Pointer had been certain from the first that Eames must have had some
place not far from the hotel to which his correspondence was directed.
Moreover, early that morning he had marked a small tobacconist in a
poor street around the corner, quite out of the run of usual
passers-by, as the most likely nook to which Eames would have had his
letters sent. Since then he had learnt more. The paper, ruled in
little squares—suggesting a foreign origin—the small, close writing
like that used by Cox in the hotel register next door; Eames' eager
interest on the last morning he had been alive, his whistling later in
the same day, were all additional material for the mosaic the police
had to fit together. Downstairs Pointer learnt that the only Mr. Sikes
known to the hotel had been there a few times, but had never been seen
to come in merely as a visitor. Neither the clerk nor the hall porter
remembered seeing him yesterday. But as that had been an unusually
strenuous time of welcoming coming and speeding parting guests, Mr.
Sikes might have passed unnoticed, though both men thought this most
unlikely. He certainly had not made himself known in any way.
On the register he was entered as a cycle-maker from Coventry. His
description tallied with that of Mr. Beale as far as being a little,
stout, reddish-haired, middle-aged man, though both clerk and porter
ridiculed the idea of mistaking the one for the other.
The manager turned very sharply, almost as though with a start, when
the Chief Inspector stopped him a little later with:
“I believe, sir, that a Mr. Sikes of Coventry often comes to your
hotel. Was he here yesterday?”
The manager, as so often to-day, hesitated before answering the
officer.
“I don't—I don't think so. No, no, I'm sure he was not. But why don't
you look at the register?” This last in a tone of nervous irritation.
“Oh, he didn't stop in the house, but I thought he might have been in
just the same.”
“And what the devil has this Mr. Sikes to do with the affair which you
are presumably investigating, Inspector?”
Pointer did not seem to hear the question, as with quick steps he
passed on up the stairs and went at once in search of the housekeeper.
“Ah, I was on my way downstairs, but perhaps you can save me the
trouble, Mrs. Green—” he beamed at her, and she beamed back at him,
for he was a good-looking man.
“When Mr. Sikes was here on Saturday last, did you see him speaking to
Mr. Eames at all?”
The housekeeper looked a little uncertain of her ground.
“Well, sir, I don't know the gentleman you're speaking of—Mr. Sikes—I
haven't ever seen him.”
“Not know Mr. Sikes?” Pointer's tone, though casual, showed his
surprise.
“I've only been here two weeks, sir.”
“Then you don't know the gentleman I mean even by sight?”
“I saw the manager and a gentleman whom he told me afterwards was a
Mr. Sikes—but more than that I couldn't say, sir,” and Mrs. Green,
looking as though she would have preferred to say still less, tried to
walk on, but he blocked the way.
“Just a moment. I particularly want to find out any friends of Mr.
Eames, and I've reason to believe that he and this Mr. Sikes knew
each other. The manager—I've just spoken to him”—Pointer was always
glad to find even a crumb of truth which he could mix in with
business—“doesn't remember whether Mr. Sikes went into Mr. Eames' room
or not.”
“You mean afterwards, sir?” Mrs. Green's suspicions of the police were
again lulled. “The two gentlemen left Mr. Eames' room together and
went on into the other balcony rooms. Mr. Sikes was looking for a room
for his wife and family, but I had an idea—well, I thought the manager
didn't want it talked about: you know he has to make special terms to
some; but there, of course as he spoke to you about it, why, there
can't be any harm in my referring to it—but whether the gentleman with
him came back later and saw Mr. Eames or spoke to him downstairs is
more than I can say; and now I must go, sir, or goodness knows what
the girls will be up to in the linen-room.” And go she did this time.
A message reached Watts on his return from rescuing the family hats
from the monkeys which caused him to take the evening train to
Coventry, there to learn as much as possible about its doubtless
worthy citizen, Sikes.
Miller, who had been sent across to have a chat with the porters of
the large block of flats opposite, brought back no grist for the
official mill. But he had allowed it to leak out, in accordance with
instructions, that there had been a robbery at the Enterprise, and
that “the party interested” would pay for any information as to the
thief who had escaped, possibly with a bag, either by way of the
balcony or by the little side-door on Saturday afternoon.
