Читать книгу The Eames-Erskine Case (Musaicum Vintage Mysteries) - Dorothy Fielding - Страница 3

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THE door opened noiselessly, and four men came in. They were in plain clothes, and one carried a large box.

"Evening," said the first. "I am Chief Inspector Pointer from New Scotland Yard. These are detectives Watts, Miller and Lester. What's wrong?"

"I 'phoned," a tall young man answered crisply. "I am the manager of the hotel. This is Mr. Beale, an American gentleman to whom this room was let a couple of hours ago. It really belongs to a young fellow who is away for the week-end, but as there was no other room available we assigned it to this gentleman for the one night. Mr. Beale has just told me that there is something wrong about the wardrobe you see there. Kindly investigate that large knot-hole in the back for yourself, Inspector."

The Chief Inspector peered at the hole indicated, ran a finger lightly around it, and inserted it as gently as a mother feeling her baby's tooth. His face showed no change of expression, but, stepping back, he looked the piece of furniture over with the meticulous care of a would-be purchaser hoping to find a flaw, before he got on a chair and examined the top.

"Miller, take your coat off and be doing something outside. See that no one lingers, and notice if any of the doors along the corridor are open."

"Yes, sir." The man vanished.

"The wardrobe evidently stood back against the wall. I take it that it hasn't been tampered with in any way before you rang us up, Mr. Manager?"

"Not by me. This gentleman called me in because he fancied that there was something wrong."

The Chief Inspector looked Mr. Beale over almost as carefully as he had the wardrobe. He did not strike the police officer as the kind of man to be occupying just such an apartment, for the room looked simple, and Mr. Beale did not,—not in the least. "Did you do anything to it, sir?"

The well-dressed, well-manicured, middle-aged man folded his hands over his ample front, pursed up a cruel mouth, and shook his head. "No, Chief, not beyond moving it out and feeling around through that gaping hole same as yourself." His voice wrapped the Stars and Stripes around him.

"I'd be obliged, gentlemen, if you will remain quite still for a few minutes. Lester, I want the usual flashlight photos."

"Yes, sir," and the photographer got to work. The exposures were quickly made.

"Now, then, help Watts to lift the top off, and we'll get the wardrobe on its side. Gently does it."

"Ah-h-h!" came from the two men watching, and the manager made an impulsive forward movement.

"Stand back, sir!" The Chief Inspector's voice was sharp. "Now, another flashlight, Lester."

When this was done, the Chief Inspector unobtrusively picked up a wax vesta which had tumbled out from the wardrobe while the huddled figure inside was lifted on to the bed.

"Good God!" The manager stared at the placid young face bent stiffly to one side: "it's the young fellow himself,—Eames—who took this room hardly a week ago. Why, I had a telephone message from him at five o'clock saying that he was going out of town for the week-end."

"And now it's nine-thirty. Humph! You can positively identify him?"

"Positively."

The Chief Inspector took a letter which one of his men had just found in the dead man's coat pocket. He examined it closely before holding it out to the manager. "It's for you, sir."

The manager started back, and turned a little pale. He did not seem to care for the task of opening it, but after a moment's hesitation he ripped the envelope and read in a low voice:

Enterprise Hotel,

Aug. 4th.

Sir,

Enclosed please find £10 to pay for my bill, and the cheapest funeral possible. It may save time and trouble to know that I have just taken an overdose of morphia, after 'phoning to you to let my room stay as it is until Monday. I am now about to fasten myself into my temporary coffin. I have nothing left to live for. I only regret on your behalf that chance has made your hotel my stepping-off plank. For both our sakes do your best to keep the matter quiet.

Faithfully yours,

Reginald Eames.

"Suicide!" The manager's voice sounded almost triumphant.

Mr. Beale said nothing. With his hands in his pockets he stood staring down at the quiet figure.

"You recognize him too, sir?" Pointer appeared to have eyes in the back of his head, for he stood with his face turned away from the American, still scrutinizing the dead man's letter.

Mr. Beale's small, piercing eyes, which gleamed like mica behind the circles of his horn pince-nez, went dull.

"No, Chief, no. I'm a stranger to this wicked little village of yours. I was just wondering what it is that makes young men throw away their lives so easily for the first pretty face that comes along. I suppose there'll be a girl at the bottom of this case, too." He turned away. "Any objection to a cigar all round?"

