Title: Charlie Chan Carries On (abridged edition)
Author: Earl Derr Biggers
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0700761.txt
Language:  English
Date first posted: June 2007
Date most recently updated: June 2007

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Title: Charlie Chan Carries On (abridged edition)
Author: Earl Derr Biggers




CHAPTER I - RAIN IN PICCADILLY


Chief Inspector Duff, of Scotland Yard, was walking down Piccadilly in
the rain. Faint and far away, beyond. St. James's Park, he had just heard
Big Ben on the Houses of Parliament strike the hour of ten.

Though naturally of a serene and even temperament, Inspector Duff was at
the moment in a rather restless mood. Only that morning a long and
tedious case had come to an end as he sat in court and watched the judge,
in his ominous black cap, sentence an insignificant, sullen-looking
little man to the scaffold.

Duff moved on, his ulster wrapped close about him.

With no definite destination in mind, Duff wandered along down
Piccadilly. It was a thoroughfare of memories for him, and now they
crowded about him. Up to a short time ago he had been divisional
detective-inspector at the Vine Street station, and so in charge of the
C. I. D. in this fashionable quarter. Feeling the need of companionship,
Duff skirted the circle and disappeared down a darker thoroughfare. A
bare two hundred yards from the lights and the traffic he came upon a
grim building with iron bars at the ground floor windows and a faintly
burning lamp before it. In another moment he was mounting the familiar
steps of Vine Street Police Station.

Divisional Inspector Hayley, Duff's successor at this important post, was
alone in his room. A spare, weary-looking man, his face brightened at
sight of an old friend.

"Come in, Duff, my boy," he said. "I was feeling the need of a chat."

"Glad to hear it," Duff answered. He removed the dripping hat, the soggy
ulster, and sat down. Through the open door into the next room he noted a
group of detectives, each armed with a halfpenny paper. "Rather quiet
evening, I take it?"

"Yes, thank heaven," Hayley replied. "We're raiding a night club a bit
later--but that sort of thing, as you know, is our chief diversion
nowadays. By the way, I see that congratulations are again in order."

"Congratulations?" Duff raised his heavy eyebrows.

"Yes--that Borough case, you know. Special commendation for Inspector
Duff from the judge--splendid work--intelligent reasoning--all that sort
of thing."

Duff interrupted him. "I had luck," he said. "Don't forget that. As our
old chief, Sir Frederic Bruce, always put it--hard work, intelligence and
luck, and of these three, luck is the greatest by far."

"Ah, yes--poor Sir Frederic," Hayley answered.

"Been thinking about Sir Frederic to-night," Duff continued. "Thinking
about him, and the Chinese detective who ran down his murderer."

Hayley nodded. "The chap from Hawaii. Sergeant Chan--was that the name?"

"Charlie Chan--yes. But he's an inspector now, in Honolulu."

"You hear from him then?"

"At long intervals, yes." Duff lighted his pipe. "Busy as I am, I've kept
up a correspondence. Can't get Charlie out of my mind, somehow. I wrote
him a couple of months ago, asking for news of himself."

"And he answered?"

"Yes--the reply came only this morning." Duff took a letter from his
pocket. "There are, it appears, no news," he added, smiling.

Hayley leaned back, in his chair. "None the less, let's hear the letter,"
he suggested.

Duff drew two sheets of paper from the envelope and spread them out. For
a moment he stared at those lines typed in another police station on the
far side of the world. Then, a faint smile still lingering about his
lips, he began to read in a voice strangely gentle for a Scotland Yard
inspector:

"Revered and Honorable Friend:

"Kindly epistle from you finished long journey with due time elapsed, and
brought happy memories of past floating into this despicable mind. What
is wealth? Write down list of friends and you have answer. Plenty rich is
way I feel when I know you still have space in honorably busy brain for
thoughts of most unworthy C. Chan.

"Turning picture over to inspect other side, I do not forget you. Never.
Pardon crude remark which I am now about to inscribe, but such suggestion
on your part is getting plenty absurd. Words of praise you once heaped
upon me linger on in memory, surrounded always by little glow of unseemly
pride.

"Coming now to request conveyed in letter regarding the news with me,
there are, most sorry to report, none whatever. Water falls from the
eaves into the same old holes, which is accurate description of life as I
encounter it. Homicides do not abound in Honolulu. The calm man is the
happy man, and I offer no hot complaint. Oriental knows that there is a
time to fish, and a time to dry the nets.

