Miller had nothing suspicious to report in the actions of those
inmates of the balcony rooms who had already visited the hotel on the
other occasions. He was told off to test Mrs. Willett's alibi as far
as that was possible from the hall-porter, while Pointer took a bus to
a smart little bungalow in Sheen, where he hoped to find a lady, whose
postcard, signed Mint, had been duly copied by the police and replaced
in Miss Leslie's little bureau. It had run:
“Jack will call for you to-morrow in the car at two o'clock as you
can't make it earlier, and we will be all ready for you in the launch.
Hope the weather will be fine. Mint.”
The “to-morrow” referred to had been the Saturday of Eames' death. A
few inquiries told him that the bungalow belonged to a Major Thompson,
whose record he promptly looked up in the local free library. The
Major was now working at the War Office, after distinguished war
services.
Mrs. Thompson was in, and very grave the Chief Inspector looked as he
bowed to that young matron.
“Mr. Deane?” She glanced up inquiringly from the professional card
sent in to her, which explained its owner as Mr. Deane, a solicitor of
Grey's Inn Road.
“Excuse my call, Madame, but a client of ours had a motor accident on
Saturday last,—August fourth. A car ran into his, and passed on
without stopping near Richmond Park. You may have heard of it?” He
looked at her with a legal air of being sure to find her out should
she attempt any prevarication.
“I? No!”
“My client believes that he can identify the car that ran into his by
the fact that he recognised a Miss Leslie in it, who is playing at the
Columbine Theatre. From inquiries made at the theatre it appears that
the gentleman who was driving the car in question must have been Major
Thompson.”
“But our car didn't run into anything,” protested the lady. “I drove
it myself all morning. And, besides, my husband and Miss Leslie
weren't anywhere near Richmond Park. What time is this accident
supposed to've happened?”
Mr. Deane looked pained.
“My client, Madame, was run into at between half-past four and a
quarter to five.”
“There you are!” exclaimed Mrs. Thompson in triumph. “Major
Thompson—he's out on the links this afternoon—fetched Miss Leslie
about two o'clock from the Columbine, and drove her here, where my son
and I were waiting in the launch. We had intended to go for a picnic
up the river, but the weather was so shocking that we gave it up, and
played bridge instead. Miss Leslie refused to let my husband or son
take the car out again, and took a taxi back to her hotel just before
dinner.”
“So Miss Leslie was here in the house at the time my client's car was
run into—about half-past four?”
Mrs. Thompson turned a deep red.
“Miss Leslie was here from two-thirty till she left about half-past
seven,” she said very distinctly. “If you care to go up to the golf
links you'll find my husband there and the car! You can examine both
at your leisure.”
“Madame, I regret to say that I do _not_ understand the affair at
all.” Mr. Deane stroked his grey moustache and spoke testily. “My
client told me that he recognised Miss Leslie distinctly, and at her
hotel, where of course I went first before venturing to disturb you, I
was told that she had arrived on Saturday in a condition—I refer to
her habiliments—which distinctly corroborated the idea of an
accident.”
Mrs. Thompson's foot was beating a light tattoo on the floor, and
there was a distinct sparkle in her pretty eyes as she looked at her
visitor.
“I suppose she had a break-down in the taxi; I only know that she left
here at half-past six, looking just as usual. She refused to borrow an
umbrella. And now I must really refer you to my husband. You can't
miss the links.”
Mr. Deane excused himself stiffly for the intrusion, and let himself
follow the road to the nearest telephone booth, at a pace that began
with Mr. Deane's leisurely stride, and finished up in Pointer's best
seven-leagued style. The number of the Sheens' golf club was in use.
He requested to be rung up when it was free, and passed the time in
entering notes in his little book. When he was put through he asked
for Major Thompson.
“He's out on the links,” replied a voice.
“Mrs. Thompson isn't quite sure if he got her message clearly.” He
heard an impatient tongue click.