“It's going to be a regular November Special,” Pointer said to
O'Connor on his return to his rooms, “or all the signs deceive me.”
“D'ye mean to tell me that the criminal is still at large after all
this time—close on twenty-four hours! Let me have the facts, Watson;
sure Sherlock Holmes will give you a leg-up with pleasure,” and
“Sherlock Holmes” assumed a judicial attitude.
Pointer carefully went over the knotty points unearthed during the
day. “There's Cox . . .” the Scotland Yard man was evidently telling
over his pieces, “who takes a room at the Marvel and uses it for a
couple of hours . . . he's in the centre of the puzzle. Yes, he's that
little gold ball you can just see.” He glanced up at the Chinese
puzzle above his head.
“Why d'ye place him there? Because you found that wax vesta in his
room?” grunted O'Connor, who was for the moment a profound pessimist.
His stamp had just slipped on a valuable piece of leather.
“No, partly because the two men who talked with him speak of him as
possibly an American. Mr. Beale is an American, and Eames' clothes
looked to me like Yankee cut, besides his umbrella. Thank God,
to-morrow's Monday. I'm a Christian man, but there are times when I
could do without Sundays—here at home. There is where the foreign
police score. I shan't forget that Avery case when I was sent to
Naples——”
“I know,” yawned Jim; “it rained all the time, and as for the famous
view of the Bay—why, Plymouth Harbour beat it by ten goals to none.”
“I don't wonder there are so many hasty marriages,” Pointer spoke in
sad soliloquy; “a man does feel a wish sometimes to come home to
something alive, something intelligent.”
“She wouldn't have much intelligence if she let you find her at home,”
pointed out his friend dispassionately, damping some leather with a
hot sponge preparatory to making a fresh start, and for a while there
was silence.
“When Cox tapped on the window of No. 14 who did he expect would open
it for him?” the Irishman asked suddenly. “Eames? Or d'you think he
knew that Eames was dead, and wanted to meet an accomplice there? If
so, who? Beale?”
“I've only one idea about Mr. Beale so far, but it's a fixed one,”
Pointer replied slowly. “For some reason he's playing a game of his
own. Judging by his eyes, it's bound to be a crafty scheme, and by his
mouth, it won't boggle at trifles. However, the shape of his head
guarantees that it'll be a clever one.”
“You're a wonder, Alf. Since you've gone in for those phrenological
and graphological lectures at the Kindergarden there's no hiding
anything from you. Can you tell me by the shape of my head what Mr.
Grey will say to me when he sees how that tooling has been done? You
can't! Well, I can! You might as well continue your sermon by the way.
I'm helpless, I must listen to it.”
His friend was far too canny to proceed.
O'Connor began again: “Was the crime, for of course you think it was a
crime, you hope it was one, you sin-hardened man-hunter, was it
_meant_ to be discovered by Beale, or . . . by someone else? Was
Eames' body placed in that locked wardrobe so that the wrong person
shouldn't find it, or so that the right person should?” O'Connor had
given up all pretence at working and tried to read the answers to his
conundrums one by one on Pointer's face, who finally answered a little
wearily:
“Only time can tell, but as I said last night, frankly I'm puzzled as
to what Mr. Beale with his position—for as I said I haven't a doubt
but that he's all he claims to be—and his dollars are doing in this
business of a shabbily-dressed young man who puts up in a single room
at the Enterprise. Miller found out to-day that Mr. Beale didn't make
any inquiries for rooms at the smarter hotels, but only applied in
Southampton Row.”
“Had he tried the Marvel?”
“No, he seems to've worked from the other end.”
“Look here, you don't suspect him of being the actual murderer, do
you?” O'Connor asked guilelessly.
Pointer pursed his lips. “Not the kind of man to do that sort of thing
himself, I should judge, yet the way the job was done”—he trailed off
into silence.
“Supposing it was he, and not Sikes, who was at the hotel earlier in
the day, why should he come back in the evening? D'ye suppose he
thought of those finger-prints of his which he had left everywhere,
and wanted to have a chance to make them openly, as it were?” Judging
by the detective's face he thought but poorly of this suggestion.