"Not unless they're lit," and the Chief Inspector accepted one, too. The manager came out of his abstraction. He had been wondering, among other things, how to give the news of the occurrence to the Press in its least interesting form. "Perhaps you could leave taking him away till one o'clock?"

"Very good, sir. You'll find that we try to be as little in the way as possible. Did he have anything in your safe?"

"No, nothing."

"Now, gentlemen, if you'll both step into another room, I'll join you later to hear any further particulars you can give me. First, sir, kindly point out anything that is yours."

Mr. Beale took up his top-coat and umbrella, while the manager picked up a bag. Watts looked all three over very carefully inside and out, his superior lending a casual hand.

When the police officers were alone they rapidly finished the undressing of the young man. He seemed barely thirty.

"Done no manual work," Watts laid a hand down gently, "or—I'm not so sure. But at any rate not a dandy. No manicuring."

"Has been in the habit of wearing a ring for years, judging by that oval mark, very likely a signet ring. Found one in his pockets?" But nothing was found in the young man's pockets except a handkerchief marked R.E., a fountain pen, a pencil—at whose point the Superintendent gazed meditatively—the keys of the wardrobe and the chest of drawers, and a watch and chain.

The Chief Inspector held the inside pocket of the waistcoat to the light.

"Look at that shiny place. He's been in the habit of carrying a note-book there."

"Very poor watch, and most expensive chain," Watts remarked significantly, "wonder if he's some kind of a hotel-rat?"

"His clothes aren't flashy," Pointer pointed out, "good material and cut, though well-worn. Ah, here's the doctor!"

The surgeon took but a few minutes before he straightened the sheet again. "Dead not less than four hours—and not more than five." He put his thermometer away.

"Died between four-thirty and five-thirty," wrote the police officers. "Cause of death, doctor?"

"Morphia, as far as I can judge at present, and he didn't make the mistake of taking too little. Everything points to a tremendous dose. He drank it probably; so far I've seen no punctures. Autopsy will tell more on Monday," and the Doctor bustled off.

The two detectives turned to the wardrobe.

"Those back panels have been screwed on very badly, sir, and as for this little brass bolt on the door inside—it's a shocking sight." Watts' father was a cabinetmaker and he spoke as an expert.

"Just so. The odd thing is that both seem done by the same bungler!" Pointer was looking carefully at the two specimens of handicraft. "Now Mr. Eames is obviously to be held responsible for the addition of the bolt which was to serve instead of locking the door on the inside, but he could hardly have been interested in the back panels, one would think."

It was quite half an hour later, when, leaving his subordinate at work, the Chief Inspector stepped out into the little corridor.

Miller rose to his feet and pointed at the next door but one to the room the Chief Inspector had just left. "That door was ajar, sir, when I came out. It's stayed shut since."

Pointer glanced at it. "Number eleven," he registered to himself. The room he had just left was number fourteen. There was no number thirteen in the hotel.

"The manager said if you'd go down to the lounge, and knock on the brown door to the right of the stairs, sir, he and the other gent, would be expecting you."

Miller set to work again, extracting tacks from the carpet and replacing them carefully.

Pointer seemed to have a good deal of difficulty in finding his way. He roamed around the service-stairs which passed not far from number fourteen, and even opened a door on the ground floor leading from them into the street. Here a couple of muddy foot-prints kept him busy for some minutes. He measured and traced them before he closed the door noiselessly, and experimented with its locks and bolts. Only then did he drift by a series of detours into the lounge and the manager's private suite.

The manager poured out a whisky and soda, which the Chief Inspector left untouched.

"I'm afraid I must take each of your depositions separately, gentlemen. I'll take your statement first, sir, as I understand it was you who called the manager to No. 14." Pointer got out his book and rapidly entered the date, August 4th—ten-thirty p.m.—Enterprise Hotel, while the manager left to look up his registers.

"My name, Chief, is Augustus P. Beale. I'm a sub-editor of the New York Universe." The police officer inclined his head as though in homage to the mighty journal's name.