“As I just explained to the lady, sir, the Major has absolutely
forbidden any messages to be sent on to the links. I'm very sorry,
sir.”
Pointer was not.
“I see. Mrs. Thompson couldn't quite make out your explanation. I'll
make it clear to her.” And Mr. Deane, smiling cheerfully, took a bus
to the club, which presented the usual picture of an August desert. He
announced that he was waiting for the Major, and ordered tea on the
balcony. Towards the close of his leisurely meal two figures clattered
up the steps. A steward approached the shorter and indicated the
visitor. The man came forward.
“I'm Major Thompson. You wish to see me? Shall I have tea at your
table, or will it wait till afterwards? Tea I must have.”
Mr. Deane strongly supported the idea of tea at his table. He produced
his card and spoke of his client's accident.
“I've just come from Mrs. Thompson; she requested me to see you.”
There was no doubt as to Major Thompson's embarrassed bewilderment.
“Oh—ah—I see. But didn't my wife explain—” he gazed wildly around for
his tea.
“No, Major Thompson, she did not. The onus of proof rests on you.” And
Mr. Deane fixed his pince-nez more firmly on his nose, and eyed the
man across the table.
“Well, but—by jove—my wife told me—I mean Miss Leslie”—the major saw
salvation and snatched at it—“you should see Miss Leslie. Miss Leslie
is the person——”
“Not at all.” Mr. Deane stiffened. “My client was only able to
identify the young lady, it is true, but she only comes into the case
as identifying or not your car.”
“I see. Well, then, it's all quite simple. I never was anywhere near
Richmond Park at the hour you mention.”
“Nor your car?”
“Go and have a look at the old bus. There isn't any paint on her to
scratch, but the mud of centuries ought to do as well. If you can find
any dent on her—ah, here's my tea. I see you had shrimp sandwiches,
too. Shows this isn't your first visit here, eh?”
But Mr. Deane was not to be diverted.
“My client,” he began with his dry, preparatory little cough, “fixes
the hour at about four-thirty, or a little later. If you will kindly
state—with, of course, some—ah—proofs—that neither you, Miss Leslie,
nor the car were near Richmond Park at the hour of the collision, the
matter would drop, as far as you are concerned. It must be, of course,
a simple matter for you to establish your whereabouts at the time in
question.”
The major drank long and deep. Then he placed his empty cup in its
saucer with something of a bang.
“I was playing bridge with my wife and friends at home, Miss Leslie
had gone on to some friends, and the bus was in my garage. I fetched
Miss Leslie, who is an old school-friend of my wife's, at two o'clock
from the Columbine, as you say they told you at the theatre, and drove
her home to Richmond. We had intended to go on the river, but my wife
refused to go out in the launch on account of the look of the sky, and
suggested bridge instead. Miss Leslie didn't seem to care for cards,
and decided to taxi on to some friends. So we put her into a cab—she
refused to let us take her in the car—and off she went about a quarter
to three. And as I haven't seen her since, she couldn't have been with
me at four-thirty near any park.”
Mr. Deane tapped his teeth reflectively.
“Um—m. I'm afraid—my client claims pretty heavy damages—his car's a
wreck, though he says that the one which ran into him was barely
dented. And about Miss Leslie—I understood that Miss Leslie said she
was with you and your wife all afternoon. I think there's some
mistake—I think there is.”
The major began to show signs of distress. He dropped a sandwich, but
Mr. Deane foiled that time-honoured device to gain time by instantly
bringing his foot down on it with a vigour surprising in one of his
deliberate movements. The major cast one sulky glance on the savoury
morsel adhering to his visitor's boot, and gulped down a word or two.
He took up the last sandwich, but after a glance at Mr. Deane's
general attitude of “ready,” sat munching it with a thoroughness which
would have moved the late Mr. Fletcher himself to admiration.
“Well, sir?” asked Mr. Deane tartly.
The major chewed on in silence. Finally there was no help for it; he
had to swallow the last crumb, but no shipwrecked sailor could have
done so more lingeringly.
