IN WHICH INSPECTOR BLAIKIE DRAWS HIS CONCLUSIONS, AND LORD EALING
MAKES A PRIVATE INVESTIGATION
Lord Ealing overtook Inspector Blaikie, and descended with him in the
lift. "Well," he asked, "what do you make of it?"
"I very much fear, my lord, that a brutal murder has been committed,
and the body carried off in that trunk."
"But why on earth should the murderer carry off the body? Surely it
would have been more natural to leave it behind."
"Yes, my lord, that's the puzzle."
"Look here, Inspector. There's one thing you ought to know before you
get into touch with the Yard. Restington wasn't the real name of the
man who occupied these rooms. There's a long story behind. I will
explain later on. But you had better know at once...."
In his anxiety, Blaikie interrupted even the great Earl of Ealing.
"Yes, who was he then?"
"His real name was Hugh Radlett. Ah, I see that conveys nothing to you."
"Radlett? I seem to know the name."
"Don't you remember the great Radlett disappearance, seven or eight
years ago?"
"I ought to, my lord, but I can't. Something in America, wasn't it?"
"Yes, Mr. Radlett was the richest man in America--and that means, in
the world."
"It's coming back to me," said Blaikie. "He clean vanished, didn't he,
after some trouble with his wife?"
"Yes, a divorce case. When it was over, he simply disappeared. It made
a great stir, at the time."
"Eight years ago, you say. Had nothing been heard of him ever since?"
"By the police, no. I have been in touch with him for some time past."
"I see. And you say this Mr. Restington was Hugh Radlett. Are you sure
of this, my lord?"
"Absolutely. I was talking to him yesterday afternoon. I'll explain it
all later, Inspector. But I wanted you to realise at once that this is
going to be a really big case. You'll have to use all your wits on it,
Inspector."
"I'll do my best, my lord."
"I'm sure you will. And now, you get on to Scotland Yard and see you
wake them up all you can."
Visions of triumphant success came into Inspector Blaikie's mind. His
career at Scotland Yard had been humdrum enough for the most part, and
in the one great case that had come his way--The Brooklyn Murders--he
had to admit that he had not distinguished himself. But here at length
had come a chance of retrieving his reputation, and establishing his
capacity once and for all. He threw out his chest and made great
resolves. Even his chief at Scotland Yard, Superintendent Wilson, who
was notoriously a hard man to please, should admit his prowess. And
the great Lord Ealing should be shown what a really brainy police
officer could do. The road to promotion was sure if he could please
Lord Ealing. Already Inspector Blaikie was beginning to form a theory
of the crime, and catching this man Rosenbaum ought to be a fairly
simple business. He had so little start. Three hours--a mere nothing.
Encumbered by his gruesome burden, he would be caught red-handed within
the day.
Blaikie found his chief, Superintendent Wilson, at the Yard, and, as a
result of his message, instructions were at once wired to the police
throughout the country to be on the look-out for Rosenbaum and his
trunk. Watch was set at all the ports; it was nearly impossible he
should get away unnoticed. Many a policeman's heart beat faster with
the hope of distinction as the messages from the Yard reached him. In
a few hours, handbills describing Rosenbaum and the trunk were being
posted up on the notice boards. The hunt was up.
Having sent his message over the telephone, merely to say that he would
be late in arriving at his office, Lord Ealing hurried back to Hugh
Restington's--or rather Radlett's--apartments, forcing his way through
the growing crowd which obstructed the corridor. The whole hotel was
buzzing with rumours. It was ten o'clock--an hour since the first
discovery of the crime. The plain clothes man unlocked the door of the
suite for him, and then re-locked it in face of the crowd.
In the sitting-room Lord Ealing found no one remaining except the hotel
manager. Inspector Blaikie was still downstairs at the telephone,
and the plain clothes policeman remained on guard outside. Murder or
no murder, the business of the hotel had to go on, and the manager,
relieved of Lord Ealing's oppressive presence, had recovered his
authority, and peremptorily despatched Thomas, the hall porter, and
the boy in buttons about their daily work. They had been told not to
answer any questions, or give any information, about the crime; and
they were all now parrying with dark hints the eager inquiries of the
hotel residents and of their fellow-servants. A dozen versions of the
mystery, based on these hints, were already abroad.