“You say the smaller footmarks, those on the canvas and on the
doorstep about fitted Beale's slippers, didn't you?” persisted the
other.
“As far as size goes—yes. Mr. Beale _could_ have—though it would seem
a mad risk to take—still he _could_ have gone back upstairs again,
when he left us last night in No. 14, and got out on to the balcony
through the landing-window. But to get out with an umbrella and a
raincoat would have been a feat he didn't look up to, though you never
can tell. When I saw him a little later in the manager's room he
certainly hadn't been clambering about in the rain.”
“Well, his departure looks to me very fishy,” maintained O'Connor in a
tone which suggested that Pointer had steadily upheld it as a proof of
the absent man's innocence. “What made him bolt out of the window?”
“I think he saw Cox pass by and recognised him.”
“Suppose he and the manager are in it together? It was the manager who
put Beale into No. 14. Perhaps Beale knew it was empty and the
inquiries at the other hotels were only a blind.”
The Irishman revelled in these talks early in a case, when there were
not sufficient facts to hamper his idle fancy in its flights.
“Ah, as for the manager—” Pointer walked up and down the room. “That
bit of acting about that green and white striped paper was badly
enough done.”
“So badly that it was creditable to him, eh?”
“. . . And as for not discussing Eames' death with Mr. Beale—well, was
it likely! When our expert tells me how much of that ash is Mr.
Beale's cigars and how much the manager's cigarettes—he doesn't smoke
cigars—I shall know better how much time those two spent hobnobbing
together. At any rate something has changed the manager overnight.
Then he acted like—well, if not an innocent man, then at least like a
man who feels himself safe.”
“Perhaps this bolt of Beale's has made the manager, too, think him
guilty.”
“He should tell us his reasons, then,” the police-officer spoke very
firmly. “Whatever it is, to-day he's all nerves, afraid to commit
himself as to the day of the week.”
“I wonder if he left some clue lying around in that room No. 14 and
has recollected it during the night?”
“He needn't worry if it's that,” Pointer spoke bitterly, “unless it's
tagged: ‘This is a Clue; don't miss ME!’ I shouldn't see it. Too much
fog about.”
“Oh, come now,” persisted his friend, “you've done jolly well so
far—going at once to the Marvel and ferreting out about Cox. I don't
know that I should have thought of that myself,” he added handsomely.
“Well, true, I've not fallen far below you as yet,” agreed Pointer in
a cheered-up tone of voice. “I've already lost Mr. Beale, missed Cox,
and can't find Eames' bag nor any trace of its whereabouts.”
The two men laughed.
“As for Mr. Smalltoes,—I mean the man who stood on the canvas and
walked out and then back through the little side door—I don't know
where to place him yet. Centre or circumference.”
“You mean Beale?”
“He may prove to be, but Mr. Beale picks his feet up as neatly as a
water-rail; this man dragged his along. Mr. Beale wears pointed shoes;
this man had on curious ‘reformed’ or ‘true-shaped’ boots. Straight on
the inside and curving sharply about in a semicircle. Here's the
outline.” He held it out to O'Connor, who asked:
“What are the manager's feet like?”
“Two sizes larger. Well, this case is going to make or break me. I
feel it in my bones.”
Next morning Pointer was early at the Yard mapping out the day's
campaign. As he expected, on telegraphing to the American Embassy he
was assured that Mr. Augustus P. Beale, a sub-editor and part
proprietor of the _New York Universe_, a small gentleman, very bald,
with reddish moustache, and gold fillings in his front teeth, was one
of the States' choicest ornaments, a man of vast wealth and many
interests. To clinch matters, one of Lester's snapshots was sent off
to the Embassy, who sent back an immediate reply that this was
undoubtedly the Mr. Beale whom all Americans abroad had been
instructed to honour. If he were missing, he must be missed, until
such time as it might please him to re-appear.
“Just so,” sighed Pointer as he hung up the receiver. His first outing
was to the small confectioner-tobacconist near the hotel which he had
marked in his yesterday's rambles.
“Any letter for Mr. Eames? He's ill.”