"Came over on the Campania for a year's holiday last month,—by the way, here's my passport, but don't tell me that photo's a good one. We landed July 20th. I've been in Paris most of the time since with some friends, got lonely when they left, and came to London. Arrived this morning by the boat train—Calais-Dover—and found everything full. Worked my way around to the Enterprise, and was told that here, too, every room was taken. Threw myself upon the manager's breast with my credentials in both hands, and begged him to take pity on my grey hairs and save me from a bench in the park. He thought awhile, and, taking me by the hand, with a heavenly smile, led me to a room, explained that it really belonged to a man who was spending the weekend in the country, but that if I would let it go at that for one night he would fix me up something better in the morning. I accepted with tears of gratitude, and after dinner in their restaurant settled myself down before a gas-fire with a cup of coffee. It was pouring, as you know, and I sat warming my toes and putting down my expenses. A shilling rolled under the wardrobe and I fished for it with my umbrella. Couldn't get it, then I tried to move the wardrobe out. Its weight surprised me. However, I got it away from the wall at last and recovered my shilling. As I straightened up, the light from the little electric torch I was using fell full into the knot-hole, and I caught a glimpse of what certainly looked like a piece of human skin,—bit of a cheek. I touched it. There's only one thing in the world that feels like that, and that's a dead body. That was enough for me. I went off post-haste for the manager, found him by good luck just outside in the corridor, and brought him back. He sent for you. That's all."

"Thank you, sir." The Chief Inspector handed back the passport. "May I ask the names of your friends in Paris, though I don't suppose for a moment that there'll be any need to use the addresses."

"I only stayed part of the time at private houses. Part of the time I put up at the Crillon. I'm afraid I don't just see my way to giving you my friends' names. You ask about me at the Embassy, Chief: they'll set your mind at rest."

"Thank you, sir, but my mind isn't uneasy. All these questions are only part of the routine." The Chief Inspector smiled that cheery smile of his which the London underworld dreaded more than any frown. "And now, this afternoon—let me see, where did you say you were?"

"The boat didn't get in till about five. The rest of the time till I arrived here about half-past six I spent in taxis driving from hotel to hotel. Anything else, Chief?"

The Chief Inspector assured him that there was nothing else, and suggested that he might like to try one of the very comfortable chairs in the lounge, and that should he meet the manager would he mind asking him to step into his own sitting-room again.

The manager's story was brevity itself. He told of Beale's arrival "about half-past six," his appeal to him to get him some sort of a shelter on such a night. "I believe he offered to share the dog's kennel provided the beast didn't bite. Incidentally, he told me who he was. Of course, I wanted to do my best for such a client, and thought of the only vacant room in the house,—No. 14. It was fresh in my mind, for I had been talking to the booking clerk when the 'phone came through saying that Mr. Eames would be away over the week-end. Of course as a rule we shouldn't dream of letting anyone else occupy a room under such circumstances, but—"

"One moment: who answered the 'phone?"

"The booking-clerk."

"Thank you, sir. Well, so you took Mr. Beale to No. 14. Did you have the room freshly done up for him—I mean, fresh towels and so on?"

"Of course."

"And then?"

"I saw him at dinner in our restaurant, and said a word to the head waiter, then I saw no more of him till he stopped me in the corridor and told me that there was a dead man in his wardrobe."

"Could you repeat his exact words?"

"'Excuse me, Mr. Manager, but do you know that someone's left a dead man in the wardrobe of that room you let me have?'"

"How did he look? Excited? Frightened?"

The manager thought a moment. "Excited, I should say, and trying not to show it."

"And now you, sir, where were you this afternoon?" The manager sat up.

"But look here, Inspector,—why, good God,—I thought it was as clear a case of suicide—" The manager's eyes were almost out of his head.

"Bless you, sir, ten to one this is all only a matter of form. We always do it. Police routine, you know."

"I see. Yes, I see." But obviously it took the manager some effort to focus his mental gaze. "Well, I was all over the place." He named his various movements.

The Chief Inspector's pen flew over the paper.

"That's all, thank you, sir. Will you send me the booking-clerk—unless I'm taking up this room?"

The manager's one desire was that the Chief Inspector should stay in seclusion. Once let a suspicion get about in the hotel that the police were turned loose in it—he thought of them as he might have of the elements of fire or water—and gone would be the hum and stir as of a prosperous hive which rose from all around them.