"I have taken the liberty, my lord," said the hotel manager, with a
wave of the hand indicating a tray on which were glasses, whisky and
soda, and a plate of sandwiches.
"Thank 'ee, Mounteagle," said Lord Ealing, pouring himself out a stiff
whisky and soda. Then he turned again to the manager. "No need to keep
you from your work, Mounteagle. You trot off and see those servants
don't talk too much."
The manager, still humbly apologetic, retired. Just waiting for the
door to close upon him, Lord Ealing sprang into action. He ran to
the writing-table, and, working at feverish speed, went through the
pile of letters and papers which lay upon it, and in an attaché case
which stood there. Apparently, he did not find what he was seeking,
for he darted into Radlett's bedroom, and made a hasty search of the
papers lying upon the floor. He even looked in the pockets of the
clothes lying on a chair. Again his search was apparently fruitless,
for he came back into the sitting-room and opened the drawers of the
writing-table one by one.
A minute later, he heard Blaikie's voice outside, and quickly took up a
negligent attitude on the hearth-rug. Blaikie came in, after exchanging
a word with the policeman outside the door. Lord Ealing, munching a
sandwich and with his glass in his hand, moved towards the tray. "Dry
work, Inspector. Mounteagle is always thoughtful. Help yourself."
"Where's everybody?" asked the Inspector. "I met the manager outside,
and told him to get me ready a full list of all the people in this
hotel, and what he knew about each."
"Yes, I told him to buzz off. He had sent the rest away when I got back
here. I thought you would sooner have the place to yourself."
Blaikie said nothing. For a few minutes they consumed whisky and
sandwiches in silence.
"Now, Inspector," said Lord Ealing, "you'd better have a thorough look
round."
"You were going to tell me, my lord, about Mr. Radlett."
"Oh, all in good time. You have a good look round here, and then I'll
come to the Yard with you, and say what I have to say to some one in
authority. The first thing is to see what there is to be found in these
rooms."
The Inspector was obviously crestfallen: he had hoped for Lord Ealing's
confidence. But it was no use running the risk of offending the great
man. "Very well, my lord, as you think best," he said reluctantly.
"Will you join me in examining the rooms?"
"That's your job, Inspector. I'll leave it to you. But let me watch, if
I may, and any suggestion I have to make...."
Blaikie was a skilled searcher. He seldom missed a clue, though often
enough he failed to realise its significance. He was strong on fact,
weak on inference. In most of his cases, he provided the facts, and
his chief made the deductions. Superintendent Wilson liked working
with him for this reason. He used to say that Blaikie had a nose like
a ferret--and about the brains of a ferret as well. But Blaikie's
chief had no doubts of his own ability, with the invaluable aid of his
wife, to supply all the brains that were needed. He could seldom go
out looking for clues; he had to stick to his office. Blaikie could be
relied on to bring him the clues, and he could rely on himself to spin
truth out of their strands. The Inspector had higher ambitions; but, if
he ever made good, it would be on the basis of his plodding capacity
for detailed observation.
He began now a systematic search of Hugh Radlett's bedroom, and
Lord Ealing followed his movements with close attention. The fallen
bedclothes, carefully shaken out and felt over, yielded nothing fresh.
The stain on the top sheet, about three inches in diameter, was already
dry. On the blanket next to it there was a faint stain, but no blood
had penetrated through the top blanket. Blaikie saw that the stain,
about eight inches from the top of the sheet, and nearly in the middle,
came just about where the turnover would have been--just about the part
of the sheet a sleeper might have tucked up under his chin. The stain
supported the idea that Hugh Radlett had been murderously assaulted
while he was lying in bed--probably asleep.
But he could not have been killed in bed. If he had, whence came the
traces of a deadly struggle in the room--the overturned furniture, the
broken chair, the ugly smear of blood on the far wall? No, Radlett
had been attacked in bed and wounded, but not killed at once. He had
leaped from the bed, carrying the bedclothes with him, and probably
overturning the bedside table and the lamp. He had grappled with his
murderer. More blood had flowed, and somehow, in the swaying struggle,
some had been smeared on the wall, possibly as the two men fought,
possibly as Radlett fell against it in his last agony. The stain on the
wall was about four feet from the ground, just beyond the overturned
chair that was also broken.
