Читать книгу Charlie Chan Carries On - Earl Derr Biggers - Страница 5

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FTER this surprising statement, Duff was silent for a moment, staring into space. Kent, the hotel manager, appeared in the doorway, his round face still harassed and worried.

“I thought perhaps I might be of some help here,” he remarked.

“Thank you,” Duff replied. “I should like to interview the person who first came upon this crime.”

“I rather thought you might,” the manager answered. “The body was found by Martin, the floor waiter. I have brought him along.” He went to the door and beckoned.

A servant with a rather blank face, much younger than most of his fellows, entered the room. He was obviously nervous.

“Good morning,” said Duff, taking out his note-book. “I am Inspector Duff, of Scotland Yard.” The young man’s manner became even more distressed. “I want you to tell me everything that happened here this morning.”

“Well, sir, I—I had an arrangement with Mr. Drake,” Martin began. “I was to rouse him every morning, there being no telephones in the rooms. He preferred to breakfast below, but he was fearful of oversleeping. A bit of a job it was, sir, to make him hear, him being so deaf. Twice I had to go to the housekeeper for a key, and enter the room.

“This morning, at a quarter before eight, I knocked at his door. I knocked many times, but nothing happened. Finally I went for the housekeeper’s key, but I was told it had disappeared yesterday.”

“The housekeeper’s key was lost?”

“It was, sir. There was another master key below-stairs, and I went for that. I had no thought of anything wrong—I had failed to make him hear me on those other mornings. I unlocked the door of this room and came in. One window was closed, the curtain was down all the way. The other was open and the curtain was up, too. The light entered from there. Everything seemed to be in order—I saw the ear-telephone on the table, Mr. Drake’s clothes on a chair. Then I approached the bed, sir—and it was a case of notifying the management immediately. That—that is all I can tell you, Inspector.”

Duff turned to Kent. “What is this about the housekeeper’s key?”

“Rather odd about that,” the manager said. “This is an old-fashioned house, as you know, and our maids are not provided with keys to the rooms. If a guest locks his door on going out, the maids are unable to do the room until they have obtained the master key from the housekeeper. Yesterday the lady in room 27, next door, a Mrs. Irene Spicer, also a member of Doctor Lofton’s party, went out and locked her door, though she had been requested not to do so by the servants.

“The maid was forced to secure the housekeeper’s key in order to enter. She left it in the lock and proceeded about her work. Later, when she sought the key, it had disappeared. It is still missing.”

“Naturally,” smiled Duff. “It was in use, no doubt, about four o’clock this morning.” He looked at Hayley. “Deliberately planned.” Hayley nodded. “Any other recent incidents around the hotel,” he continued to Kent, “about which we should know?”

The manager considered. “Yes,” he said. “Our night-watchman reports two rather queer events that took place during the night. He is no longer a young man and I told him to lie down in a vacant room and get a little rest. I have sent for him, however, and he will see you presently. I prefer that you hear of these things from him.”

Lofton appeared in the doorway. “Ah, Inspector Duff,” he remarked. “I find a few of our party are still out, but I am rounding up everybody possible. They will all be here, as I told you, by ten o’clock. There are a number on this floor, and——”

“Just a moment,” Duff broke in. “I am particularly interested in the occupants of the rooms on either side of this one. In 27, Mr. Kent tells me, there is a Mrs. Spicer. Will you kindly see if she is in, Doctor Lofton, and if so, bring her here?”

Lofton went out, and Duff stepped to the bed, where he covered over the face of the dead man. As he returned from the alcove, Lofton reentered, accompanied by a smartly dressed woman of about thirty. She had no doubt been beautiful, but her tired eyes and the somewhat hard lines about her mouth suggested a rather gay past.

“This is Mrs. Spicer,” Lofton announced. “Inspector Duff, of Scotland Yard.”

The woman stared at Duff with sudden interest. “Why should you wish to speak with me?” she asked.

“You know what has happened here this morning, I take it?”

“I know nothing. I had breakfast in my room, and I have not until this moment been outside it. Of course, I have heard a great deal of talking in here——”

“The gentleman who occupied this room was murdered in the night,” said Duff, tersely, studying her face as he spoke. The face paled.

“Murdered?” she cried. She swayed slightly. Hayley was quick with a chair. “Thank you,” she nodded mechanically. “You mean poor old Mr. Drake? Such a charming man. Why—that’s—that’s terrible.”

“It seems rather unfortunate,” Duff admitted. “There is only a thin door between your room and this. It was locked at all times, of course?”

“Naturally.”

“On both sides?”

Her eyes narrowed. “I know nothing of this side. It was always locked on mine.” Duff’s little stratagem had failed.

“Did you hear any noise in the night? A struggle—a cry, perhaps?”

“I heard nothing.”

“That’s rather odd.”

“Why should it be? I am a sound sleeper.”

