THE DEATH OF A MILLIONAIRE
BY G. D. H. COLE
AND
MARGARET COLE
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1925
_All rights reserved_
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
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COPYRIGHT, 1925,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped.
Printed in the United States of America
by The Cornwall Press
CONTENTS
PART I
I. IN WHICH A VERY GREAT MAN IS KEPT WAITING, AND A MOST
RESPECTABLE ESTABLISHMENT SEVERELY COMPROMISED
II. IN WHICH INSPECTOR BLAIKIE DRAWS HIS CONCLUSIONS, AND LORD
EALING MAKES A PRIVATE INVESTIGATION
III. IN WHICH MR. ALFRED CULPEPPER MAKES AN UNEXPECTED APPEARANCE
IV. IN WHICH SUPERINTENDENT WILSON HEARS THE STORY OF A GREAT
CONCESSION
V. SHOWING THE SORT OF PERSON WHO STAYS AT SUGDEN'S HOTEL, AND THE
HALL PORTER'S OPINION OF BOLSHEVIKS
VI. IN WHICH MR. FRANKLIN EXPLAINS THE WILL OF A MILLIONAIRE, AND
SUGGESTS A MOTIVE
VII. IN WHICH SUPERINTENDENT WILSON MAKES AN ALARMING SUGGESTION,
AND A TAXI-MAN GIVES HIS VIEWS ON PROGRESS
VIII. FEATURING THREE MEN OF BUSINESS, AND SHOWING THAT LAWYERS
HAVE THEIR USES
IX. IN WHICH A CULTIVATED YOUNG MAN IS GIVEN AN AGREEABLE TASK
X. SHOWING WHY PEERS SHOULD WEAR GLOVES, AND HOW MILLIONAIRES ARE
NOT ALWAYS FORTUNATE IN LOVE
XI. IN WHICH HUGH RADLETT TELLS HIS OWN STORY, AND THE READER
LEARNS THAT EVEN POLICEMEN HAVE HEARTS
XII. IN WHICH ARTHUR WHARTON FINDS A TRAVELLING COMPANION, BUT
NOTHING ELSE OF IMPORTANCE
XIII. IN WHICH A BRIGADIER-GENERAL DOES HIS BIT, AND M. PIIP IS
MOST COMMUNICATIVE. BUT THE POLICE ARE QUITE PROPERLY BAFFLED
XIV. IN WHICH LORD EALING SUCCEEDS IN A DESIGN CONCEIVED FOR
REASONS BEST KNOWN TO HIMSELF
XV. IN WHICH MR. JOHN PASQUETT ARRIVES, AND SHOWS PARDONABLE
IMPATIENCE
XVI. IN WHICH MR. PASQUETT QUITE SEES THE POINT
XVII. IN WHICH THE CITY IS PUZZLED, AND ARTHUR WHARTON LETS A
KITTEN OUT OF THE BAG
XVIII. SHOWING HOW ARTHUR WHARTON MET HIS FRIEND AGAIN, AND HOW THE
ARREST OF A CRIMINAL IS NOT ALWAYS WELCOME
XIX. IN WHICH GENERAL BUNKER GETS HIMSELF INTO A PICKLE, AND
SUPERINTENDENT WILSON MAKES A LITTLE TRIP TO FRANCE AND FINDS A
CHARMING YOUNG LADY
XX. IN WHICH A FRIENDSHIP PROCEEDS VERY RAPIDLY, BUT SUPERINTENDENT
WILSON HAS TO BE COMFORTED BY HIS WIFE
PART II
XXI. IN WHICH THE CITY'S DOUBTS ARE RESOLVED, AND TWO FRIENDS START
FOR SIBERIA
XXII. IN WHICH AN INCONSIDERATE RUSSIAN RAISES A GHOST
XXIII. SHOWS HOW ONE MAY SOMETIMES WISH OLD FRIENDS ELSEWHERE
XXIV. "IT MUST BE FEARFULLY DIFFICULT TO BE A GOOD DETECTIVE"
XXV. PROVES HOW IMPORTANT IT IS FOR THE REVENUE SERVICE THAT
PHILOSOPHERS SHOULD HAVE WIVES
XXVI. OF AN OLD SALT, AND HIS DEALINGS WITH A YOUNG LADY
XXVII. IN WHICH A DEVOUT COMMUNIST RECEIVES AN INTOLERABLE INSULT,
BUT TRUTH IS FOUND IN THE MOUTHS OF BABES
XXVIII. TREATS OF CONDUCT MOST UNBECOMING IN A NEPHEW
XXIX. IN WHICH MR. CULPEPPER WRITES A LETTER TO HIS DAUGHTER, AND
LORD EALING IS A LITTLE PREVIOUS
XXX. IN WHICH ARTHUR KEEPS HIS WORD UNDER DIFFICULTIES, AND THE
SUPERINTENDENT HAS A SUDDEN IDEA
XXXI. IN WHICH A LOVERS' IDYLL IS RUDELY INTERRUPTED, BUT JOHN
PASQUETT IS EQUAL TO THE OCCASION
XXXII. SHOWS HOW TOO MANY POLICEMEN SOMETIMES SPOIL THE BROTH