“Well, of course, if Miss Leslie said so—of course she was. I suppose
I've got it muddled. As a matter of fact—now I think of it—of course
we all played bridge all afternoon.”
“_All_ afternoon?” repeated Mr. Deane, as though unable to believe his
ears.
“No, no, no!” corrected the hapless major, “just till about—about—oh,
hang it all, I never notice time when I am at cards. But as a matter
of fact, I believe we left off quite early—that is, relatively, you
know. Every's relative nowadays, thanks to old Einstein—what?”
Mr. Deane sat awhile in silence. The two were quite alone on the
balcony. He decided that the time had come for him to make way for the
Chief Inspector. It was a pity, for Mr. Deane had thoroughly enjoyed
himself. When he spoke, his voice had changed totally.
“I have something I would like to say to you, sir. Would you mind
walking out on to the links with me?”
The major gave him a penetrating glance.
“Certainly. Come this way.” They strolled off into utter silence and
safety from eavesdropping.
“C.I.D. man, eh?” asked the soldier. “Anything wrong at the Office?”
“No, sir, not to my knowledge. I am Chief Inspector Pointer, of the
Yard, as you guessed. I'm on a queer suicide case which has taken
place at the hotel Miss Leslie is stopping at—the Enterprise—in the
room adjoining hers, in fact. We hope to keep it out of the papers
till the inquest on Wednesday. Now, as you, of course, know, sir,
every case of suicide that isn't as clear as daylight has to be sifted
by us pretty thoroughly. Part of the sifting in this case is to place
the people's whereabouts who were on the same floor—the first floor.
It's a question, roughly, of the hours between four to six on last
Saturday afternoon. Miss Leslie is among the other people. You quite
understand, sir, that it's a mere matter of form, that we know from
the hotel employés that she wasn't in the hotel till much later in the
day; but that isn't enough. We must try to have alibis for everyone on
the floor between those hours, if it's a possible thing; and if it
isn't, we must know why it isn't. Now, sir, can you tell me where Miss
Leslie _really_ was during those hours?”
Major Thompson thought awhile.
“I don't know that I care to make any statement in so serious a matter
as this,” he said finally. “Miss Leslie will give you any information
you ask for—any that you have a right to—I am quite sure,” and he
turned away.
Pointer stopped him.
“Ah, but I can't explain things to Miss Leslie. Not a soul must know
that the case isn't a perfectly clear suicide. That's why I adopted my
little ruse with you just now, sir. I should have preferred not to
have told even you about the matter. Doubtless the young lady would
explain her movements on Saturday afternoon, if she knew _why_ I am
interested in them; but as I can't explain my reasons to her, I doubt
very much if she won't refuse to tell me anything.”
“I see.” The major again thought awhile. “Yes, I see your point,
Inspector, though I owe you something for pulling my leg in that
unconscionable way, and stepping on the choicest sandwich.”
Pointer repressed a grin.
“I'll be quite frank with you. There was Miss Leslie, my wife, my son
Henry, and my son's fiancée at the bungalow on Saturday afternoon. My
wife and the other young lady decided—very sensibly—that the weather
was much too threatening for an outing on the river, but Miss Leslie,
for some whim, tried to insist on our taking the launch out. Henry, of
course, backed her up, like an idiot. My wife refused to go, the young
lady refused to go—I kept myself out of it all by cleaning the
car”—the major glanced at the disreputable old Armstrong, stiff with
mud, which was standing a few yards from the two men—“and the upshot
was that Miss Leslie and Henry decided to go in the launch, while my
wife and Edith went into the house to get tea ready for them when they
would return. I saw the silly young optimists off, and we expected
them back within a quarter of an hour. But not a bit of it! Henry was
beginning to see what a fool he was, but a girl doesn't see reason so
quickly. It was nearly seven o'clock before the two returned, soaked
through, of course. Miss Leslie has some friends higher up the river:
they had pulled up there, had tea with them, and then made for home in
all that downpour! After that, she took a taxi from our house and went
back to her hotel; and if you know of a madder way of spending last
Saturday afternoon, I don't. My wife is furious with her, and Edith is
furious with my son.”