The story told by the booking-clerk was equally simple.

"Eight days ago—on July twenty-fifth,—about noon, a young man carrying a bag had come into the hotel and asked for a single room on the first floor facing the front. None of these were free for the moment. He had refused to take another, had deposited ten shillings, and asked them to keep him the first one that should be free, giving his name as Reginald Eames. He was back about six o'clock. Meanwhile one had fallen vacant—number fourteen. He took it without looking at it, and registered."

"All your rooms are the same price, I believe?"

"Yes, all. Here's his entry."

The Chief Inspector read, "Reginald Eames. Dentist. Manchester." He compared the writing carefully with the letter found on the dead man.

"I shall want to have that signature photographed," was his only comment. "Well?"

"Well, that's all. I saw him about a bit. He spent all his time in the lounge. This morning I met him at lunch in the restaurant. Seems funny that a man should bother with a meal a few hours before he intends to chuck the whole thing."

The Chief Inspector was not interested in philosophic abstractions. "When did he lunch?"

"I entered at half-past one, just as he was leaving. That's everything I know about the chap except that someone 'phoned up at five o'clock to say that Mr. Eames, of room number fourteen, wished to let us know that he wouldn't be back till Monday morning, as he was spending the week-end in the country with a friend."

"Are you sure of the time?"

The clerk shook his head. "Only there or thereabouts. It wasn't much past, for the five o'clock post hadn't come in, nor much before, for I come on duty at five after my tea, and I had just got back."

"The manager was talking to you when the message came, I understand?"

"Was he? Possibly. I don't remember."

"You think he wasn't?"

"I thought he came up after the post got in. But, of course, I may be wrong. One day's so like another."

"But I understand that he, too, heard the 'phone?"

"He might have done that—the 'phone is to one side of the desk—but I didn't see him."

"Did Mr. Eames give any reason as to why he was determined to have one of the first floor rooms looking into the street?"

"None whatever."

"Were the rooms you offered him instead as good?"

"One was better."

"Has he ever stayed in the hotel before?"

"No."

"Sure?"

"Quite. I came here when the hotel opened."

"Isn't there a balcony running all along your front rooms on the first floor, and also along the rooms of the Marvel Hotel next door?"

"Yes. Both hotels belong to the same management." The Chief Inspector seemed plunged in thought for a moment. "By the way, before I forget it, from which direction did the manager come when he spoke to you after Eames' 'phone had been taken? I want to get the whole scene clear in my mind."

"From the direction of the stairs."

"And now about the voice over the 'phone—it wasn't Eames himself, you think?"

"Sure it wasn't. This sounded like an old chap with a cold in his head."

"Wheezy?"

"More than that. Funniest voice—sort of muffled—I should know it again anywhere."

"A disguised voice," wrote the Chief Inspector.

"Had Eames any friends?"

"Never saw him speak to a soul."

"Did any letters come for him?"

"Not a card."

"How would you say that, generally speaking, he spent his time in the hotel?"

"Smoking cigarettes in the lounge. Of course we've had rotten weather, but I don't think Mr. Eames was out of the house for more than ten minutes at a stretch."

"Did he go out often?"

"Always after each meal. Acted as though he intended to live to be a hundred. And to think that all the time he meant to commit suicide! Why, he might have had any kind of a bust-up." The booking-clerk evidently considered that Eames had wasted a rare chance.

"Now about Mr. Beale's arrival?"

But there the booking-clerk could tell the Chief Inspector nothing fresh.

"And now I want to know what luggage, however small, left the hotel after mid-day today. I'm afraid I'll have to have the day-porter routed out, too."

"I can tell you from the books that there were no departures today after twelve o'clock. As a matter of fact, not a bag left the hotel after a quarter-past eleven. It's one of our strictest rules that nothing leaves a room without first 'phoning down to the clerk to find out if it's all O.K."

"But what about the people in the hotel taking out their bags themselves?"

"Oh, that,—of course—but not this afternoon." The clerk thought back, "You see it's a small hotel, and I'm paid to keep my eyes open. Nobody took out any bag bigger than a woman's wrist-bag after one o'clock. There's no business doing of a Saturday afternoon. The day-porter's gone home and won't be visible till Monday."

