Surefoot read the confession carefully and then began a search of the
room for the goloshes. There was no sign of them.
He found Mary Lane in her room, fully dressed.
"You didn't see the face of the man who tried to get into the room?"
She shook her head.
"Did you recognise him in any other way?"
She thought she had and told him.
As far as he could judge, there was a quarter of an hour between the
appearance of the man and the arrival of Surefoot: time enough, if it
were Moran, to lock himself in his room. He was reaching this conclusion
when he saw something on the floor that glistened. Stooping, he picked
up a key. It lay very near to the open window. Going back to Moran's
room, he scraped away the plaster that covered the keyhole, put in the
key, and turned it. There was no doubt now in his mind.
Moran was still unconscious, though the doctor said he was out of
danger. Surefoot had sent for two detectives, and, leaving the banker in
their charge, he went back to the Yard.
At one o'clock in the morning three Scotland Yard chiefs were called
from their beds and hurried to headquarters. To these Surefoot showed
the confession.
"It is as clear as daylight," said his immediate chief. "As soon as he
is conscious, shoot him into Cannon Row and charge him."
Surefoot said nothing for a moment, but again examined the foolscap
sheet.
"It wasn't typewritten in the room, was it?" he asked. "Perhaps there is
such a thing as an invisible typewriter, but I've never seen one. And
there was no typewriter in the room. And the door was locked on the
inside and the key was on the floor in Miss Lane's room. And the tape
over the window was on the outside, not on the inside. That was a little
error on somebody's part."
He put his hand in his pocket and took out a small bottle containing an
amber liquid.
"That's the whisky that I found in the glass on his writing table--I
want it analysed."
"How was Moran dressed when you found him?" asked one of the chief
inspectors.
"He had everything on--including his boots," said Surefoot. "And what is
more, he was lying with his feet on the pillow--it is not the position I
should choose if I were committing suicide. All very rum and mysterious
and scientific, but it doesn't impress _me_!"
The Chief Inspector sniffed.
"Nothing impresses you, Surefoot, except good beer. What is your
suggestion?"
Surefoot thought for a while.
"Moran's been out this evening--the hall porter saw him come in an hour
before he was discovered. The whisky and soda was sent up to his
room--the whisky in a glass and the bottle unopened--an hour before
that, on his instructions. I've been through the documents I found on
his table, and if there's one thing more certain than another, it is
that he had no intention of committing suicide. He has come back to buy
a lot of outstanding shares in Cassari Oils and to open a London office
for the company. He didn't want to call attention to the fact that he
was back--it might have upset his plans for getting the shares he
wanted. I found all that in a letter he has written to a Turk in
Constantinople. I took the liberty of opening it. And he was seeing the
general manager of the bank tomorrow--that doesn't look like suicide."
"Well?" asked the three men together when he paused.
"He didn't try to commit suicide. Somebody got into his room whilst he
was out--it was easy, for there are two empty rooms that open on to the
balcony--and after getting in he hocussed the whisky and hid himself in
the cupboard. When the dope took effect he came out, picked up Moran
from the floor, and laid him on the bed. He then stuffed up the
ventilation of the room and turned on the gas. Then he got out of the
window on to the balcony and made the door air-tight and went out
through Miss Lane's room--he probably mistook the room for the one
through which he had gained admission to Moran's. He must have dropped
the key and was coming back for it, when Miss Lane screamed."
"How did he get out of the hotel without the night porter seeing him?"
Surefoot smiled pityingly.
"There are three ways out, but the easiest is down the service stairs
and through the kitchen. There is a coffee cook on duty, but it would be
easy to avoid him."
He underlined with his thumb nail a few lines of the confession.
"Notice what a good character he gives to Binny. That was a silly thing
to do--a child in arms would know that only Binny could have written
that statement."
"Binny--the servant!"
Surefoot nodded.
"He's got several other names," he said. "One of them is Washington
Wirth. There's the murderer!"