XXXIII. IN WHICH SUPERINTENDENT WILSON GIVES SOME INFORMATION, AND
ASKS FOR SOME MORE
XXXIV. IN WHICH THE MISSING LINKS ARE SUPPLIED, AND ARTHUR WHARTON
RECEIVES A HINT
XXXV. IN WHICH THE AUTHOR WINDS UP HIS STORY, AND JOHN PASQUETT
PROVIDES THE MORAL
THE DEATH OF A MILLIONAIRE
PART I
CHAPTER I
IN WHICH A VERY GREAT MAN IS KEPT WAITING, AND A MOST RESPECTABLE
ESTABLISHMENT SEVERELY COMPROMISED
Perhaps you know Sugden's Hotel in St. James's Square. Or perhaps you
have never heard of it. Most people never have: it all depends on the
world you move in. The casual passer-by never becomes aware of it.
There is no illuminated sign outside--not even a name on the door.
It does not look like a hotel, inside or out. It has all the air of
a handsome, well-appointed private residence, the town house of some
patrician of unexceptionable means and manners. It is not large, but it
is the best hotel in London. Any one who is any one will tell you so.
It is not meant for the likes of us.
Sugden's has two great virtues greatly prized by its patrons. It is
comfortable, and it is quiet. It has both these virtues in the highest
degree, and carries them with an entire lack of ostentation. Most
hotels boast and swagger: Sugden's has no need to blow its own trumpet.
It is there: that is all. You can take it or leave it. It is not like a
palace: it is not like a gargantuan lavatory: it is not a hotel in that
sense of the term. It is just a quiet, gentlemanly house, the resort of
quiet, gentlemanly people who know the best and are in the habit of
getting it every day of their lives.
Sugden's is sure of its social standing--sure of itself and of its
tradition. You cannot simply drive up to its door and hire a room. You
have to be introduced--impeccably. Hugh Restington had this advantage:
his suite had been reserved for him by no less a person than the Earl
of Ealing, K.G.
Sugden's is not in the habit of being put about. It holds itself above
the battle of life. Yet in Sugden's Hotel, on this sharp November
morning, the stage is set for the first act of the drama here presented
to the reader. And at this very moment, as the story opens, there is
an almost perceptible flutter of hearts in Sugden's august vestibule.
The hall porter, the boy in buttons, and the lady in the little office
to the left of the entrance are all just a little flustered by what
you, stout-hearted, democratic reader, doubtless regard as a most
unimportant event. For all that has happened is that the Earl of Ealing
has left his chauffeur to park his great purring motor-car in the
square, and, passing up the broad steps, has asked for Mr. Restington,
adding that he believes he is expected.
"Nothing in that," you say. But, though you may never have heard of
Sugden's, it can hardly be that you have never heard of Lord Ealing.
Have you never heard of the Chevalier Bayard, of the Admirable
Crichton, of Napoleon, of Lord Northcliffe, of Mr. Winston Churchill,
of Lord Leverhulme, and of Sir Eric Geddes? The Earl of Ealing combines
the virtues of them all. He is a great patrician of unblemished
descent; for that little episode of his great-great-grandfather and
the flower-girl counts by now as an honour--the King Cophetua touch.