The Inspector mentally reconstructed the scene. The murderer creeping
on his victim as he lay asleep--the uplifted knife--the first murderous
blow--the doomed man leaping up--the sharp struggle in the room--the
final collapse of the victim--perhaps a finishing stroke from the
murderer--and then--silence. He told Lord Ealing what he thought had
taken place.
"Silence! But all this struggling must have made an infernal noise.
Some one must have heard," suggested Lord Ealing.
True enough, thought the Inspector. The hard struggle could scarcely
have been soundless. The furniture and the lamp must have made a
clatter as they fell, and--surely Hugh Radlett must have cried out at
least once, unless the murderer had him all the time firmly by the
throat, which seemed hardly probable. Even if he had not been able to
cry out, surely the other noises must have been loud enough to rouse
the occupants of the adjoining rooms. The room below, for instance.
There must have been a regular series of bumps on the ceiling. Very
careful inquiries would have to be made. Some one must have heard. The
time at which the crime had taken place could be established by this
means.
The Inspector went to the outer door and sent his subordinate to make
sure that no one left the hotel until they had been examined. Then he
locked the door and turned back to his search of the room. The three
open trunks against the wall--their ransacked contents lying on the
floor--seemed to tell a plain enough story. The murderer had been
looking for something. Having done his evil deed, he had feverishly
ransacked his victim's luggage. In search of what? Something fairly
small, or all this rummaging would not have been necessary. Clothes
had been ripped up in search of it: the linings of the trunks had been
slit. Jewels? Papers? Money? Probably it was of one or other of these
that the murderer had been in quest. Had he found it?
At this moment the Inspector's eye fell again on the pile of neatly
folded clothes lying on the chair which had escaped overturning in the
general havoc. Clearly the clothes Hugh Radlett had been wearing the
night before. But why were they untouched? Why had the murderer been
at such pains to rip up everything else, only to leave this suit of
clothes undisturbed?--Had he found what he wanted before he came to
them, or had...? Blaikie turned to Lord Ealing.
"It's very curious, my lord, don't you think, this suit of clothes
should have been left undisturbed? Everything else is in such a mess."
Lord Ealing thought a moment. "Perhaps the murderer folded them up
himself," he said.
"Why? How do you mean, my lord?"
"He might have," said Lord Ealing. "Why do you suppose he carried the
body away in the trunk--if he did?"
"Ah, that's not easy to say, my lord. I suppose he needed it for some
purpose."
"It seems to me more likely, Inspector, that this Rosenbaum meant to
remove all traces of the crime. He carried off the body, because he
wanted to make it appear that Radlett had simply disappeared ... as he
did once before, you remember."
"But all this mess ... all these traces of the crime."
"Oh, of course, if I'm right, he meant to remove those too. How will
this fit, Inspector? Rosenbaum meant to carry off the body and get rid
of it somewhere, removing all traces of the crime before he went.
But, on account of the struggle, the whole affair took longer than he
expected, and, by the time he had got the body packed up in the trunk,
it was too late to carry out the rest of his plan. He had already
folded up those clothes on the chair; but he had to leave the rest.
Let's see. He was bound to be ready by seven o'clock, when the men came
for his luggage, and he had not left time enough."
"Hm! That means he must have been running things pretty fine."
"But surely, Inspector, murderers do run things pretty fine. No one
likes being left alone with his victim's corpse longer than he need be."
"You may be right, my lord. But why did he fold up the clothes? If he
wanted to make out that Radlett had disappeared, wouldn't he have taken
his clothes away with him?"
"Evening dress, my dear Inspector. A man would not go off in the
morning in his evening clothes. The underclothes, I admit, are a
difficulty."
"More probably, my lord, the clothes just were on the chair, and
the murderer somehow overlooked them. Most murderers overlook
something--fortunately for the police."