“Then you were probably asleep at the hour the murder took place?”

She hesitated. “You’re rather clever, aren’t you, Inspector? I have, of course, no idea when the murder took place.”

“Ah, no—how could you? At about four this morning, we believe. You have heard no one talking in this room within—say—the last twenty-four hours?”

“Let me think. I went to the theater last night——”

“Alone?”

“No—with Mr. Stuart Vivian, who is also in our party. When I returned about twelve everything was very quiet here. But I did hear talking in this room—last evening, while I was dressing for dinner. Quite loud talking.”

“Indeed?”

“It seemed, as a matter of fact, to be almost—a quarrel.”

“How many people were involved?”

“Only two. Two men. Mr. Drake and——” She stopped.

“You recognized the other voice?”

“I did. He has a distinctive voice. Doctor Lofton, I mean.”

Duff turned suddenly to the conductor of the party. “You had a quarrel with the dead man in this room last evening before dinner?” he asked sternly. Distress was evident on the doctor’s face.

“Not precisely—I wouldn’t call it that,” he protested. “I had dropped in to acquaint him with to-day’s arrangements, and he began at once to criticize the personnel of the party. He said some of our members were not of the sort he had expected.”

“No wonder he said that,” put in Mrs. Spicer.

“Naturally, my reputation is dear to me,” Lofton went on. “I am not accustomed to that kind of criticism. It is true that this year, owing to bad business conditions at home, I have been forced to accept two or three people who would not ordinarily be taken. But whatever their station in life, they are quite all right, I’m certain. I resented Mr. Drake’s remarks, and no doubt the conversation became a bit heated. But it was hardly the type of misunderstanding that would lead to anything”—he nodded toward the bed—“like this.”

Duff turned to the woman. “You heard none of that conversation?”

“I couldn’t make out what was said, no. Of course I didn’t particularly try. I only know they seemed quite intense and excited.”

“Where is your home, Mrs. Spicer?” Duff inquired.

“In San Francisco. My husband is a broker there. He was too busy to accompany me on this tour.”

“Is this your first trip abroad?”

“Oh, no, indeed. I have been over many times. In fact, I’ve been around the world twice before.”

“Really? Great travelers, you Americans. I am asking the members of Doctor Lofton’s party to gather in a parlor on the ground floor at once. Will you be good enough to go down there?”

“Of course. I’ll go immediately.” She went out.

The finger-print man came over and handed the luggage strap to Duff. “Nothing on it, Mr. Duff,” he remarked. “Wiped clean and handled with gloves after that, I fancy.”

Duff held up the strap. “Doctor Lofton, have you ever noted this strap on the luggage of any of your—er—guests? It appears to be——” He stopped, surprised at the look on the conductor’s face.

“This is odd,” Lofton said. “I have a strap identically like that on one of my old bags. I purchased it just before we sailed from New York.”

“Will you go get it, please,” the inspector suggested.

“Gladly,” agreed the doctor, and departed.

The hotel manager stepped forward. “I’ll go see if the watchman is ready,” he said.

As he left the room, Duff looked at Hayley. “Our conductor seems to be getting into rather deep water,” he remarked.

“He was wearing a wrist-watch,” Hayley said.

“So I noticed. Has he always worn it—or was there a watch on the end of a platinum chain? Nonsense. The man has everything to lose by this. It may wreck his business. That’s a pretty good alibi.”

“Unless he is contemplating a change of business,” Hayley suggested.

“Yes. In that case, his natural distress over all this would be an excellent cloak. However, why should he mention that he owns a similar strap——”

Lofton returned. He appeared to be slightly upset. “I’m sorry, Inspector,” he remarked. “My strap is gone.”

“Really? Then perhaps this one is yours.” The detective handed it over.

The doctor examined it. “I’m inclined to think it is,” he said.

“When did you last see it?”

“On Monday night, when I unpacked. I put the bag into a dark closet, and haven’t touched it since.” He looked appealingly at Duff. “Some one is trying to cast suspicion on me.”

“No doubt about that. Who has been in your room?”

“Everybody. They come in and out, asking questions about the tour. Not that I think any member of my party is involved. The whole of London has had access to my room the past five days. The maids, you will recall, asked us not to lock our doors on going out.”

Duff nodded. “Don’t distress yourself, Doctor Lofton. I don’t believe you would be such a fool as to strangle a man with a strap so readily identified. We’ll drop the matter. Now tell me—do you know who has that room there?” He indicated the connecting door on the other side. “Room 29, I fancy.”

“That is occupied by Mr. Walter Honywood, a very fine gentleman, a millionaire from New York. One of our party.”

“If he is in, will you please ask him to step here, and then return to the task of gathering up your people below?”

After the doctor had gone, Duff rose and tried the door leading from Drake’s room into number 29. It was locked from the side where he stood.