"But maybe sometimes I get a little anxious because there is so much
drying of the nets. Why is that? Can it be that Oriental character is
slipping from me owing to fact I live so many years among restless
Americans? No matter. I keep the affair hidden. I pursue not very
important duties with uncommunicative face. But it can happen that I sit
some nights on lanai looking out across sleepy town and suffer strange
wish telephone would jangle with important message. Nothing doing, to
quote my children, who learn nice English as she is taught in local
schools.

"I rejoice that gods have different fate waiting for you. Often I think
of you in great city where it is your lot to dwell. Your fine talents are
not allowed to lie like stagnant water. Many times the telephone
jangles, and you go out on quest. I know in heart that success will
always walk smiling at your side. I felt same when I enjoyed great
privilege of your society. Chinese, you know, are very psychic people.

"How kind of you to burden great mind with inquiry for my children.
Summing up quickly, they number now eleven. I am often reminded of wise
man who said: To govern a kingdom is easy; to govern a family is
difficult. But I struggle onward. My eldest daughter Rose is college
student on mainland. When I meet for first time the true cost of American
education, I get idea much better to draw line under present list of
offspring and total up for ever.

"Once more my warmest thanks for plenty amiable letter.

"Maybe some day we meet again, though appalling miles of land and water
between us make thought sound dreamy. Accept anyhow this fresh offering
of my kind regards. May yet have safe walk down every path where duty
leads you. Same being wish of

"Yours, with deep respect,

"Charlie Chan."


Duff finished reading and slowly folded the missive. Looking up, he saw
Hayley staring at him, incredulous.

"Charming," said the divisional inspector. "But--er--a bit naive. You
don't mean to tell me that the man who wrote that letter ran down the
murderer of Sir Frederic Bruce!"

"Don't be deceived by Charlie's syntax," Duff laughed. "He's a bit deeper
than he sounds. Patience, intelligence, hard work--Scotland Yard has no
monopoly on these. Inspector Chan happens to be an ornament to our
profession, Hayley. Pity he's buried in a place like Honolulu."

"Perhaps," Hayley answered. "You're not, going, are you?" For Duff had
risen.

"Yes--I'll be getting on to my diggings," the chief inspector replied. "I
was rather down when I came in, but I feel better now."

He helped Duff on with his coat. "Here's hoping you won't be long between
cases. Not good for you. When the telephone on your desk--what was it
Chan said?--when it jangles with an important message--then, my boy,
you'll be keen again."

"Yes," nodded the chief inspector. "You're quite right. Good-by, and luck
at the night club."

At eight o'clock on the following morning, Inspector Duff walked briskly
into his room at Scotland Yard. He was his old cheery self; his cheeks
were glowing, a heritage of the days on that Yorkshire farm whence he had
come to join the Metropolitan Police.

At eight-fifteen his telephone jangled suddenly. Duff stopped reading and
stared at it. It rang again, sharply, insistently, like a call for help.
Duff laid down his paper and picked up the instrument.

"Morning, old chap." It was Hayley's voice. "Just had a bit of news from
my sergeant. Sometime during the night a man was murdered at Broome's
Hotel."

"At Broome's," Duff repeated. "You don't mean at Broome's?'

"Sounds like an incredible setting for murder, I know," Hayley replied.
"But none the less; it's happened. Murdered in his sleep--an American
tourist from Detroit, or some queer place like that. I thought of you at
once--naturally, after our chat last evening. Then, too, this is your old
division. No doubt you know your way about in the ruffled atmosphere of
Broome's. I've spoken to the superintendent. You'll get your orders in a
moment. Hop into a car with a squad and Join me at the hotel at your
earliest."

Hayley rang off.

In another moment he was climbing into a little green car at the curb.
Out of nowhere appeared a fingerprint expert and a photographer. Silently
they joined the party. The green car traveled down the brief length of
Derby Street and turned to the right on Whitehall.

The rain of the night before had ceased, but the morning was thick with
fog. He sat hunched up in the little car, his eyes trying vainly to
pierce the mist that covered the road ahead--the road that was to lead
him far. He had completely forgotten everything else--including his old
friend, Charlie Chan.

Nor was Charlie at that moment thinking of Duff. On the other side of the
world this February day had not yet dawned--it was, in fact, the night of
the day before. The plump inspector of the Honolulu police was sitting on
his lanai, serenely indifferent to fate. From that perch on Punchbowl
Hill he gazed across the twinkling lights of the town at the curving
shore line of Waikiki, gleaming white beneath the tropic moon. He was a
calm man, and this was one of the calmest moments of his life.