While they were conversing, Blaikie had gathered up the papers lying
scattered on the floor, and carried them into the sitting-room for
investigation later. He now went carefully through the clothes, and
threw them back into the trunks. There was nothing remarkable about
them. Some of the articles were marked "H.R."; others had no marks.
Next he began picking up carefully with the aid of a cloth the
scattered lumps of rock which had also come out of the trunks. Most of
these the murderer had laid in little piles on the floor--a few had
lain strewn among the clothes. Blaikie held one up with a puzzled look.
"Whatever these are," he said, "they ought to be fine stuff for finger
prints, unless the fellow was wearing gloves."
"I can tell you at once what they are," said Lord Ealing. "They are
mineral specimens of gold-bearing ore. Radlett was to have shown them
to me this morning."
Blaikie dusted one of the lumps over with a fine powder--he had, of
course, handled them only with a cloth--and blew the dust away. There
was no trace of finger prints. Patiently he repeated the process with
each lump in turn. He found no traces.
"Nothing there," he said. "The fellow wore gloves. It looks as if he
knew his job."
A further minute examination of the room yielded nothing, for the few
spent matches, the cigarette end, and the few bits of fluff and cotton,
though Blaikie carefully collected them and put them away, were most
unlikely to throw any light on the case. Nor was further search for
finger prints on the various articles of furniture productive of any
result.
"I'll take the sitting-room next," said the Inspector.
Lord Ealing's restlessness increased as Blaikie began to move swiftly
about the room, pausing every minute or so to make a note in his book.
His eyes kept turning back to the writing-table, and every time the
Inspector went near it he made a little nervous movement. By-and-by he
went and stood by it himself, still looking over the scattered heaps
of papers as if he feared he might have missed that of which he was
in search. But Blaikie was too absorbed in his own investigations to
notice Lord Ealing's manner. As he searched and noted, he made his
comments aloud, and drew Lord Ealing's attention to each point that
seemed to him important. First of all, he went systematically over the
floor, though, as he said, there had been too many people in the room
already for very plain traces to be left.
On the thick pile of the sitting-room carpet, however, was still
plainly visible the place where the missing trunk had stood. Near it
the Inspector found traces that something heavy had been dragged along
the floor. There were a few spots of blood on the carpet, directly in
the line from the sitting-room to the trunk. "This confirms it," said
the Inspector. "There's no doubt now he packed the body in the trunk
and took it away."
"But why did he take it away? That is what I want to know. If he didn't
mean to remove all trace of the crime, I can't see for the life of me
why----"
"I think, my lord, you were probably quite right. He did mean to cover
up the traces, but he misjudged the time."
"All this would have taken some hiding. That bloodstain on the sheet,
and the other on the wall, for example. How would he have hidden them?"
The Inspector slapped his thigh with excitement. "I've got it, my lord.
He meant to do the job so that it would leave no trace; but, when he
had made all that mess, he had to give up the idea."
"Why didn't he give up the idea of taking the body away as well?"
"Um ... er ... to prevent it from being recognised as Mr. Radlett's
perhaps."
"No, no, Inspector; if he was Radlett's secretary, he must have known
that I knew who Mr. ... Restington was. It was certain I should tell
the police."
"Of course, my lord, I can't say as to that. You haven't told me your
story." The note of injury had come again into the Inspector's voice.
Meanwhile he was continuing his examination of the sitting-room. On a
side-table stood a portable typewriter of German manufacture, a number
of loose papers, and an attaché case. This was shut, but not locked.
Opening it, Blaikie found that it had already been ransacked and its
lining ripped up in the murderer's search. It had probably been shut,
in order that the men coming in the morning to remove the luggage and
lay breakfast might see no sign of disturbance. Blaikie left the papers
over to examine at leisure.
On the writing-table stood a convenience provided by the hotel for its
guests--a box in which letters could be posted for clearance by the
staff. It was empty, but it occurred to Blaikie that it would be well
worth while to inquire whether any letters had been taken from it on
the previous night. The plain clothes man had by this time returned,
and Blaikie sent him to fetch Thomas, who, as attendant on the suite,
had the duty of clearing the box. Thomas came in a minute later.