"What about when you're off duty, Mr. Page?"

"The manager relieves me for two hours at noon, from one to three, but as the dining-room opens out of the hall, and my table is just by the glass door, I'm as good as in the hall. At seven o'clock the hall-porter takes my place till seven-thirty. But, as I say, I've my eyes on the hall all the time, and if there's any crush I'm out in two twos."

The clerk yawned dismally, and Pointer, with a laugh, let him go, after having him write down the names of any of the occupants of the five balcony rooms which were not known to the management from other visits. There were only two. Numbers eleven and twelve; and of these, number eleven was "expecting to leave" daily.

"Now, who do I see about the service-stairs—who is supposed to keep an eye on them?"

"The housekeeper. She's still up; I'll send her to you."

The housekeeper assured him that at noon by Saturday the service-door just beyond the manager's suite was duly locked and bolted. After that hour it could only be used with her consent and approval. The lower door in the basement—the delivery door proper—was, of course, another matter. The key of the upper door hung in the maids' sitting-room just opposite,—a small room used especially by the maid who waited on the manager.

"That door leads to the maids' sitting-room and to the service-stairs, doesn't it?"

The Chief Inspector pointed to a door opening out of the manager's little lobby. He opened it as he spoke—not for the first time that night.

The housekeeper looked surprised. "Bless me, sir, it doesn't take you police gentlemen long to find your way about."

"And that is the door leading into the street, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"It's not locked now."

"Oh, yes, it is, sir." She laid a confident hand on it to turn in bewilderment as it opened easily.

"Why—why—someone must have undone it!"

"Just so," agreed Pointer dryly. "And the key?"

She opened a door facing the street entrance, and switched on the light. "There it is, hanging where I put it at twelve o'clock."

Pointer raised a weary eyebrow, but he said nothing, and made his way to the lounge, where, after asking both the manager and Mr. Beale to hold themselves in readiness for any possible further questions tomorrow morning, he joined Watts upstairs and spent a strenuous hour with him.

"No key to fit his trunk—no sign of the bag which the booking-clerk and porter saw him carry upstairs,—no sign of a ring,—no scrap of paper nor any mark of identity beyond his signatures,—humph!"

The Chief Inspector dusted his knees carefully and went to the mantelpiece. "Here's a box of wax vestas right enough, the same kind as the vesta I picked up in the wardrobe, but that one was still warm and soft. Burnt down to the last end and dropped burning into the wardrobe when it scorched someone's fingers—whose, Watts?"

Watts shook his head.

"—Not more than half-an-hour before we came into the room, so Eames couldn't have done it, for more reasons than one."

"I saw you try the electric torch in that American gent's bag, sir," Watts threw in.

"Just so. It was out of order. He didn't say a word about that in his evidence downstairs. You noticed those marks on the top of the wardrobe, where someone had evidently passed a stiff brush over it, presumably to do away with any finger marks or streaks?"

"I did, sir. And wasn't his—I mean Mr. Beale's—clothes-brush in a fearful state. He did look put out when you picked it up first thing."

The Chief Inspector nodded with a grim smile. "Aye, he did. He might have thought it less of a give-away if he'd known that all along he had a fine smear of dust on the under part of his sleeve. A smear that could only have been got up there. The manager's coat was clean, though that proves little. I hope you noticed the washstand before the doctor washed his hands?"

Watts was an honest young fellow, and he flushed by way of answer.

"The towel was damp, so was the soap. So was the inside of the basin. The jug was half empty, but there wasn't a drop of water in the pail. Whatever water had been used had been flung out of the window. It's been pouring so hard all day that a bit more or less would never be noticed. But the fact is odd. Why should anyone mind pouring the basin into the pail?"

"The water was too black after that wardrobe top," laughed Watts. The Chief Inspector was popular with his men, and Watts was, moreover, a distant connection.

"Then that chest of drawers. You know the feeling of using a key after a pass-key?"

"As though the lock were stuck, sir?"

"Just so. I turned the key very slowly, and each drawer had been last opened with a pass-key, or rather locked with one. And that smell of tobacco when we opened them—same smell as Mr. Beale's cigars. And that dusting of cigar ash on one of the ties. I shouldn't wonder if this is going to turn into a very funny case, Watts. I shouldn't wonder at all."

