First of all he paid a visit to his own room, as he wanted to get
from there certain things which were necessary for the carrying out of
his investigations.
A few minutes later he found himself in the millionaire’s bedroom,
where he went swiftly to work.
One look at the pillow was sufficient to show him he had rightly
diagnosed the workings of Quentin’s mind, that he was only just in
time to avert a repetition of the tragedy which had happened some time
ago in the Hôtel du Palais at Biarritz.
He produced from his pocket a sheet of oiled paper: then putting on a
glass mask, he approached the pillow. His next procedure was to slip
on a pair of thin rubber gloves. Then, very carefully, he removed the
pillow-slip, replacing it with the one he had purchased that
afternoon, and wrapped the one he had removed in the oiled paper.
This he carried to his own room, which he reached without encountering
anybody. He packed up the precious parcel in a stout cardboard box and
addressed it to Monsieur Dumont. Then he rang up the latter.
The well-known scientist answered the summons himself. “What is your
news?” he asked briefly.
Aylmer explained to him the result of his researches in Whitefield’s
room, concluding with the information that he had packed the
pillow-slip in a box and would take it down to the hall-porter to
await Dumont’s messenger.
“Good,” was Dumont’s reply through the telephone. “I will send at
once. I will make an analysis directly it comes into my hands, and let
you know the result as soon as I know it myself.”
Aylmer carried the box down to the hall-porter, and waited about until
Dumont’s messenger appeared and took the parcel away. The young man
looked at his watch; he was well within the limit he had suggested to
Whitefield, the half hour in which the American was to keep watch over
the smooth-faced criminal who had laid his plans with such devilish
cunning.
Much as he had read about crime and its perpetrators, Aylmer, never
yet to his knowledge, had been at close quarters with an actual
criminal. Now he had talked with one in careless intimacy, sat at
table opposite to him, partaken of his hospitality.
One by one, the various incidents of the past went in a slow
procession through his mind. The first meeting at Ostend, when he had
taken Quentin for a cultivated man of means and leisure--the swift
growth of his interest in Eileen, her impulsive confession of the real
relations between herself and her supposed husband--the first visit to
Hampstead, the mysterious and sinister figure of Ramon, escorted to
the garden-gate by the two men long after the rest of the household
had retired to rest--his meetings with Eileen in London, Quentin’s
persistent attempts to get money out of him, a shudder ran through him
as he thought what his fate might have been if he had fallen in with
his host’s suggestion--the sudden departure from Hampstead, Eileen’s
brief and cryptic letter of farewell--the researches of Duberry,
establishing very little in relation to Quentin, except the fact that
he was the associate of very sinister people and therefore himself
suspect--the accidental meeting with Whitefield resulting in his visit
to Nice.
And here, in this charming town, this respectable hotel full of
clean-living people who little suspected that they harbored amongst
them a cold-blooded and callous criminal, the last scene of the drama
was on the point of being played. By now Dumont was beginning to
prepare the deadly evidence that would prove this smooth-spoken man to
be a murderer of a singularly ruthless and calculating type.
He strolled into the billiard-room; there was nobody in it but the two
players, they had dispensed with the services of the marker as they
scored so slowly that his presence rather embarrassed them. Quentin’s
face was greatly flushed; it was easy to see he had been drinking even
more heavily than was his wont. He seemed in an almost excited state
for a man of his usually calm mood, cracking rather silly jokes at his
own bad playing, clapping Whitefield when he missed an easy stroke,
and ever and anon lifting the tumbler to his lips, and ringing for a
fresh supply of drink.
Painfully interested in this new field of psychology that had just
been opened to him, Aylmer found himself wondering whether a miscreant
of this type had any conscience at all. And if he had, was he trying
to drown its still, small voice with these copious draughts of
alcohol?
For he felt quite sure of his facts now. Dumont’s evidence was
necessary, but he had not the slightest doubt of what the great
scientist’s evidence would be. On that pillow-case had been sprinkled
a deadly mixture which would send the American into a sleep from which
he would never wake.