He had not heard the jangle of the telephone on Inspector Duff's desk at
Scotland Yard. No sudden vision of the start of that little green car had
flashed before him. Nor did he see, as in a dream, a certain
high-ceilinged room in Broome's famous London hotel, and on the bed the
forever motionless figure of an old man, strangled by means of a luggage
strap bound tightly about his throat.

Perhaps the Chinese are not so very psychic after all.



CHAPTER II - FOG AT BROOME'S HOTEL


To speak of Broome's Hotel in connection with the word murder is more or
less sacrilege, but unfortunately it must be done. This quaint old
hostelry has been standing in Half Moon Street for more than a hundred
years, and it is strong in tradition, though weak in central heating and
running water.

A servant with the bearing of a prime minister rose from his chair behind
the porter's desk and moved ponderously toward the inspector.

"Good morning, Peter," Duff said. "What's all this?"

Peter shook a gloomy head. "A most disturbing accident, sir. A gentleman
from America--the third story, room number 28, at the rear. Quite
defunct, they tell me." He lowered his quavering voice. "It all comes of
letting in these outsiders," he added.

"No doubt," Duff smiled. "I'm sorry, Peter.

"We're all sorry, sir. We all feel it quite keenly. Henry!" He summoned a
youngster of seventy who was feeling it keenly on a near-by bench. "Henry
will take you wherever you wish to go, Inspector. If I may say so, it is
most reassuring to have the inevitable investigation in such hands as
yours."

"Thanks," Duff answered. "Has Inspector Hayley arrived?"

"He is above, sir, in the--in the room in question."

Duff turned to Henry. "Please take these men up to room 28," he said,
indicating the photographer and the finger-print man who had entered with
him. "I should like a talk first with Mr. Kent, Peter. Don't
trouble--he's in his office, I presume?'

"I believe he is, sir. You know the way."

Kent, the managing director of Broome's, was resplendent in morning coat,
gray waistcoat and tie. A small pink rose adorned his left lapel. For all
that, he appeared to be far from happy. Beside his desk sat a
scholarly-looking, bearded man, wrapped in gloomy silence.

"Come in, Mr. Duff, come in," the manager said, rising at once. "This is
a bit of luck, our first this morning. To have you assigned here--that's
more than I hoped for. It's a horrible mess, Inspector, a horrible mess.
If you will keep it all as quiet as possible, I shall be eternally--"

"I know," Duff cut in. "But unfortunately murder and publicity go hand
in hand. I should like to learn who the murdered man was, when he got
here, who was with him, and any other facts you can give me."

"The chap's name was Hugh Morris Drake," answered Kent, "and he was
registered from Detroit--a city in the States, I understand. He arrived
on last Monday, the third, coming up from Southampton on a boat train
after crossing from New York. With him were his daughter, a Mrs. Potter,
also of Detroit, and his granddaughter. Her name--it escapes me for the
moment." He turned to the bearded man. "The young lady's name, Doctor
Lofton?"

"Pamela," said the other, in a cold, hard voice.

"Ah, yes--Miss Pamela Potter. Oh, by the way, Doctor Lofton--may I
present Inspector Duff, of Scotland Yard?" The two men bowed. Kent turned
to Duff. "The doctor can tell you much more about the dead man than I
can. About all the party, in fact. You see, he's the conductor."'

"The conductor?" repeated Duff, puzzled.

"Yes, of course. The conductor of the tour," Kent added. "What tour? You
mean this dead man was traveling in a party, with a courier?" Duff looked
at the doctor.

"I should hardly call myself a courier," Lofton replied. "Though in a
way,-of course I am. Evidently, Inspector, you have not heard of Lofton's
Round the World Tours, which I have been conducting for some fifteen
years, in association with the Nomad Travel Company."

"The information had escaped me," Duff answered dryly. "So Mr. Hugh
Morris Drake had embarked on a world cruise, under your direction--"

"If you will permit me," interrupted Lofton, "it is not precisely a world
cruise. That term is used only in connection with a large party traveling
the entire distance aboard a single ship. My arrangements are quite
different--various trains and many different ships--and comparatively a
very small group."

"What do you call a small group?" Duff inquired.

"This year there are only seventeen in the party," Lofton told him. "That
is--there were last night. Today, of course, there are but sixteen."

