to the
sergeant. “I will leave you a man to help you. All stations must be
maintained until they are withdrawn. He may come in late.”
He waited for half-an-hour inside the hall but though there was a
constant procession of cars and cabs laden with people returning from
the theatres, there was no sight of Rex Lander.
The hall porter became informative.
“I’ve got a wife and three children. I don’t want to get into any
trouble. What do you want Mr. Lander for?”
“I’ll not tell you,” said Carver curtly.
“If it is anything very serious I know nothing about it,” said the
porter. “I might as well tell you that I did him a favour the other
night.”
“Last night was it?”
“Yes. He was in the hall when somebody telephoned through for him, and
he asked me to keep them waiting whilst he went up to his room. He told
me it was a lady friend that he wasn’t on good terms with. That’s all I
know about it. He is a very nice man,” he added in justification.
“A perfect peach,” agreed Carver sardonically. “Well?”
One of the men he had left to search the room was coming hurriedly
across the lounge. He drew Carver aside and produced from his pocket a
long-barrelled revolver of an old-fashioned make.
“We found this in one of the drawers,” he said.
Carver examined it curiously. The moment he saw it he knew what it was,
even before he found the Chinese characters engraved on the steel of
the butt.
“I thought so,” he said. “It is a Chinese issue, the sort they served
out to their army officers about twelve years ago. I think you’ll
find it was the property of Trasmere.” He snapped it open. It was
fully loaded, containing four live and two used cartridges. “Keep
that carefully apart. Wrap it in paper and have it photographed for
finger-prints,” he ordered. “You found nothing else?”
“There’s a receipted bill from Burbidges for a sapphire ring,” said the
man and Carver smiled faintly.
The present which Rex had bought “in Rome” for his friend had been
purchased within a few miles of Doughty Street and was intended to
emphasise the fact that Rex was abroad.
It was nearing twelve o’clock when a ’phone message came through from
police headquarters, and Carver went to the instrument.
“Is that you, Mr. Carver--Mayfield is burning--the brigade have just
had a call.”
Carver dropped the receiver as if it were red-hot and flew to the
door. A cab had just set down some guests at the hotel and he pushed
unceremoniously past them.
“Peak Avenue,” he said.
What a fool not to have thought of Mayfield before! He cursed volubly
in the darkness of the taxi. And after he knew that Rex Lander had
called Tab on the ’phone, and that Tab had gone out! Of course, that
was where he would have taken Tab--to Mayfield. Tab would have gone
cheerfully, having no suspicion of his friend, and--Carver shuddered.
He had read only too clearly the significance of the torn photographs.
The man was insanely jealous; would stop at nothing. With two murders
to his credit, a third would be simple.
Long before he reached Peak Avenue, he saw the red glow in the sky and
groaned. Amidst that blazing hell Rex Lander had destroyed not only
his rival but half the evidence of his crime.
The cab dashed through the police line into the Avenue, crowded now
with half-dressed inhabitants, and brightly lit by the flames that
mounted above the doomed house. The roof fell in as he sprang from the
cab; a crowd of sparks leapt into the dark sky and Carver could only
stand speechless and sorrowful beyond expression.
Then it was that somebody tapped his elbow, and looking round he saw
a man in a soaked and bedraggled dressing-gown. At first he did not
recognise him, for the little man’s face was blackened and scorched,
his eyes were red and wild.
“My father was a fireman,” said Mr. Stott solemnly. “We Stotts are a
hard bit’n race. Heroes all of us!”
Carver looked at the man aghast.
Mr. Stott was very drunk!