They stayed in the billiard-room till it was past eleven o’clock,
playing game after game. Stifling his loathing, Aylmer played once
with Quentin, who by now had drunk pretty nearly as much as he could
carry. Whitefield began to yawn, and refused Quentin’s invitation to a
last trial of strength.
“I begin to feel a bit sleepy, I think I shall toddle off.” And having
said this the American rose to go.
“The night is still young,” cried Quentin a little boisterously; his
voice was still steady but his gait seemed a bit uncertain. “Aylmer,
you’re only a boy. You don’t want to go to bed yet. Let you and I have
a fifty up.”
But Aylmer declined. He had stood Quentin’s company in the presence of
a third party, but he felt it would be nauseating to be alone with
him.
“No, I am going to follow Mr. Whitefield’s example. Come along, sir.”
He tucked his arm in that of the millionaire, and they left the room
together, leaving Quentin at the table, playing idly with the balls.
“Seems to me that our friend has indulged a bit too much,” remarked
Whitefield as they went up the staircase together. “He was quite
boisterous to-night. He takes his lotion pretty freely always, but I
have never seen him so far advanced as to-night. I suppose he is
making merry over my ten thousand pounds,” he added with a grim laugh.
“More than likely,” agreed Aylmer with a grimness equal to his own.
Whitefield’s room was at the further end of the corridor in which the
young man’s was situated. Aylmer accompanied him to the door, and as
they shook hands, addressed him.
“Mr. Whitefield, you have a bolt on your door?”
The American looked his surprise at the question.
“Of course I have. Why do you ask?”
As usual, Aylmer did not directly answer the question.
“I don’t know whether you habitually make use of it; it is always
safer to do so in hotels. You have said you believe in me. Will you
kindly oblige me by bolting your door to-night?”
Whitefield stared at him, hard. “Do you mean to say this fellow would
have the audacity to come into my room in the dead of night to rob me
of more than he has done already. Besides, how could he get a key?”
Aylmer smiled at his companion’s simplicity, and drawing from his
pocket his pass-key which he had become possessed of through the
instrumentality of the obliging chambermaid, inserted it into the lock
and threw open the door, much to Whitefield’s astonishment.
“You see I can enter your room; I am an honest man who is on the side
of law and order. It only requires a very little ingenuity. If I can
do it, how much easier for a professional rogue. No, I don’t think
Quentin will want any more money from you, but he might pay you a
visit from other motives.”
And then, suddenly, Whitefield’s sorely tried powers of self-control
gave way, and he indulged in one of his explosive fits; when it came,
Aylmer was not in the least surprised; he could only marvel that the
American had been able to keep himself in check so long.
“Look here, young Aylmer, I’m not sure you are acting in quite a
friendly way with me. You fill my mind with all sorts of horrible
suspicions, and still you keep up that irritating reticence. Surely,
you can drop a word, a hint to relieve my anxiety.”
The young man laid his hand upon his companion’s arm, and spoke in a
soothing voice. “I can quite understand you are very angry with me.
Well, give me just a bit more rope--say, till after breakfast
to-morrow morning, and I promise you that then you shall know exactly
what I know myself. When I do take you into my confidence, I want to
do it fully, to reveal to you absolute facts, not mere suspicions. And
now, good-night, and don’t forget to bolt that door.”
He left the millionaire still fuming a little, but more comfortable in
his mind. According to Aylmer’s promise, he had only to wait a few
hours longer for the mystery to be cleared up.
The young man went into his own room, but he did not at once proceed
to undress. The exciting nature of the situation made him very
wakeful. He sat in an easy chair, absorbed in thought. Then, after a
quarter of an hour’s interval, he heard the telephone bell ring. In a
few strides he was at the instrument and listening to the voice of
Dumont.