Duff's stout heart sank. "Plenty," he commented. "Now, Doctor Lofton--by
the way, are you a medical doctor?"

"Not at all. I am a doctor of philosophy. I hold a large number of
degrees--"

"Ali; yes. Has there been any trouble on this tour before last night? Any
incident that might lead you to suspect an enmity, a feud--"

"Absurd!" Lofton broke in. He got up and began to pace the floor. "There
has been nothing, nothing. We had a very rough crossing from New York,
and the members of the party have really seen very little of one another.
They were all practically strangers when they arrived at this hotel last
Monday. We-have made a few excursions together since, but they are
still--Look here, Inspector!" His calmness had vanished, and his face was
flushed and excited beneath the beard. "This is a horrible position for
me. My life work, which I have built up by fifteen years of effort--my
reputation, my standing--everything is likely to be smashed by this. In
heaven's name, don't begin with the idea that some member of the party
killed Hugh Drake. It's impossible. Some sneak thief--some hotel
servant--"

"I beg your pardon," cried the manager hotly. "Look at my servants.
They've been with us for years. No employee of this hotel is involved in
any way. I'd stake my life on it?'

"Then someone from outside," Lofton said. His tone was pleading. "I tell
you it couldn't have been any one in my group. My standards are high--the
best people, always." He laid his hand on Duff's arm. "Pardon my
excitement, Inspector. I know you'll be fair. But this is a serious
situation for me."

"I know," Duff nodded. "I'll do all I can for you. But I must question
the members of your party as soon as possible. Do you think you could get
them together for me in one of the parlors of the hotel?"

"I'll try," Lofton replied. "Some of them may be out at the moment, but
I'm certain they'll all be in by ten o'clock. You see, we are taking the
ten-forty-five from Victoria, to connect with the Dover-Calais boat."

"You were taking the ten-forty-five from Victoria," Duff corrected him.

"Ah, yes, of course--we were leaving at that hour, I should have said.
And now--what now, Inspector?"

"That's rather difficult to say," Duff answered. "We shall see. I'll go
up-stairs, Mr. Kent, if I may."

He did not wait for an answer, but went quickly out. A lift operator who
was wont to boast of his great-grandchildren took him up to the third
floor. In the doorway of room 28, he encountered Hayley.

"Oh, hello, Duff," the man from Vine Street said. "Come in."

Duff entered a large bedroom in which the odor of flashlight powder was
strong. The room was furnished in such fashion that, had Queen Victoria
entered with him, she would have taken off her bonnet and sat down in the
nearest rocking-chair. She would have felt at home. The bed stood in an
alcove at the rear, far from the windows. On it lay the body of a man
well along in years--the late sixties, Duff guessed. It did not need the
luggage strap, still bound about the thin throat of the dead man, to tell
Duff that he had died by strangulation, and the detective's keen eyes saw
also that the body presented every evidence of a frantic and fruitless
struggle.

"Divisional surgeon been here?" Duff inquired.

"Yes--he's made his report and gone," Hayley replied. "He tells me the
chap's been dead about four hours." Duff stepped forward and removed,
with his handkerchief, the luggage strap, which he handed to the
finger-print man.. Then he began a careful examination of all that was
mortal of Mr. Hugh Morris Drake, of Detroit. He lifted the left arm, and
bent back the clenched fingers of the hand. As he prepared to do the same
with the right, an exclamation of interest escaped him. From between the
lean stiff fingers something glittered--a link from a slender, platinum
watch-chain. Duff released the object the right hand was clutching, and
it fell to the bed. Three links of the chain, and on the end, a small
key.

Hayley came close, and together they studied the find as it lay on Duff's
handkerchief. On one side of the key was the number "3260" and on the
other, the words: "Dietrich Safe and Lock Company, Canton, Ohio." Duff
glanced at the blank face on the pillow.

"Good old boy," he remarked softly. "He tried to help us. Tore off the
end of his assailant's watch-chain--and kept it, by gad."

He knelt beside the bed for a closer examination of the floor. Some one
entered the room, but Duff was for the moment too engrossed to look up.
When he finally did so, what he saw caused him to leap to his feet,
giving the knees of his trousers a hasty brush in passing. A slender and
attractive American girl was standing there, looking at him with eyes
which, he was not too busy to note, were something rather special in that
line.

"Ah--er--good morning," the detective said.

"Good morning," the girl answered gravely. "I'm Pamela Potter, and Mr.
Drake--was my grandfather. I presume you're from Scotland Yard. Of course
you'll want to talk to one of the family."