"There was no letter in the box last night, m'lord, but there was one
this morning. I am afraid I clean forgot it. I cleared it when I came
in at seven, and meant to take it down with me to the main box in the
hall. Then this dreadful affair put it right out of my head." Thomas
put his hand in his pocket and produced the letter. Lord Ealing held
out his hand to take it from him. But Blaikie at once claimed it, and
he had perforce to pass it over to the Inspector. It bore a typewritten
address: "W. Franklin, Esq., 77 Grays Inn Court, W.C. 1."
"Who's Mr. Franklin, I wonder?" asked the Inspector.
"Mr. Radlett's lawyer," said Lord Ealing. "I know him well. Shall I
take the letter and give it to him?"
"No, my lord. I think it is my duty to open it," said Blaikie, cutting
the envelope open with a pen-knife. Inside were two letters, both
typewritten--one a brief covering note, the other addressed to Radlett
himself. The covering note bore Radlett's autograph signature. It was
typed on the hotel notepaper. It ran as follows:
"DEAR MR. FRANKLIN,--The enclosed, bearing on the matter I
discussed with you yesterday, is a copy of a letter I have just
received on returning to my hotel. I hasten to send it to you, and
will do my best to call to-morrow afternoon and discuss the matter
further.
"Yours sincerely,
"H. RADLETT."
"I suppose that is Mr. Radlett's signature all right?" asked the
Inspector.
Lord Ealing assented. "Undoubtedly it is ... what is the enclosure?" he
inquired.
The Inspector laid it on the table, and both men read it together.
It bore no signature, and no address, and was typewritten, with a
foreign-looking typewriter, on paper which the Inspector pronounced to
be foreign.
"To HUGH RADLETT.
"Sir, we know who you are and we know that you have it with you.
We have followed you from Russia, and you cannot shake us off. If
you value your life, place it in an envelope and despatch it this
evening by your secretary to us. Your secretary is to go, at 11
o'clock to-night, to the station at Piccadilly Circus, and is to
descend the emergency stairs. Forty-five steps down he will stop
and whistle. We will whistle in answer some bars from the song of
the Volga Boatmen. He will give it to the man who whistles that
song. If you do this, you are free. If you do it not, beware. You
know us."
The Inspector read it slowly through. Then he gave a whistle. "And what
was 'it,' and who are 'we,' I wonder?" asked Lord Ealing.
"'It' must be a paper or a jewel--the same the murderer was looking
for. And 'we' are clearly Russians--probably Bolshevik conspirators,"
said the Inspector.
Lord Ealing seemed deep in thought. "Yes," he said, "I can imagine some
people in Russia taking an interest in our friend's movements. But I
can't see what it was they wanted to get hold of, though, of course,
Radlett may easily have had something I know nothing about."
"Of course, my lord, as you have not told me the story, I have no idea
what all this means," said the Inspector. "What puzzles me is how this
fits in with his secretary--the man Rosenbaum--having done the murder.
This makes it look more like the work of outsiders."
"Rosenbaum's a Russian, is he not?"
"Yes; but I mean this letter, coming from outside."
"How do you know it came from outside? May not Rosenbaum have written
it himself? It orders Radlett to hand the document over to him. The
whole story about Piccadilly may be purely a blind--on the evidence, I
should say it probably is."
"I dare say you're quite right, my lord. You mean that Rosenbaum tried
to get Radlett to give the thing up to him by means of this letter,
and, when he wouldn't, murdered him and went off with it."
"Yes, something of that sort. Or he may not have meant to do murder,
but only to search Radlett's room while he was asleep. Perhaps he
drugged him. Then Radlett woke up, and he had to kill him in order to
save himself."
"But, if that's so, why did he order the men the night before to help
him with the trunk in the morning? He wouldn't have needed the trunk
unless there had been a corpse."
"How do you know, Inspector? He may have meant to go off with a quite
ordinary trunkful of clothes."
"I see, and when he had killed his man, that gave him an idea for
getting rid of the body."
"Yes, but working out the truth is your business, not mine. When you
have done here, I will come with you to Scotland Yard. My car is still
outside."
The Inspector, however, had still the other bedroom to examine. He
had only glanced round it before, and had come straight back into the
sitting-room, closing the door behind him. He now approached the door
again, and opened it.