“Well, my friend, I have made the analysis; it did not take me so very
long, after all. I say, can you put yourself in a taxi and come round
to my place? It is better to talk over these things privately.”
In spite of the hour, of course Aylmer would go. In a few moments he
was closeted with the well-known scientist in his cozy study.
“You were absolutely right in your suspicions,” said Monsieur Dumont.
“This scoundrel is evidently a toxicologist of some pretensions. That
pillow-case was sprinkled with a little-known but most powerful
poison. It is prepared by the Malays from the plant Cheraka, with
datura seeds; he must have picked up the recipe in his wanderings.
Quite a little of it sprinkled upon a pillow and inhaled during sleep,
would produce symptoms so exactly resembling heart disease that a
post-mortem would fail to discover the true cause of death. There can
be no doubt now as to the way in which your relative came to his end.
Equally certain that this miscreant intended to remove Whitefield, by
the same means.”
Aylmer returned to the hotel and got straightway into bed. He had
imagined it would be a long time before he would get any sleep. But in
this supposition he was mistaken. The strenuousness and excitement of
the day had produced the inevitable reaction. He fell into a profound
and dreamless slumber from which he was aroused by the entrance of the
chambermaid.
He rose, had his bath, and dressed himself quickly. Then he went out
into the corridor and made his way to Whitefield’s room. On his way he
passed Quentin’s apartment, and paused a moment to listen. This
cold-blooded murderer was habitually an early riser; the chances were
he was already astir. He could hear no sound of movements within. But,
as the door was shut, he concluded Quentin was still inside. He was
curious to know if anything had happened in the night. He had intended
to keep awake, but sleep suddenly had overcome him.
He rapped at Whitefield’s door. A gruff voice called out: “Who is it?”
“It is I. Frank Aylmer,” was the answer. The head of the millionaire
appeared in the doorway; he was fully dressed save for his coat and
waistcoat. In his deep-set eyes was a watchful look. When he
recognized the young man, his expression lightened.
“Come in, you’re an early bird. I didn’t expect to see you before
breakfast. Sit down. I can tell by your manner something has
happened.”
Aylmer sat down on the proffered chair. Now that he felt justified in
breaking the long silence he had imposed on himself, his excitement
was almost equal to that of the American. He felt as eager to tell
everything now as before he had been reluctant to open his lips.
“Yes, a great deal has happened, and in a few moments you will know
everything,” he said. “But first tell me, did Quentin try to enter
your room, any time, in the night?”
“I can’t be sure one way or the other,” was Whitefield’s answer. “I
was awfully drowsy when I went up to bed. But what you said at the
last minute seemed to drive the drowsiness away, and, when I got
between the sheets, I felt as wide awake as it was possible for a man
to be. I’ll swear I didn’t close my eyes for some hours; then, I
suppose, I must have dropped off. All the time I was awake I was
listening for the sound of a key in my door; I had bolted it as you
urged me. I had an ugly dream that he was trying to force his way in,
and it was as vivid as it could be. So, as I have said, I can’t tell
you one way or the other. For all I know to the contrary, he might
have made an attempt in the middle of the night and been baffled. And
now you say you are going to make a clean breast of it. But first tell
me why he should want to get into my room. You say he was not after
more money. What, then, would be his object?”
“Simply to get hold of the receipt he had given you, and destroy it.”
Whitefield considered a moment. “I think I see. There would then be no
evidence that I had lent him the money. I suppose he then would have
shuffled off and hidden himself somewhere, so that I couldn’t get at
him.”
It was evident the American was not yet near the point of suspecting
the whole of the ghastly design which Quentin had worked out with such
devilish cunning.
“He is a thorough criminal, Mr. Whitefield. His main object in coming
to your room in the dead of night would be to get hold of the receipt.
But I think he had another motive--the desire to make sure that his
plans in another direction had not miscarried.”