“Great pity about the strap,” Hayley commented softly. “It lets Doctor Lofton out, I fancy.”

“It probably does,” Duff agreed. “Unless the man’s remarkably subtle—it’s my strap—naturally I wouldn’t use it—it was stolen from my closet—no, men aren’t as subtle as that. But it’s rather unfortunate, for I don’t feel like making a confidant of the conductor now. And we shall need a confidant in that party before we are finished——”

A tall handsome man in his late thirties was standing in the doorway leading to the hall. “I am Walter Honywood, of New York,” he said. “I’m frightfully distressed about all this. I have, you know, room 29.”

“Come in, Mr. Honywood,” Duff remarked. “You know what has happened, I perceive.”

“Yes. I heard about it at breakfast.”

“Please sit down.” The New Yorker did so. His face was a bit florid for his age, and his hair graying. He had the look of a man who had lived hard in his short life. Duff was reminded of Mrs. Spicer—the deep lines about the mouth, the weary sophisticated light in the eyes.

“You knew nothing about the matter until you were told at breakfast?” the detective inquired.

“Not a thing.”

“That’s odd, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean?” An expression of alarm flashed across Honywood’s face.

“I mean—in the next room, you know. You heard no cry, no struggle?”

“Nothing. I’m a sound sleeper.”

“You were sleeping, then, when this murder took place?”

“Absolutely.”

“Then you know when it took place?”

“Well—well, no, of course not. I was merely assuming that I must have been asleep—otherwise I should no doubt have heard——”

Duff smiled. “Ah, yes—I see. Tell me—the door between your room and this was always locked?”

“Oh, yes.”

“On both sides?”

“Absolutely.”

Duff lifted his eyebrows. “How do you know it was locked on this side?”

“Why—why, the other morning I heard the floor waiter trying to rouse the old gentleman. I unlocked the door on my side, thinking we could reach him that way. But his side was locked.”

Honywood’s man-of-the-world air had deserted him. He was perspiring, and his face had turned a sickly gray. Duff watched him with deep interest.

“I seem to have heard your name somewhere.”

“Perhaps. I’m a theatrical producer in New York, and I’ve done a little of that sort of thing in London. No doubt you have heard also of my wife—Miss Sybil Conway, the actress. She has appeared on your side.”

“Ah, yes. Is she with you?”

“She is not. We had a slight disagreement about two months ago, and she left me and came over to San Remo, on the Italian Riviera. She is there now. Our tour touches there, and I am hoping to see her, smooth over our difficulties, and persuade her to go the rest of the way around the world with me.”

“I see,” Duff nodded. The New Yorker had taken out a cigarette, and was holding a lighter to it. His hand trembled violently. Looking up, he saw the detective staring at him.

“This affair has been a great shock to me,” he explained. “I got to know Mr. Drake on the boat, and I liked him. Then too, I am not in the best of health. That is why I came on this tour. After my wife left me, I had a nervous breakdown, and my doctor suggested travel.”

“I’m sorry,” said Duff. “But it’s rather odd, isn’t it, Mr. Honywood, that a man who has just had a nervous breakdown should be such—a sound sleeper?”

Honywood appeared startled. “I—I have never had any trouble that way,” he replied.

“You’re very fortunate,” Duff told him. “I am meeting all the members of your party on the ground floor.” He explained this again, and sent the New Yorker below to await him. When the man was out of hearing Duff turned to Hayley.

“What do you make of that, old chap?” he inquired.

“In a frightful funk, wasn’t he?”

“I don’t believe I ever saw a man in a worse,” Duff agreed. “He knows a lot more than he’s telling, and he’s a badly rattled lad. But confound it, that’s not evidence. Slowly, old man—we must go slowly—but we mustn’t forget Mr. Honywood. He knew when the murder took place, he knew that the door was locked on both sides. And he has been suffering from a nervous breakdown—we’ll have to admit he looks it—yet he sleeps as soundly as a child. Yes, we must keep Mr. Honywood in mind.”

Kent came in again, this time accompanied by an old servant who was built along the general lines of Mr. Pickwick.

“This is Eben, our night-watchman,” the manager explained. “You’ll want to hear his story, Inspector?”

“At once,” Duff answered. “What have you to tell, Eben?”

“It’s this way, sir,” the old man began. “I make my rounds of the house every hour, on the hour, punching the clocks. When I came on to this floor last night, on my two o’clock round, I saw a gentleman standing before one of the doors.”

“Which door?”

“I’m a bit confused about it, sir, but I think it was number 27.”

“Twenty-seven. That’s the Spicer woman’s room. Go on.”

“Well, sir, when he heard me, he turned quickly and came toward where I was standing, at the head of the stairs. ‘Good evening,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I’m on the wrong floor. My room is below.’ He had the air of a gentleman, a guest, so I let him pass. I fancy I should have questioned him, sir, but here at Broome’s we have never had any queer doings—up to now—so I didn’t think of it.”