“I'm afraid I must ask for the name of the friends with whom Miss
Leslie had tea,” murmured Pointer.
The major reluctantly gave it him, and the two men parted on good
terms.
What in the world had induced a rising young actress to spend her time
in such an extraordinary manner, mused the police officer as he took
the bus on to the Blacks, where Miss Leslie had tea.
The villa was shut up, and, what was more, had been shut up since the
middle of July, so the nearest tradesman told him. The Blacks were
away at Cromer.
Again Pointer 'phoned to Major Thompson. This time to his home
address. The Blacks were “out,” he explained. Might he call and see
Mr. Henry Thompson?
“What's wrong now?”
“Nothing, sir. Merely that I want to get hold of someone who was
actually with Miss Leslie between four and six o'clock,” soothed the
Chief Inspector.
The major grunted.
“He's not here now, but I believe you'll find him at the Sesame Club
this evening about eight o'clock,” and the receiver snapped up.
Evidently the domestic affairs of Henry were not yet running smoothly.
In the Sesame lounge at seven-thirty Mr. Deane presented himself. Mr.
Thompson was in the writing-room, he was told.
Mr. Deane produced his card, and with it the tale of the motor
collision.
“I've met your father on the links this afternoon. Major Thompson very
kindly gave me your address here—he's certain that you can give Miss
Leslie an alibi for the hour in question at any rate. That would clear
matters up a great deal.”
“Of course she wasn't in our car. She wasn't in any car,” grunted
young Thompson; “no such luck. We were—having tea with friends,” he
finished lamely.
Mr. Deane raised an eyebrow.
“The Blacks' house has been shut up for three weeks.”
The young man swung around on his chair.
“It's a perfectly rotten affair,” he burst out at length; “my
stepmother thinks I ought to've let Miss Leslie go out on the river by
herself. But, you see, I knew,—I mean, I've known her all my
life—besides, the weather didn't look half bad when we started”; and
then followed a tale of a wilful young female dragging the reluctant
male into boat and tea-shop, where they partook of a chilly tea—their
friends' house proving shut up—and back home through the pouring rain.
The afternoon had apparently not gained any retrospective charm in the
young man's memory, but Pointer got the clue he was after. Miss
Leslie—according to young Thompson—hoped to meet Malcolm Black, to
whom she had been engaged before she had taken to the stage. Though
the family were away, she had seemed quite confident that the house
would be open, and that they would find Malcolm on the little island
summer-house which belonged to them.
When Mr. Deane had dexterously turned the young man inside out, he
left him, soothed by the sympathy of one man of the world for another,
and quite unaware of the operation to which he had been subjected. As
for himself, he had a possibly true explanation of those drenched
garments, over which he and Watts had paused more than a moment during
their investigation of all the wardrobes of the hotel.
The next day was the inquest—a purely formal affair, for the Coroner
agreed with the police as to the wisdom of leaving out all possible
details. He confined it, therefore, to the reading aloud of the letter
left by the deceased dentist, R. Eames, and to the doctor's testimony
as to the huge amount of morphia taken. The hotel employés were only
called on to identify the body, and then proceedings were adjourned
for a fortnight, ostensibly to allow of the family of the young man
being found and communicated with. The Chief Inspector also managed,
on the same ground, that of further identification, to get the burial
postponed until Saturday.
It was a busy day for the police. The work started yesterday of
looking up the names of all arrivals from the Colonies or the United
States in order to trace a Cox or an Eames, or any names fitting those
initials, had to be continued, and the seven 'phone calls which had
come through to the Enterprise about five o'clock were each minutely
investigated. Three came from within a stone's throw of the hotel; but
as the machine in question was in a large general shop, all efforts to
identify the occupiers of the booth at about the hour given were in
vain. Yet one curious fact came to light.