The man behind the counter stared at him suspiciously, but Pointer
planked down a half-crown “and if you'll look after any letters for
me, too—Charles Rowntree—for a while I'll be much obliged. Yes, Mr.
Eames' cold has got a bit too bad for him to come out.” Whistling
blithely, he bent over a comic paper.
The man behind the counter softened. “What name did you say, sir? Mr.
Charles Rowntree? Very good. Of course, strictly speaking, I might get
into trouble if it got known; but there, why not be obliging? That's
my motter. Mr. Eames' cold was pretty bad on Saturday, and what with
the rain Saturday night—” He laid a letter down. Pointer handed over a
penny, and bought a shilling packet of cigarettes before he left the
shop. Eames' future correspondence would be sent on to the Yard, but
any back numbers were equally valuable.
He opened the thin envelope, postmarked Dover, and drew out a sheet of
paper ruled in squares.
“August 4th.
Wire me what's wrong. Be careful.”
That was all, but the handwriting was the same as that on the Marvel's
register. This document was carefully placed in the Chief Inspector's
pocketbook.
At the Enterprise a man from the Yard was waiting for him with a wire
from Watts. It appeared that Sikes the cycle-maker had left Coventry
ten months ago. Should he try to trace him?
Pointer sent an affirmative reply, and listened to Miller's report.
This time there had been no disturbance of any kind during the night,
and the Chief Inspector could pass on quickly to the looking up of the
two women who occupied rooms Nos. 11 and 12, the rooms nearest to No.
14. As to the other numbers, who were known to the hotel, Pointer left
them to Miller.
Number eleven, nearest to the stairs, was occupied by a Mrs. Willett,
a brightly painted lady whose diamonds and startling dresses turned
every head, literally but not figuratively, as she tripped past on
stilt-heels. Her age was a subject of some speculation. It was
generally agreed, in spite of flashing teeth and gold brown hair, that
forty would be nearer the mark than twenty.
She told Pointer quite frankly that she had been a smart dressmaker
years ago, and now lived on the successful investing of her
profits—partly in London, partly travelling.
“To Monte Carlo,” he added mentally. She had been in the lounge nearly
all of Saturday morning writing letters, and all of Saturday afternoon
at the theatre. She had never seen anyone pass her window going
towards No. 14.
“We want to find out if the gentleman—Mr. Eames—had any friends or
acquaintance in the hotel. People often don't like to come forward in
a suicide case,” Pointer explained.
Mrs. Willett closed her black eyes convulsively.
“Don't,” she begged. “I'm leaving the hotel as soon as I can make
other arrangements. I had meant to leave Sunday morning, but some
friends to whom I was going have a child down with the measles; but
stay on here I can't—it's too terrible . . . such a shock . . . poor
young man!”
Pointer agreed that it was terrible, and bowed himself out, thankful
that the interview was over; for with her arch gestures, and frenzied
vivacity, and her screaming, high-pitched voice, she exhausted the air
of any room. He found the inmate of number twelve quite a change.
Low-voiced, gentle-mannered Miss Leslie was a hard-working young
actress, who had just got into a good part at one of London's leading
theatres by sheer merit and hard work. She had been away all Saturday
morning rehearsing, and all afternoon on the river with friends. She
had never heard voices from Mr. Eames' room since he had taken it, nor
had she ever seen anyone pass the window from Mr. Eames' room in
either direction; but as she had not returned from her Saturday outing
till seven o'clock, when she had taken off her sodden things and crept
immediately into bed, she had not been in the hotel during the
afternoon hours which interested the police most.
Much of this Pointer knew from his and Watt's examination of her room
and wardrobe, while she had been at her bath yesterday morning, and
from questions downstairs. Her wet clothes were noted in the little
book the Chief Inspector consulted now and again.
“You never heard any voices from next door, you say?”
“Not except Saturday evening. I heard men talking in very low whispers
late that night. I suppose you were one of them.”
“Humph! Have you a maid who might have been in here Saturday afternoon
while you were absent? We are trying to find out if Mr. Eames had any
acquaintances who visited him that last day.”
“I have no maid.” Miss Leslie spoke somewhat brusquely, and turned
again to her writing as a sign that the interview was over,—which was
a mistake.