“You saw his face?”

“Quite clearly, sir. The light was burning in the corridor. I saw him, and I can identify him if he is still about.”

“Good.” Duff rose. “We’ll have you look over the members of Doctor Lofton’s party immediately.”

“One moment, sir. I had another little adventure.”

“Oh, you did? What was that?”

“On my four o’clock round, when I reached this floor, the light was no longer burning. Everything was black darkness. ‘Burnt out,’ I thought, and I reached for my electric torch. Suddenly, as I put my hand to my pocket, I was conscious of some one standing at my side. Just felt him there, sir, breathing hard in the quiet night. I got the torch out and flashed it on. I saw the person was wearing gray clothes, sir—and then the torch was knocked from my hand. We struggled there, at the top of the stairs—but I’m not so young as I once was. I did get hold of the pocket of his coat—the right-hand pocket—trying to capture him and he trying to break away. I heard the cloth tear a bit. Then he struck me and I fell. I was out for a second, and when I knew where I was again, he had gone.”

“But you are certain that he wore a gray suit? And that you tore the right-hand pocket of his coat?”

“I’d swear to those two points, sir.”

“Did you get any idea at this time that you were dealing with the same man you had encountered on your two o’clock round?”

“I couldn’t be sure of that, sir. The second one seemed a bit heavier. But that might have been my imagination, as it were.”

“What did you do next?”

“I went down-stairs and told the night porter. Together we searched the entire house as thoroughly as we could without disturbing any of the guests. We found no one. We debated about the police—but this is a very respectable and famous hotel, sir, and it seemed best——”

“Quite right, too,” the manager put in.

“It seemed best to keep out of the daily press, if possible. So we did nothing more then, but of course I reported both incidents to Mr. Kent when he arrived this morning.”

“You’ve been with Broome’s a long time, Eben?” Duff inquired.

“Forty-eight years, sir. I came here as a boy of fourteen.”

“A splendid record,” the inspector said. “Will you please go now and wait in Mr. Kent’s office. I shall want you later on.”

“With pleasure, sir,” the watchman replied, and went out.

Duff turned to Hayley. “I’m going down to meet that round the world crowd,” he remarked. “If you don’t mind a suggestion, old chap, you might get a few of your men in from the station and, while I’m holding these people below-stairs, have a look at their rooms. Mr. Kent will no doubt be happy to act as your guide.”

“I should hardly put it that way,” said Kent gloomily. “However, if it must be done——”

“I’m afraid it must. A torn bit of watch-chain—a gray coat with the pocket ripped—it’s hardly likely you’ll succeed, Hayley. But of course we dare not overlook anything.” He turned to the finger-print expert and the photographer, who were still on the scene. “You lads finished yet?”

“Just about, sir,” the finger-print man answered.

“Wait for me here, both of you, and clear up all odds and ends,” Duff directed. He went with Hayley and Kent into the hall. There he stood, looking about him. “Just four rooms on this corridor,” he remarked. “Rooms 27, 28 and 29, occupied by Mrs. Spicer, poor Drake and Honywood. Can you tell me who has room 30—the only one remaining? The one next to Honywood?”

“That is occupied by a Mr. Patrick Tait,” Kent replied. “Another member of the Lofton party. A man of about sixty, very distinguished-looking—for an American. I believe he has been a well-known criminal lawyer in the States. Unfortunately he suffers from a weak heart, and so he is accompanied by a traveling companion—a young man in the early twenties. But you’ll see Mr. Tait below, no doubt—and his companion too.”

Duff went alone to the first floor. Doctor Lofton was pacing anxiously up and down before a door. Beyond, Duff caught a glimpse of a little group of people waiting amid faded red-plush splendor.

“Ah, Inspector,” the doctor greeted him. “I haven’t been able to round up the entire party as yet. Five or six are still missing, but as it’s nearly ten, they should be in soon. Here is one of them now.”

A portly, dignified man came down the corridor from the Clarges Street entrance. His great shock of snow-white hair made him appear quite distinguished—for an American.

“Mr. Tait,” said Lofton, “meet Inspector Duff, of Scotland Yard.”

The old man held out his hand. “How do you do, sir?” He had a deep booming voice. “What is this I hear? A murder? Incredible. Quite incredible. Who—may I ask—who is dead?”

“Just step inside, Mr. Tait,” Duff answered. “You’ll know the details in a moment. A rather distressing affair——”

“It is, indeed.” Tait turned and with a firm step crossed the threshold of the parlor. For a moment he stood, looking about the group inside. Then he gave a strangled little cry, and pitched forward on to the floor.

Duff was the first to reach him. He turned the old man over, and with deep concern noted his face. It was as blank as that of the dead man in room 28.