Watts' eyes brightened. A "funny case" from the point of view of the police often leads to promotion, and though Pointer was the youngest Chief Inspector at the Yard, Watts believed he could unravel any tangle. Pointer lived in Bayswater. He liked its open squares and clearer air. He shared three rooms there with a friend, James O'Connor, now a bookbinder, but during the War a very successful member of the Secret Service. Talkative, gossipy, and secretive was the Celt. Only a few had any idea of the hard core of blue steel that lay beneath his apparent easy-going cheeriness. Pointer was one of these few. He and O'Connor had worked once together, the one openly representing the law, the other secretly endangering his life every moment of the day while tracking down a German-American-Irish plot. O'Connor never referred to those days, though, had his means permitted, he would have liked to continue his hazardous work; but with peace he had to turn his attention to making a livelihood, and being single-minded in all his doings, he refused absolutely to be drawn into any of his friend's problems except as the merest onlooker.

It always gave the Chief Inspector genuine pleasure to step from the little lobby into the huge living-room which the two men used in common. He saw richer rooms often, but never one which suited him so well, with its ivory walls and paint, kept up to the mark by his own neat brush, the thick, short, draw-curtains of apple-green silk to the four windows, the chair covers of a Persian pattern—green leaves rioting over a cream ground, with here and there a pomegranate or a blue bird—book cases in quiet walnut stood against the walls.

Pointer's large writing desk, and O'Connor's equally huge table, filled the corners by the windows. In one open fireplace logs were heaped, the other was kept free for burning papers. The soft brightness of his home was like a friendly hand clasp to the weary police officer after the rain outside.

O'Connor smiled up at him and pointed to the table.

"Mrs. Able is thirsting for your blood. I told her to leave the things the last time she brought them in. I couldn't face her again." He turned out an electric hot-plate as he spoke.

A vegetable soup, a dish of Tatar bitokes—savory balls of beefsteak and marrow and seasonings pounded to perfection and browned to a turn, a well-made potato salad, some crisp rolls, and a glass of light wine made Pointer ready for another stretch of work if need be.

When the meal was cleared away by his landlady, who ruled the two men with her cooking, he filled his pipe from a beautiful covered jar of modern Japanese enamel where gold fish glittered among green waves. Jim's tobacco lived in a dull blue pot at the other end, and in the middle stood the room's one useless ornament, a carved Chinese ball-puzzle, fine as a birch leaf and showing ball within ball in tantalizing glimpses of color. It typified his calling to the policeman. He picked it up again and turned it gently to and fro.

"Yes," he said ruminatingly, "get hold of your key and you'll open up all right. But how to get hold of your key—"

"I thought the Meredith case was practically over," murmured O'Connor through clouds of smoke.

"Finished at eight. I've another case on now, and rather a stiff one, or all signs belie it. It's a hotel case, and you know how I feel about them."

"Still, old chap, you did very well with that robbery down at Ramsgate. It gave you your leg-up."

There was nothing Pointer enjoyed more than talking his cases over with his friend, whose discretion was as much to be trusted as his own. Not that he often got an opinion out of the Irishman, but the mere reciting aloud of the various phases of a problem in itself helped to clear his mind.

"They are the very devil all the same. You never know where you are. Take a private house—and the servants, the furniture, the rooms, the very walls can give you points, but a hotel! How can you follow up a hundred or so possible criminals? Personally, if I ever go in for a murder I should never dream of choosing any other place."

"A murder case, eh?"

"Did I say so? Well, see what you think. This is how things stand at present."

He told of his call to the Enterprise and the results of the inquiry so far.

"Why don't you think it's a suicide, what's wrong with that letter?" Jim handed it back. "You say the writing is the same as on the register."