He is the richest man in England, and president, for the third
successive year, of the Federation of British Enterprises. He has been
a member of several Cabinets--the urbanest of Home Secretaries, the
most popularly militant of War Ministers, as well as the most finished
orator in Parliament. He owns several newspapers, and knows how to
wield the power of the Press. And he is the chairman of the fairest
jewel in the crown of British commercial enterprise--the Anglo-Asiatic
Commercial Corporation. Moreover, this morning's papers contain an
intimation, from "a well-informed correspondent," that His Majesty's
Government, though of the opposite party, has advised the conferring of
a marquisate on this mighty one as the reward of his memorable services
in the recent commercial negotiations with France. Hearts needs must
beat faster at such a paladin's approach.
It is but nine o'clock in the morning--early for the great to be
abroad. But the hall porter knows, and the boy in buttons knows, and
the lady in the little office knows, that Lord Ealing has promised
to take breakfast this morning with Mr. Restington, the American
gentleman who occupies suite number five. With pardonable pride, Mr.
Restington, in ordering breakfast the night before, mentioned the name
of his distinguished guest, and the news spread rapidly round the
hotel. Although Lord Ealing is expected, the mere fact of his arrival
is enough to cause something of a flutter in the hearts of the hall
porter, the boy in buttons, and the lady in the little office, who has
but now been refreshing, out of _Debrett_, her memory of Lord Ealing's
virtues. For Sugden's gives employment only to such as feel a proper
veneration for the great.
But there is more in it than mere proper feeling. Hugh Restington has
ordered breakfast for 9.30, and has given positive orders that he must
not be called until ten past nine o'clock. It is now barely nine; yet
here is Lord Ealing arrived already. Calamity of calamities! He has
arrived half an hour too early: the Marquess of Ealing (for surely
one may anticipate in one's thoughts the coming honour), the Marquess
will be kept waiting. He may be hungry: it is desolating to think of
a hungry marquess. He may be annoyed: great men's tempers are seldom
of the best. He may visit on Sugden's his resentment at the affront.
Dreadful things may happen.
The hall porter assumes his most deferential manner, reserved as a rule
for the goutier princes of the royal blood. "Will your lordship be so
good as to step this way a moment?" He ushers the great man into the
outer lounge next door to the little office. "Mr. Restington, m'lord,
shall be hinformed himmediately." The hall porter always throws in a
few additional aitches at moments such as this. It seems somehow more
respectful. At normal times his aitches are normal.
The porter beckons majestically to the boy in buttons.
"Inform the attendant of suite number five that the Right Hon. the Earl
of Ealing awaits Mr. Restington below."
The boy hurries off. Silence, as of prayer, descends on the vestibule.
A full ten minutes pass. Lord Ealing stands before the fire, frowning
a little. He does not like to be kept waiting. Then at last, after the
silence has grown tense, and Lord Ealing's frown has had time to deepen
into a scowl, down the august steps comes the scurrying boy in buttons,
too agitated to use the lift, and with wide, terror-struck eyes--a
panic figure against the placid background of Sugden's decorative
scheme.
"Mister, I say, Mister," he pants ... "Thomas says ... it's murder.
Help!"
Never before has the hall porter, in his sacred hall, and under the
very eyes of an honoured visitor, been addressed as "mister" by a
minion. The outrage, however, passes unnoticed, for the boy's manner is
enough to show that something is seriously wrong. "What's that?" says
the hall porter, clutching at a chair for support, and overturning it
in his consternation, "Murder? Here? Who would dare?--I'm coming," and
he runs with ungainly steps to the lift, the boy following close on his
heels, drawn with frightful fascination back to the scene of disaster.
The lady in the little office protrudes a frightened head, but dares
not leave her post. Lord Ealing, in the lounge, both sees and hears.
Emerging into the hall, he hesitates for a moment what to do. The lift
shoots up out of sight. He stares for a few seconds after it, then
turns and runs rapidly up the stairs. The lady, with her head still
sticking out over the office counter, is left, making faint, frightened
noises, in sole possession of the field. She stares fixedly at the
empty hall with horror in her eyes.
* * * * *
Suite number five was on the first floor. When Lord Ealing reached the
head of the stairs, he saw the hall porter, with the boy still beside
him, hurrying towards a silent, beckoning figure at the other end of
the main corridor. This was Thomas, the attendant belonging to the
suite. "What's up?" asked the porter, in a hoarse whisper; for the
hotel guests must on no account be disturbed. "What's all this fuss
about?" he added fiercely, as if it were all Thomas's fault that the
serenity of Sugden's had been so rudely disturbed.