"Naturally," Duff agreed. Very composed and sure of herself, this girl
was, but there were traces of tears about those violet eyes. "Your mother,
I believe, is also with this touring party?"

"Mother is prostrated," the girl explained. "She may come round later.
But just at present I am the only one who can face this thing. What can I
tell you?"

"Can you think of any reason for this unhappy affair?"

The girl shook her head. "None whatever. It's quite unbelievable, really.
The kindest man in the world--not an enemy. It's preposterous, you know."

"He was, I take it, a very wealthy man?"

"Of course."

"And who--" Duff paused. "Pardon me, but it's a routine question. Who
will inherit his money?"

The girl stared at Duff. "Why, I hadn't thought of that at all. But
whatever isn't left to charity will, I suppose, go to my mother."

"And in time--to you?"

"To me and my brother. I fancy so. What of it?"

"Nothing, I imagine. When did you last see your grandfather? Alive, I
mean."

"Just after dinner, last evening. Mother and I were going to the theater,
but he didn't care to go. He was tired, he said, and besides he couldn't,
poor dear, enjoy a play."

Duff nodded. "I understand. Your grandfather was deaf."

The girl started. "How did you know--oh--" Her eyes followed those of the
inspector to a table where an ear-phone, with a battery attached, was
lying.. Suddenly she burst into tears, but instantly regained her
self-control. "Yes--that was his," she added, and reached out her hand.

"Do not touch it, please," Duff said quickly.

"Oh, I see. Of course not. He wore that constantly, but it didn't help
a lot. Last night he told us to go along, that he intended to, retire
early, as he expected to-day would be tiring--we were all starting for
Paris, you know. We warned him not to oversleep--our rooms are on the
floor below. He said he wouldn't, that he had arranged with a waiter to
wake him every morning just before eight. We were down in the lobby
expecting him to join us for breakfast at eight-thirty, when the manager
told us--what had happened."

"Your mother was quite overcome?"

"Why not--such horrible news? She fainted, and I finally got her back to
her room."

"Naturally. May I step out of character to say that I'm frightfully
sorry?"

"Thank you. What else can I tell you?"

"Nothing now. I hope very much that you can arrange for me to see your
mother a moment before I go. I must, you understand. But we will give her
another hour or so. In the meantime, I am meeting the other members of
your travel party in a parlor below. I won't ask you to come--"

"Nonsense," cried the girl. "Of course I'll come."

"I'm glad you feel that way. We'll hunt the answer together, Miss
Potter," Inspector Duff said.

"And we'll find it," she added.

"We've got to."

For the first time she glanced at the bed. "He was so--so kind to
me," she said brokenly, and went quickly out.

Duff stood looking after her. "Rather a thoroughbred, isn't she?" he
commented to Hayley. "Amazing how many American girls are. Well, let's
see. What have we? A bit of chain and a key. Good as far as it goes."

Hayley looked rather sheepish. "Duff, I have been an ass," he said.
"There was something else. The surgeon picked it up from the bed--it was
lying beside the body. Just carelessly, thrown there, evidently."

"What?" Duff asked tersely.

"This." Hayley handed over a small, worn-looking bag of wash leather,
fastened at the top with a slip cord. It was heavy with some mysterious
contents. Duff stepped to a bureau, unloosed the cord, and poured the
contents out on the bureau top. For a time he stared, a puzzled frown on
his face.

"What--what should you say, Hayley?"

"Pebbles," Hayley remarked. "Little stones of various shapes and sizes.
Some of them smooth--might have been picked up from a beach." He
flattened out the pile with his hand. "Worthless little pebbles, and
nothing else."

"A bit senseless, don't you think?" murmured Duff. He turned to one of
his men. "I say--just count these, and put them in the bag." As the
officer set about his task, Duff sat down in an old-fashioned chair, and
looked slowly about the room. "The case has its points," he remarked.

"It has indeed," Hayley answered.

"A harmless old man, making a pleasure trip around the world with his
daughter and granddaughter, is strangled in a London hotel. A very deaf,
gentle old soul, noted for his kindnesses and his benefactions. He rouses
from sleep, struggles, gets hold of part of his assailant's watch-chain.
But his strength fails, the strap draws tighter, and the murderer, with
one final gesture, throws on to the bed a silly bag of stones. What do
you make of it, Hayley?"

"I'm rather puzzled, I must say."