The lift-boy of Knotts, the shop in question, was certain that he had
seen the Enterprise manager leave the 'phone box at about that hour.
The manager, questioned casually on the point, maintained that it was
the day before—on the second—when he had 'phoned to his hatter, but
the boy persisted that it was on Saturday and not on Friday, as he
himself had his afternoon off on Friday.
The manager's hatter, when Pointer rang him up, could remember no call
at all from the manager during the latter half of the week.
Pointer put it to him that there must be some mistake; “and, frankly,
we want to weed out the telephone calls as far as possible.”
“Sorry, but I suppose some shop assistant forgot to make a note of my
message—or, stay, I do believe I didn't succeed in getting through.”
Inquiry proved that there had been another call occupying the hatter's
wire at five, and a little before, but the Chief Inspector wondered
whether this were merely a lucky chance or not.
A telegram came from Watts during the morning: “Found Sikes. Denies
visit to London. No alibi. Arriving four o'clock.”
And punctually to the hour Watts presented himself at Pointer's room
in the Yard.
“Sikes—revised version of Isaacs, I fancy, sir—lives in a handsome
villa at Brighton—garage and fairly good car. Maidservants. I told
him, as agreed, that a wealthy American had disappeared rather
suddenly, and the Embassy was making cautious inquiries; that he had
last been seen at the Enterprise Hotel, and that there was some doubt
as to the time of his arrival. I gave a very flattering description of
his looks”—Watts laughed—“and then said that the manager had given us
to understand that it was himself—Mr. Sikes—and not Mr. Beale who had
been seen at noon on Saturday in the hotel in company with the
manager; and as he very much resembled Mr. Beale's description, we had
come to him to clear the matter up once for all. I put it most
tactfully, I assure you, sir; but he got purple and banged the table.
‘Impudent lies! I never was near the place since March last. I don't
care what the management says; I never was near the place on Saturday.
Haven't been to London, except to a theatre, in months. Tell the
Enterprise people that if they make any future mistake of the kind
I'll have them up. I'll sue the manager, that's what I'll do!’ He had
heard about the whole business already from someone else, I'll swear,
and was fed up with it.”
“Humph! Well?”
“I got nothing more out of him, sir. I think his rage choked him too
much to let him speak. As to an alibi—he said that his word was a
sufficient alibi. He had gone early to town last Saturday, by the
eleven o'clock, in order to buy his wife a present, had gone the
rounds of the silversmith's windows, had seen nothing he liked; hadn't
gone in to any shops, and had wound up the day with a theatre, after
luncheon at Frascati's at one o'clock, and returned to Brighton by the
five o'clock. Asked if he had seen anyone he knew, he went off the
rails again, and shouted that he had made his money in business, and
not in gadding about town making acquaintances with idlers. So that's
that, sir.”
“You verified his trains, of course?”
“Oh, yes, sir. They were all O.K. He was well known at the station.”
“So that's that,” echoed Pointer as Watts filed his report.
“Nothing connected with the manager seems to be quite straightforward.
However— . . .” He told Watts of the shape the case had assumed since
his absence.
“Maggie thinks she heard the _room_ door—the corridor door—open.
Whew!”
“It's lucky there was someone in number twelve Saturday afternoon. But
for that, there would be no question of time. That medicine-bottle
could have been tampered with as soon as Eames had taken his morning
dose. Whoever did it poured out the medicine, poured in the morphia
solution, which they doubtless flavoured with a little peppermint and
eucalyptus like the medicine, and left it for Eames to help himself
to, at a time when they might have been chatting with the Archbishop
by way of an alibi. Then, when Eames was unconscious, someone enters,
locks the door, takes out the back panels of the wardrobe, and fixes
on the little brass bolt; shoves Eames in, dead or unconscious,
screwed the panels into place again, emptied the bottle on to the
balcony—it was pouring at the time—put back the last dose of medicine
which they had taken out earlier in the day, goes through the dead
man's papers and effects, and gets away with whatever the murder was
committed for in the bag, down the service-stairs, and out into the
street that way.”