"It's in his room," Thomas whispered. "He's not there. I don't like the
look of it."
"Don't like what?" said the porter, brushing past. "Here, I'll see
for myself." The others followed him in. Lord Ealing silently brought
up the rear. None seemed to notice him. It was a measure of the shock
these well-drilled servants had sustained.
The sitting-room which they entered was in perfect order. A cheerful
fire was burning, and a round table set ready for breakfast for two
persons. Nothing amiss so far. "It's in there," said Thomas, pointing
to an open door beyond. The little procession moved across the room,
and looked into Hugh Restington's bedroom.
This room was in utter confusion. The bedclothes had been torn from
the bed, and lay--a crumpled heap--on the floor. A small table which
had stood beside the bed had been overturned, and lay on its side,
surrounded by the objects scattered in its fall--an electric reading
lamp with a broken bulb, the glass trodden into powder, several books,
some papers, and a gold watch with its face shattered. Several chairs
had been thrown down, and the back of one wrenched off in its fall. On
the floor were scattered numerous fragments of rock, piles of clothes
and papers, and other miscellaneous objects--apparently the contents
of two large trunks which stood open--obviously rifled--on the farther
side of the room. In contrast to the confusion, a suit of clothes and
undergarments, all neatly folded, lay on a chair which stood, in the
midst of the debris, miraculously spared in the violent struggle which
had obviously taken place in the room.
"My God," said the hall porter, whose ruddy face had gone
greenish-white, "it looks like murder."
The three men stood still, contemplating the wreckage, uncertain for a
moment what to do. Not so the boy, recovered by now from his fright,
and conscious above all of a delicious excitement at his prominent part
in these dire events. He ran straight to the heap of bedclothes, and
began pulling at them, as if he expected to find a corpse beneath.
His action aroused his elders. Lord Ealing swiftly assumed command.
"Here, come out of that at once," he said. The boy stopped pulling and
turned round.
"Please, sir, there's a great big bloodstain on that there sheet," he
said, as all his memories of Sexton Blake came crowding into his mind.
"You just come here and let it alone. Don't you hear what his lordship
says?" growled the porter, recovering his voice and his authority.
"Begging your lordship's pardon," said Thomas, "there's what looks like
a big bloodstain over there on the wall." He and the hall porter had
become servants again. The boy's action had recalled them to a sense of
their duty.
"Come into the other room, all of you," said Lord Ealing. "There has
been foul play here. Till the police come, nothing must be touched. You
understand that? They must be sent for at once." He spoke brusquely,
the tone of command covering his evident discomposure. "You, what's
your name, go and telephone at once for the police. Ring up Scotland
Yard. Ask the operator for 'official,' and mention my name. Get on to
some one in authority and tell them to send their best man round."
The porter hurried off, and Lord Ealing told Thomas to go and bring the
manager. The boy he bade sternly to sit down in the window-seat and to
sit still. "Don't fidget," he said, as the boy began kicking the seat
beneath him.
For a moment the boy sat still, then he spoke. "M'lord ... m'lord."
"Well, what do you want?" Lord Ealing, who had been staring into the
fire, turned towards him.
"Have you looked in the other bedroom, m'lord?" He pointed towards
another door, on the opposite side of the sitting-room.
Lord Ealing strode to the door and tried it. It was locked. He went on
shaking it for a moment. "Was any one sleeping in here last night?" he
asked.
"Yes, m'lord, the foreign gent what came with the gent what's been
murdered. He slept there. But he's gone.... Lord, I suppose it was him
done it," added the boy, gloating.
"Gone? Who's gone? When?" said Lord Ealing.
"The foreign gent, m'lord. 'E went off first thing this morning, 'e
did. I ordered a taxi for 'im last night ... myself."
"What time did he go?"
"'Bout seven o'clock. They was gettin' of his luggage down just as I
came on duty."
"Who was getting his luggage?"
"Why, Thomas and Mr. Sacheverell--that's 'im that was here just now."
"The hall porter?"
"Yes, 'im and Thomas. It was a 'eavy one, too, that trunk. I saw 'em
carryin' of it."
"Who was the man who went away? Do you know?"
"Funny-looking, foreign bloke, spoke funny, and all that. I 'eard Mr.
Sacheverell sayin' 'e was a Rooshian."
"He was with Mr. ... Restington, was he?"