Pointer returned to No. 14—until the inquest, which had been fixed for
Tuesday, the room was being kept by the police—and entered a few
notes. Then he rang for the Boots, a thick-set young man with a
humorous mouth and an intelligent eye. Pointer offered him a cigar and
a match.
“Look here, Seward, between ourselves, who looks after the young lady
in No. 12, Miss Leslie? She must have some sort of a maid surely.”
The Boots lit his cigar appreciatively.
“Well, I don't want to get anyone into trouble, I don't, and of course
I don't _know_ anything about it”—he paused dramatically, but the
police-officer said nothing—“and the housekeeper she really doesn't
know anything about it; but I have heard the other girls say that
Maggie earns a good many half-crowns from the lady for doing odd bits
of mending and hooking her in her dresses, and then waiting up for her
and hooking her out of them. But I don't want to get the girl into
trouble, and the housekeeper has put her foot down more than once
about the maids waiting on the ladies.”
“You won't get her into any trouble”; and when the Boots had gone
Pointer rang for Maggie the chamber-maid.
“Look here, Maggie, you were the greatest help yesterday, and now I'm
trying to find out more about Saturday afternoon itself. I can promise
you that anything you say to me won't get to the housekeeper's ears;
but were you ironing _all_ Saturday afternoon? Come, now, I know that
you _do_ act as maid to Miss Leslie.”
“Oh! she promised me not to tell—” began Maggie in a frightened voice.
“Weren't you part of the time in No. 12? It's your duty to speak up,
you know, and I've told you that it shan't get you into any trouble.”
She hesitated, then she began to cry.
“Oh, I know I ought to've told. I would have—I would have, reely, only
for that dragon. You see, sir, I got the housekeeper to let me off
part of the ironing on Saturday because of a headache, but after I'd
laid down a bit it passed off, and I remembered a dress Miss Leslie
particular wanted mended. So I didn't see why I shouldn't do it
instead. What I mean to say, sewing isn't like ironing, is it, sir?”
Pointer said it sounded to him like a totally distinct form of
occupation.
Maggie dried her eyes and began to recover her _aplomb_.
“What time did you go to Miss Leslie's room?”
He saw her eyes waver, and steadied her with, “It won't go any
further, you know.”
“Well, it was about ten past three, as near as might be, I suppose.”
From her half-sheepish tone he guessed that the lying-down had been
more mental than physical.
“And you were in the room till six?”
“Well-l, about that.” She gave her head a little toss. “I can't think
how you nosed it out.” Then her tone melted: “But there, I've wanted
to tell you about it, only I didn't dare. What I mean is, if the
housekeeper knew of my arrangement with Miss Leslie—” She paused.
“Tell me what you heard or saw on Saturday.” His tone invited
confidences.
“Well, I only heard Mr. Eames moving about, and then I heard the clink
of a glass on the marble washstand. I knew what that was—he was taking
his tonic as I'd seen him do in the morning the day before. Very
regular in his habits he was—the poor young gentleman.”
Pointer leant forward in his chair. “Maggie, shut your eyes and think
yourself back again in Miss Leslie's room. Don't forget anything,
however trifling: it might be of the greatest help in getting at Mr.
Eames' friends. Just shut your eyes and live Saturday afternoon over
again out loud. You've just heard the clink of Mr. Eames' tumbler on
the washstand——”
His rapt attention stimulated the girl. She, too, sat forward on her
seat, shut her eyes, and locked her fingers.
“—then I heard him give a sort of exclamation, or more like a choke—I
mean to say, it sounded like a bit of both”—she was evidently trying
to live the hours over again—“and then I heard him drop into his
armchair; it creaked as though he had fairly fallen into it. After
that I heard nothing more for a long while. You know how hard it
rained day before yesterday, and what a noise it made coming down,
then I wasn't paying any attention—I mean to say I little thought——”
“You heard him drop into his chair”—Pointer's voice was almost
hypnotic—“and next——?”