A swift flash of intelligence showed itself in Whitefield’s deep-set
eyes. “There is no mistaking your meaning, Aylmer. In addition to
swindling me out of ten thousand pounds, this infernal miscreant
intended to purloin the receipt, and in order to make assurance doubly
sure, close my mouth for ever.”
“You have guessed aright, sir,” was Aylmer’s answer. “Now I will tell
you a few things which will enable you to understand how I became
involved in the matter, how I have, fortunately, been able to rescue
you from a terrible end. I shall make my story as brief as I can, and
I may say that I owe my action to the merest accident. But for a few
words that Mrs. Quentin let drop, I should never have been able to
piece things together as I have done.”
“Was that charming little woman in it?” asked Whitefield eagerly.
“I will stake my life on it she was not,” said Aylmer firmly. “She may
lately have had some suspicions that he was a crook, but she never
dreamed him to be the vile criminal he is. If she had been his
accomplice, she would never have given me the clue she did.”
He then proceeded to tell the American of the sudden death of Sir
Charles Reeks at Biarritz, how the medical evidence was that he had
died of heart disease, and his own suspicions of foul play.
“Now, to tell you how a sudden inspiration came to me which enabled me
to piece things together. Mrs. Quentin happened to let drop that they
had stayed at the Hôtel du Palais at the time of Sir Charles’s death.
She appealed to Quentin for confirmation, and after a few brief words,
he rose and walked away, although I happen to know that, at that
particular time, he had every reason for not letting her out of his
sight. This action of his set me thinking. I expect you have heard of
the expression ‘reconstructing the crime’.”
“Often,” replied Whitefield. “I believe it is a method greatly favored
on the Continent.”
“I did this with regard to the incident at Biarritz. I knew that Sir
Charles Reeks had parted with a large sum of money to somebody shortly
before his death. In all probability, he got from that unknown
somebody a formal receipt. But when his belongings were examined, no
receipt was found. A dispatch-case came into my possession on which
were certain unidentified finger-prints. At once, by one of those
flashes of intuition for which it is impossible to account, I
connected Quentin with the Biarritz mystery.”
“But there must have been certain data on which to build your theory,”
Whitefield interjected.
“Quite true. A certain similarity of circumstances. Quentin had tried
to borrow money from me, and had been refused. He had succeeded in
borrowing money from you, and given you a receipt. It was therefore on
the cards that he was the unknown somebody who had been paid that
large sum of money by Reeks.”
“I follow you so far, but it was nothing more than a shrewd guess. Any
one of a hundred people staying at the Palais at the same time might
have been the unknown somebody,” objected Whitefield.
“Perfectly true. At its best it was nothing but a guess instigated by
the fact that I had made some inquiries about Quentin, and while
finding practically nothing against him, I had discovered that he was
the close associate of a notorious evil-doer. Of course, I wanted
proof. If I could get Quentin’s finger-prints, I could compare them
with those on the dispatch-case. With a little ingenuity, I contrived
to get them, and found them exact. I therefore established the fact
that Quentin had tampered with the dispatch-case for his own ends.
From that point, the process of reconstruction was comparatively
easy.”
Whitefield nodded his grey head. “Yes, I think I see the process by
which you arrived at it, but please give me more details. I am
intensely interested.”
“I felt convinced in my own mind that Quentin had got that money from
Sir Charles, had stolen the receipt and put him out of the way, so
that the transaction would not be revealed to any human being and he
would never be called upon to refund the amount. I guessed that, to
effect his diabolical purpose, he had made use of some subtle and
little-known poison. With criminals of his type a knowledge of
unfamiliar poisons is a part of their stock-in-trade. I do not suppose
for a moment that Sir Charles was his only victim.”
“And he was going to practice on me the same methods that he used on
your relative,” cried the American with a shudder he could not
repress.