"I s'pose he was. They was sharin' this 'ere suite.... Do you think 'e
done it, m'lord?"
"Hm, we shall see," said Lord Ealing. "A damned awkward business," he
added, to himself.
At this moment the manager entered, followed by Thomas and the hall
porter. "I have telephoned, my lord," said the porter. "The Inspector
says he will be round in a few minutes."
Mr. Moses Mounteagle, manager of Sugden's Hotel--Sugden himself was
dead and gone long ago--was a picture of distress. A murder--in
Sugden's of all places--was bad enough, a sign of lamentable bad taste
on the part of the murderer. But even that calamity seemed to be
overshadowed in the manager's mind by the awful fact that the crime
had been so committed as to put the great Earl of Ealing to personal
inconvenience.
"I am distressed, my lord, distressed beyond measure. Believe me, my
lord, I had no idea. Your lordship's breakfast.... Your lordship will
perhaps condescend to breakfast in another room. I will give orders at
once. I entreat your lordship to believe...."
"Don't be a fool, Mounteagle," said his lordship. "Never mind my
breakfast."
"I assure you, my lord, it shall not occur again, if your lordship will
allow me...."
Lord Ealing turned his back on the manager, who continued to hover
behind him, muttering heart-broken excuses. "The man's an imbecile,"
said Lord Ealing, to the room at large. He turned to the porter.
"Here, you, you say the police are coming. Whom did you get at the
Yard?"
"Here they are, m'lord," cried the boy, who had slipped to the outer
door during the conversation. A moment later, Inspector Blaikie and a
plain clothes policeman entered the room.
Who knows how wind of calamity gets abroad? Perhaps the lady in
the little office had hinted dreadful things, perhaps some one had
overheard the porter at the telephone. At all events, behind the
police followed a group of curious onlookers--residents in the
hotel, chambermaids, more boys in buttons, a boots or two in shirt
sleeves--a mixed assemblage of jostling humanity in which each asked
the others for news of what was happening, and, even in Sugden's,
social distinctions were for the time half obliterated. All these the
Inspector shut out, as he closed the door behind him and turned the
key. But a ring of anxious faces stared fixedly at the impenetrable
door all through the subsequent proceedings.
A confused medley of voices greeted Inspector Blaikie.
"Who's in charge here?" he asked. "Where's the manager?" Then his
eye fell on Lord Ealing, and his authoritative voice became at once
deferential. "Your lordship perhaps knows ..." he began.
"I can soon tell you all I know of the matter, Inspector. I came here
by appointment at nine o'clock this morning to breakfast with Mr.
Hugh ... Restington. I was asked to wait below in the lounge while word
was sent to him that I had arrived. This boy took the message. A few
minutes later he came running down the stairs, shouting something about
murder. The hall porter--and the boy--then hurried up here, and I
followed them. We found ... what you had better see for yourself ... in
here." Crossing the room, Lord Ealing flung open again the door of Hugh
Restington's bedroom.
Inspector Blaikie cast a keen glance round the room; then, entering
carefully, so as to disturb nothing, he looked round more carefully.
"And where," he asked, "is the body?"
Several voices replied that the body had not yet been found. "We have
made no search: we sent for you at once," said Lord Ealing, "but that
room over there appears to be locked." He pointed to the door of the
other bedroom.
"Another room?" asked the Inspector.
"Yes. I understand it was occupied last night by Mr. Restington's
secretary."
"That is so, my lord," put in the manager. "A Russian," he added, in
the tone of one who imputes a crime.
"Have you the key, Mounteagle?" said Lord Ealing.
"The key? Yes, my lord," said the manager. "But your lordship's
breakfast...."
"Oh, damn my breakfast," said Lord Ealing, really roused at last.
"Where's the key?"
While the manager cringed at Lord Ealing's tone, Thomas produced his
pass-key, and the Inspector unlocked the door, and entered the room.
Lord Ealing stood in the doorway, with the others behind him, peering
in.
The blinds in the room were still down, the bed had obviously been
slept in, and there were all the ordinary signs of recent occupation.
The fitted lavatory basin was still wet, and Blaikie found remains of
soap clinging round the edges. But there was nothing abnormal to be
seen--no sign of the body which the Inspector had half expected to
find. Blaikie stood, looking keenly round. Then he led the way back
into the sitting-room. "I'll examine the place later," he said. "Who
did you say occupied this room?" he asked.