“Nothing for a long while. Then I heard his door shut. Ah, thinks I to
myself, he's gone downstairs as usual at four-thirty to the lounge for
his tea—tea is included in the board here, you know, sir,—but it must
have been him back after 'phoning to the office. Anyhow, I heard him
lock his door, and then moving about, opening and shutting drawers
very quickly and softly. Like this”—she jumped up and began to open
and shut the tabledrawer, with quite a pause between—“packing, I'm
sure, sir, which shows that he did mean to go into the country——”
“Never mind what it shows. Sit down and shut your eyes again. You
heard him opening and shutting drawers——”
“Oh, yes, and I heard him moving about, too, but so light! I couldn't
hear any footsteps, only all the floors here creak fearful. Then”—she
went quite pale and fixed a genuinely horrified stare on the Chief
Inspector—“I heard him pull the wardrobe out from the wall. I listened
to that, of course, sir, for that _did_ catch my ear—what I mean to
say, the furniture being my lookout, so to speak, I noticed the way he
tugged it. _That'll_ mark the carpet, I thought to myself. Little did
I——”
“After the pulling out of the wardrobe, what then?” Pointer's voice
was intentionally matter-of-fact.
“Well”—she seemed puzzled as to how to put her recollection into
words—“it sounded just as though he dragged the armchair about the
room, but so—so—as if it were so heavy, scraping and creaking, and
then—then”—her eyes dilated—“I heard the most awful sounds of the
chair straining and—and a sort of knocking sound, and yet sort of
dragging—oh, sir, I suppose he had just stopped his packing and taken
the poison then, and what I heard was his death agonies—if only I'd
known, I might have run for a doctor!”
“No, no, Maggie, no one could have helped him. He had taken too much
poison.”
“And to think I wondered what larks he was up to in there! Then all
got quieter, though I could still hear sort of rustling sounds—what I
mean to say, creepy sort of noises, so quiet-like; and then I heard
him shove the wardrobe back against the wall, scraping it more than
ever, and that's what I don't understand. How could he do that after
taking the poison and all?”
“He may have felt better for a little while,” suggested the man from
Scotland Yard.
“Well, I know I very nearly went in to speak about his hauling the
furniture about like that. I should have, only I was supposed to be
lying down. Then I heard the French window opened. I suppose, as you
say, sir, he felt a bit better and stood there for a breath of air,
but the rain was coming down so just then that I couldn't be sure what
I heard. I had the blind down, it had come over so dark, and was
working by the electric light. I didn't hear anything more, for which
I'm thankful; I mean to say, I don't think I could stand it to've
heard him shut himself into that wardrobe—it's quite bad enough to've
heard what I did. When I went in to get the room ready for Mr. Beale
the window-catch was open, though the window had blown shut. To think
that when I was getting the room ready I actually tugged at the door
of that wardrobe. My goodness, if it _had_ opened!”
“You heard nothing more?”
“Nothing, sir. Not a sound.”
“You didn't hear Mr. Eames walk up and down on the balcony or pass
your window?”
“The rain was pouring so just then, sir, that he might have shouted
and I shouldn't have heard anything outside. What I mean to say, it
really was a clatter which came on just then, so as you couldn't
hardly hear yourself think.”
“You didn't look out at all after the blind was down?”
“Oh, no, sir, I had a rush to get the dress done in time as it was.”
“Humph.” Pointer seemed in no hurry to speak. The Eames case was to
remain a “suicide” as long as possible.
“How were you sure it was Mr. Eames? I mean when you heard the glass
clink? It might have been some friend of his in there at first?”
“I heard him sneeze when I had scarcely sat down. He had such a bad
cold. I think myself that it was the influenza that made him go off
his head and drink poison and all. I mean to say I've read of such
cases.”
“It looks very like it,” he agreed, “and now, Maggie, I think I heard
Miss Leslie go out a little while ago?”
“Yes, sir. She's due at a rehearsal at the Columbine.”
“Then seat yourself in her room and listen. I shall drop something on
the table, then I shall drop something else on it. I want you to come
back and tell me which of the two sounds the heaviest. Listen
carefully.”