"By the same hand you'd think, but this letter's been written with an ordinary pen, same nib and ink as is supplied in the hotel bedroom, yet Eames had a filled fountain-pen in his pocket. He signed the register with it, why didn't he use It to write this letter with? It wasn't as if he had been trying to disguise his handwriting. Then the way he was huddled into the wardrobe looked as if his feet had been shoved in first and the rest of his body afterwards. You'll see what I mean when I show you Lester's photos on Monday. His coat and tie were half over his head at the back. And where is his trunk key? You might say that he got rid of his bag beforehand to save tracing his home, but he left the trunk. Then why not leave the key? And the things he had put into the wardrobe from his bed and wash-stand—pajamas, shaving-tackle, and that sort of thing—well, of course a man might lock himself into a pitch-dark wardrobe and then proceed to tidy all the articles neatly against the front, but it's difficult to see why."

"Especially if he was drugged. Sure it wasn't an overdose of whisky? That would explain so many puzzles." O'Connor loved to impersonate guileless curiosity at these talks. It moved the Chief Inspector to a fury at times which the Irishman took as a tribute to his histrionic powers.

"Any finger prints?" he asked after a moment.

It was Pointer's turn to get even. He gazed on his friend as on a man past praying for. "Any fingerprints? How many things were there, do you suppose, that that American and the Manager between them hadn't pawed over? There was a regular finger-mark jam over everything. Now I'll tell you another thing. His socks and small things were in the two top-drawers. Nothing could have been tidier. Even his spare shoelaces had rubber bands to keep them trim. His underwear, in the top long drawer, looked as if it were ready for an inspection, but his things in the bottom drawer—two pairs of trousers and a coat—seemed as though they had been flung in during an earthquake."

"Inference—someone was chiefly concerned in pockets." Jim was so interested that he forgot his role.

"Aye, just so. His trunk was in the same muddle. And remember, no letters, no papers!"

"You said his trunk and underwear were all oldish and all marked R.E.?"

"They are."

There was silence for some time in the room. Then: "I shall put a personal in all Monday's papers offering a reward of three pounds for any information concerning his watch. Thank Heaven, watches have numbers. That may lead us somewhere. Eames' clothes have a Colonial look to me, and his umbrella has a Toronto mark on it, but as far as I can see, the watch is our best chance to find out who he really is, and where he comes from. He entered himself as a dentist, but that pencil in his pocket was sharpened either by an artist or a draftsman of some kind."

"What about the American?"

"Aye, what about him? And what about the manager, too?"

"The manager? You think he shares your opinion as to the advantages of a hotel for—let us call it working off old scores?"

"I stopped on my way home to look up his record," Pointer continued unmoved; "it's his first job of the kind. But his father was manager of the Metropole at Scarborough. There's nothing against his character so far."

"Ah, just let him wait till you have another go at him."

"The Enterprise has always been a well conducted house under him."

"Say no more," begged O'Connor, "his guilt seems piling up with every second."

"I hope to trace that 'phone call on Monday."

"Disguised voice making you think of the manager? Sherlock Holmes putting two and two together after having looked at the answer in the back of the book." O'Connor laid down his tool to strike an attitude.

"The manager might have sent it, that's my only point so far."

"And what about the American, the one you have your eye on because you think he threw his wash-water out of the window? What else have you ag'in him?"

"He recognized Eames. Or at least he knows something about him, about his death possibly. I'll bet you anything you like I'm not mistaken. His control over his face is what you'd expect from a big newspaper' man, but just for a second, when he thought no one was watching, he looked down at Eames' face with—well, there was recognition of some kind in his eye, and a lot besides—a lot! I had my small looking-glass in my hand under my handkerchief and was studying him."

"The Embassy seems a good reference. Perhaps he was bluffing when he gave it you?"

Pointer shook his head. "I don't think so. Mr. Beale is a somebody all right, or I'm much mistaken."

"You certainly ought to know the genuine article. You see enough of the imitation. And now I suppose some downtrodden underling of yours is keeping a skinned orb upon both these desperate criminals?" Jim got up and stretched himself.

"They are that!" responded the other fervently.

"Alf!" called O'Connor a little later from his opened bedroom door.

"Well?" came in a muffled voice.

"If it was Beale who searched those drawers why that jumbled haste? Sure he didn't need to fetch the manager till he was ready? Same brainwave applies to the manager and yourself."

Pointer made no reply.

"Another thought. If Eames committed suicide why fasten himself up in a hotel wardrobe. Why not choose a bench in the park?" persisted the seeker after enlightenment.

The banging of the door between the two rooms was the only reply.