"A Mr. Rosenbaum, Mr. Restington's private secretary," answered the
manager, glancing timidly at Lord Ealing, in fear lest he had again
said the wrong thing.
"And what has become of Mr. Rosenbaum?"
"'E slung 'is 'ook," piped the boy's shrill voice. The manager glanced
at him in horrified silence.
"I understand Mr. Rosenbaum left early this morning," said Lord Ealing.
"You keep your head shut," said Thomas to the boy. "Speak when you're
spoken to, d'y 'ear?"
"The gen'l'man asked a question," said the boy.
"Thomas and I fetched his luggage down at seven o'clock," said the
porter. "He went off in a taxi."
"Mortal heavy it was, too," said Thomas.
"Do you know where he went? Did he leave any address?" asked the
Inspector.
"No, sir. He said Mr. Restington would take charge of any letters that
came for him." It was the hall porter who replied.
"You don't know where he went?"
"I heard him tell the driver Victoria Station."
"You say his luggage was heavy. What was it?"
"One big trunk. It weighed ... it was as much as Thomas and I could
manage to get it down."
"What did this ... Russian look like?"
"Very foreign-looking gentleman, sir. Queer-looking, as you might say.
Not English, I mean."
"Yes, but I want a better description than that."
"Well, sir, he was tallish, and he wore spectacles and a brown beard.
Bushy-like, and his hair was long."
"What colour was it?"
"Well, sir, it wasn't any particular colour. Just brown, it was."
"He had a funny high squeaky voice, sir," said Thomas. "'E spoke very
foreign."
"And 'is eyes gleamed 'orrible," said the boy, who was promptly told to
shut up.
"This trunk," said the Inspector, "was it heavy enough to have
contained a ... dead body?"
The porter started. "Not being in the habit of carrying corpses
myself," he answered, "I can't say as I can rightly tell. But it might
have been."
"It was, sir," said Thomas. "I used to work for a undertaker before I
came here."
Every one stared silently at Thomas for a moment after this revelation
of his past life. Then the Inspector resumed his examination.
Rosenbaum, it appeared, had been wearing a dark brown suit of rough
tweed, of foreign-looking cut. He had a pronounced stoop, and slouched
badly. He seemed to have impressed them all as "not quite a gentleman,"
so the hall porter put it. The Inspector next secured an exact
description of the trunk, which was identified as having formed part of
Hugh Restington's baggage on the previous day. It was then, the porter
said, remarkably light for its size. It was a big brown trunk, leather
covered, and flat topped, and fastened with two straps. Mr. Restington
himself had ordered it to be placed in the sitting-room. But some of
the other trunks had been very heavy indeed--and no wonder, since they
contained all those lumps of rock now lying about the floor of the
bedroom.
"Queer stuff to carry about with you," said the Inspector.
"I can explain that," said Lord Ealing; "they are mineral
specimens--from Siberia."
"Did Mr. Rosenbaum say anything about the weight of his trunk?"
"Yes, sir, he begged our pardon for it. He said it contained
specimens--yes, that's what he said--specimens--he was taking away at
Mr. Restington's orders."
"Did you notice any labels on the trunk?"
"There was one or two in a queer, foreign sort of writing--Rooshian,
I suppose. And there were some others, but I didn't notice," said the
porter.
"Did you notice?" said the Inspector, turning to Thomas.
"Only some steamship labels. I couldn't say exactly what they were."
The Inspector closed his book, and addressed Lord Ealing. "My lord," he
said, "I must telephone at once to Scotland Yard, and put them on this
man Rosenbaum's track. I shall leave everything here just as it is.
Will you be so good as to see nothing is disturbed? I shan't be more
than ten minutes."
"I fear I, too, must telephone," said Lord Ealing. "Of course, I will
stay and see this through; but I must send a message or two first. You
hear, Mounteagle? The Inspector says nothing must be touched."
"Yes, my lord; certainly, my lord. But your lordship's break...."
With an inarticulate sound of fury, Lord Ealing strode from the room.
After repeating his instructions to the manager that nothing must be
touched in his absence, and warning the others, the Inspector followed
Lord Ealing, bidding the plain clothes policeman remain in the
corridor, and keep out the crowd. The eyes of the waiting group outside
the door watched them along the corridor; but the onlookers held their
ground. Suite number five exercised an irresistible fascination.