Maggie disappeared. Pointer could hear the wicker easy-chair creak
slightly. He dropped one of the dental works which Eames had always
had out on his table. Then after a pause he dropped it again. He and
Watts had already tested just how much could be heard through the
partition wall, but this time he was testing Maggie's accuracy.
She came back a second later, looking rather awkward.
“Well, sir, they both sounded alike. I mean to say I reely couldn't
tell any difference, not to speak of.”
“That proves they were both about the same weight, which is quite
likely. Now, Maggie, go back again; sit where you sat on Saturday
afternoon. I shall drop into this easy chair. I want to find out if
the chair makes as much noise with me as it did with Mr. Eames. I mean
to say”—the Superintendent bit his lip for a second—“that time you
heard Mr. Eames fall into it, after he had taken his medicine. Knock
once on the wall if it's not so loud, and twice if it's louder.”
He listened till he heard Maggie draw up her chair, then he dropped
heavily into his. Maggie knocked once. He let himself fall with all
his weight, and Maggie came in.
“That's as near as no matter, sir, to the sound poor Mr. Eames made.”
Pointer weighed fourteen stone and Eames he had guessed as under ten.
The drug must have acted very quickly.
“And now I want to move about the room and see if I can make as little
noise as Eames did later on—when you heard him come back and lock his
door.”
Maggie changed rooms again. Pointer took off both boots. He prided
himself on his light footwork, and walking like Agag he crept around
the room. Maggie knocked twice. He tried again. Again she knocked
twice and then came in.
“Oh, you made ever so much more noise, sir, but then you'd make four
of poor Mr. Eames. With him I didn't hear steps at all.”
“You didn't hear my steps either surely,” Pointer insisted, as he
relaced his boots.
“Perhaps not as steps, sir, but, dear me, with Mr. Eames on Saturday I
could only hear a drawer being pulled out ever so gently and then
shut, after a minute almost without a sound, as you might say. If it
hadn't been for the boards creaking and papers rustling, I couldn't
have believed there was anyone in there, part of the time.”
“Papers rustling. As though they were being scrunched up, or turned
over like this?” He illustrated both sounds with a newspaper.
Maggie nodded as he refolded a sheet and drew it out of a make-believe
envelope.
“That's the sound, sir, but there's the housekeeper's bell. And for
goodness' sake don't let her know that it was I who said anything to
you about that man who looked like the other gentleman. She told us
someone had been chattering and that the management wouldn't have it.
Of course, I said like the others that it wasn't me.”
“You mean about Mr. Sikes, whom you thought was Mr. Beale?”
She nodded. “Shall I come back here when she's finished giving out the
towels?”
But Pointer shook his head. “Hardly worth while. By the way, what time
did Miss Leslie get back the day before yesterday? Pretty late, wasn't
it?”
“I don't know when she got back, sir. I found her in bed when I came
to do her room, which I always leaves till last so that the water will
be fresher. She did have a time on the river in all that wet. Rotten
it must have been. I don't wonder she didn't want to stick it out.”
“What time did you go into her room on Saturday evening, did you say?”
“After I had finished doing this one up for Mr. Beale. About eight
o'clock.”
“Had you been in there after you left it at six?”
“No, sir.” The maid's eyes showed her wonder at the course of the
questioning.
“We're still hoping to find out Mr. Eames' friends, and it's possible
that someone may have been in here on Saturday to see him. That's why
I asked about Miss Leslie. She might have heard a knock.” He handed
the maid half-a-crown. “If you remember anything else let me know.
However insignificant.”
“I will, thank you, sir,” and Maggie closed the door behind her.
After lunch the results of the autopsy reached the Chief Inspector.
Morphia had been drunk in a quantity which made the police-officer
open his eyes. It would be difficult for anyone but a chemist to lay
his hand on such a solution. “There is one thing,” the doctor's
scribble finished, “that dose could never have had its taste
disguised. Or at least it would have been uncommonly difficult.”
All this was what Pointer had expected, but Maggie's account of what
she had heard in No. 14 gave, for the first time, a clearer pattern to
the kaleidoscope. Whoever had shut and locked Eames' door—about
four-thirty—had entered from the corridor and not by the window which
she had heard opened much later.
So, in general terms, from four to six was the time an alibi would
have to cover.