“Clever scheme!” Watts breathed, who was following his Superior's
account with breathless interest.
“A simple one, for if it hadn't succeeded—if Eames hadn't drunk the
medicine, but had disliked the taste and thrown it away—the poisoner
could try again. As for Mr. Beale, we have had word from the American
Embassy not to bring him in in any way.”
“Do you think there's any chance of the affair turning out to be
political, sir?” asked Watts. “The manager, you know, is
Irish—Hughes—and Eames is an Irish name, and so is Beale.”
“Let's hope for all our sakes it won't be that! If there's one thing
that's calculated to break a policeman's heart first, and his career
afterwards, it's a political case.” The mere suggestion covered the
Chief Inspector's face with gloom. “Tails all over the place you
mustn't step on,” he added, after a long pull at his pipe.
“Seen the picture of Eames in the late editions, sir?” asked Watts,
laying one before him. “I don't call it a good likeness myself.”
“As unlike him as they could make it,” agreed Pointer. “We've asked
the Colonial papers to copy the picture, but much good a smudge like
that will do.”
“Something unforeseen may turn up from it, though,” suggested Watts.
“Not in this case,” corrected Pointer with conviction. “Everything
unforeseen will have to be looked for with a searchlight, in my
opinion;” and Watts was too much impressed by the medicine-bottle clue
which Pointer had picked out to answer.
“Now, then, Watts”—the Chief Inspector turned to business again—“I
want you to find out whether Beale, or the manager, or anyone
corresponding to the description of Cox, has been buying any morphium
in London. Take Eames' snapshot, too, though that's hardly likely to
be needed.” He went into careful details of the men and taxis he could
have to help him.
For two days Watts searched London, but found nothing to prove that
any of the three men had ever been near a chemist save Cox, that one
time when he had bought the fatal bottle. Meantime nothing transpired
at the Yard about Eames. Letters flowed in by the score purporting to
recognise the printed likeness, but all the patient investigations of
the police only proved that the recognition was mistaken. In Canada a
terrific forest fire was raging, and under the circumstances the Yard
could hardly press for larger space to be given to the picture of an
unknown Englishman. At the Enterprise there had been practically no
changes—at least from the first floor, and nothing had as yet
transpired which could give the casting hither and thither police any
definite trail.
“How's the manager developing?” O'Connor asked the night of Watts'
return. “Been getting any deeper into your black books?”
“I've had a man look up his record——”
“Ah, well, that would be about the same thing with a policeman. Heaven
help us all!”
“The report came in this afternoon. About a year ago he bought rather
heavily of securities which are to-day a mere fraction of what he gave
for them. He's slightly in the hands of money-lenders, and is
altogether by no means as happily placed as might have been expected;
for though the hotel is full, the running expenses are higher under
him than were allowed for, and as his salary is only paid on net
profits he must be pretty badly put to it sometimes. However, we've
not been able to trace any previous acquaintance between him and Mr.
Beale—not as yet.
“That scrap of green and white paper”—Pointer seemed to see it before
him: “the manager isn't particularly quick-witted, but he certainly
was quick-footed, for he was standing on it before you could say Jack
Robinson—on the one and only piece of evidence the room contained. By
the way, a jeweller to whom I showed Eames' studs says they're
unusually fine pearls—for their size. Question is shall we ever learn
what other things of value he may have had with him?”
There was a pause. “Our analyst reports that there were the ashes of
two cigars and twelve cigarettes in the little lot I took him. That
amount couldn't have been smoked in five minutes.”
O'Connor had risen and laid an old copy of the _Era_ before him. “I
thought I vaguely remembered something of the kind, so I hunted these
up. What d'ye think of them?” he asked in would-be careless tones.
Pointer examined them. They were pictures of Miss Leslie taken four
years back, in the character of an old man.