“As soon as I learned from you that you had lent him that ten thousand
pounds, and the very remarkable fact that he had stipulated he should
receive it in cash, I at once jumped to the conclusion that the
chances were a hundred to one the previous gruesome history would be
repeated. I went into your room last night, removed your pillow-case,
which I replaced with one similar in appearance, and sent it to my
friend Dumont, one of the greatest toxicologists in Europe, for
analysis. Until I received his report I could hardly make any positive
affirmation, however sure I was in my own mind. That report I received
some little time after you had gone to bed. The pillow-case had been
impregnated with a powerful poison, prepared by the Malays, the
symptoms it produces in the victim being so similar to heart disease
that a post-mortem would never detect the real cause of death.”
There was a long pause after Aylmer’s circumstantial narrative. The
American was a man of grit and nerve, and although he must have been
terribly shaken by the knowledge of how near he had been to death, he
soon resumed his normal demeanor.
“Well, Aylmer, what can I say to express my thanks for what you have
done? Any form of words I can think of would be inadequate to convey
my gratitude. If there’s anything I can ever do for you, don’t forget
you have made a friend for life. I know from that vile creature, who,
I expect, is at the present moment gloating over my supposed end, that
you are a young man born to fortune, otherwise I would charge myself
with your future welfare. Well, I cannot now express a tenth of what I
would like to say; perhaps, later on, I shall be able to say it
better.”
He paused a moment, and then spoke briskly. “And now, I presume our
next step is to inform the police.”
Aylmer agreed. He looked at his watch. “Our talk has taken a little
time. I should say that Quentin is half-way through his breakfast. I
propose we wait another quarter of an hour before we go down; he will
have cleared out by then. As soon as possible we will go round to the
police.”
Whitefield had been thinking rapidly over things. “I suppose there is
evidence enough,” he said presently. “You know, young man, I am quite
willing to admit you are very clever; but I think you would have acted
more wisely if you had taken me a bit earlier into your confidence.
If, for instance, we had gone together into my room when you took that
pillow-slip away, my evidence would have been rather important. Now
there is only your bare word for it. You see what I mean?”
“Quite,” said Aylmer. “But I don’t think you need worry about that. I
told Dumont all my suspicions, and advised him that I was going to
abstract that pillow-case for his analysis.”
“I dare say you are right. I can’t help wondering about that little
woman, if she is altogether as innocent as you think her.”
“As I said before, I would stake my life on it that she is,” was
Aylmer’s answer. “I feel convinced in my own mind that Quentin did all
he could to expedite her departure. It seems absurd to speak of
conscience in the case of such a hardened ruffian, but I expect he was
glad to get her out of the way before the expected _dénouement_ took
place. If he has the slightest consideration for any human being, it
would be for her.”
Whitefield looked at him keenly, but made no comment. He was not very
observant in the small things of life, but it did begin to dawn upon
this somewhat egotistical American that Aylmer had been on terms of
very close friendship with Eileen and knew a great deal more about her
than he did himself.
They went down to breakfast, and to their intense relief, found nobody
at their table. The waiter volunteered the explanation that Monsieur
Quentin had finished his meal some little time ago, and had gone out.
He evidently had gone out for only a short while, for they were not
more than half-way through their meal when Aylmer saw him standing in
the doorway looking in the direction of their table, and noticed his
swift change of expression as he caught sight of Whitefield and
recognized that his deadly plans had miscarried. As his glance met
that of Aylmer, his face went livid, and with a hasty movement he
turned away from the dining room.
Two minutes later, the sound of scuffling feet resounded from the
direction of the big hall into which the apartment opened, and the
bark of a pistol rang out.
“Something has happened,” cried Aylmer, and the two men rose
simultaneously and made for the place whence those sounds had
proceeded, followed by some of the waiters and others who were
breakfasting.
A strange sight met their eyes. Half a dozen men were clustered round
and stooping over an inert figure stretched on the floor.
One glance enabled them to establish its identity. That inert figure
was the dead body of Quentin, still clutching in his stiffening
fingers the weapon with which he had ended his evil life.