"So am I. But I've noted one or two things. You have too, no doubt?"

"I was never in your class, Duff."

"Rot. Don't be modest, old chap. You haven't used your eyes, that's all.
If a man stood beside a bed, engaged in a mortal struggle with another
man, his shoes would disturb the nap of the carpet to some extent.
Especially if it were an old thick carpet such as this. There is no
indication of any such roughing of the carpet, Hayley."

"No?"

"None whatever. And--take a look at the bed, if you please."

"By Jove!" The eyes of the Vine Street man widened. "I see what you mean.
It's been slept in, of course, but--"

"Precisely. At the foot and at one side, the covers are still tucked into
place. The whole impression is one of neatness and order. Was there a
struggle to the death on that bed, Hayley?"

"I think not, Duff."

"I'm sure there was not." Duff gazed thoughtfully about him. "Yes--this
was Drake's room. His property is all about. His ear-phone is on the
table. His clothes are on that chair. But something tells me that Hugh
Morris Drake was murdered elsewhere."



CHAPTER III - THE MAN WITH A WEAK HEART


After 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 notebook. "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 belowstairs, 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.

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."

"Really? 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."

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, 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.



CHAPTER IV - DUFF OVERLOOKS A CLUE


The next instant a young man was at Duff's side, a good-looking American
with frank gray eyes, now somewhat startled. Removing a small, pearl-like
object from a bottle, he crushed it in his handkerchief, and held the
latter beneath the nose of Mr. Patrick Tait.

"Amyl nitrite," he explained, glancing up at the inspector. "It will
bring him around in a moment, I imagine. It's what he told me to do if he
had one of these attacks."

"Ah, yes. You are Mr. Tait's traveling companion?"

"I am. My name's Mark Kennaway. Mr. Tait is subject to this sort of
thing, and that is why he employed me to come with him." Presently the
man on the floor stirred and opened his eyes. He was breathing heavily
and his face was whiter than his shock of snowy hair.

Duff had noted a door on the opposite side of the room and crossing to
it, he discovered that it led to a smaller parlor, among the furnishings
of which was a broad and comfortable couch. "Best get him in here, Mr.
Kennaway," he remarked. "He's still too shaky to go up-stairs." Without
another word, he picked the old man up in his arms and carried him to the
couch. "You stay here with him," Duff suggested. "I'll talk to you both a
little later." Returning to the larger room, he closed the door behind
him.

He turned to Lofton. "Some of your party are still missing?"

"Yes--five. Not counting the two in the next room--and of course, Mrs.
Potter."

"No matter," shrugged Duff. "We may as well get started." He drew a small
table into the middle of the floor, and sitting down beside it, took out
his notebook. "I presume every one here knows what has happened. I refer
to the murder of Mr. Drake in room 28 last night." No one spoke, and Duff
continued. "Allow me to introduce myself. I am Inspector Duff, of
Scotland Yard. I may say, first of all, that this entire group, and all
the other members of your party, must remain together here at Broome's
Hotel until released by the authorities at the Yard."

A little man, with gold-rimmed eyeglasses, leaped to his feet. "Look
here, sir," he cried in a high shrill voice, "I propose to leave the
party immediately. I am not accustomed to being mixed up with murder. In
Pittsfield, Massachusetts, where I come from--"

"Ah, yes," said Duff coldly. "Thank you. I scarcely knew where to begin.
We will start with you." He took out a fountain pen. "Your name, please?"

"My name is Norman Fenwick." He pronounced it Fen-nick.

"Are you traveling alone?"

"No, I'm not. My sister is with me." He indicated a colorless,
gray-haired woman. "Miss Laura Fenwick."

Duff wrote again. "Now tell me, do either of you know anything about last
night's affair?"

Mr. Fenwick bristled. "Just what do you mean by that sir?"

"Come, come," the inspector protested. "I've a bit of a job here and no
time to waste. Did you hear anything, see anything, or even sense
anything that might have some bearing on the case?"

"Nothing, sir, and I can answer for my sister."

"Have you been out of the hotel this morning? Yes? Where?"

"We went for a stroll through the West End. A last look at London. We are
both quite fond of the city. That's only natural, since we are of British
origin--"

"Yes, yes. Pardon me, I must get on--"

"But one moment, Inspector. We desire to leave this party at once. At
once, sir. I will not associate--"

"I have told you what you must do. That matter is settled."

"Very well, sir. I shall interview our ambassador. He's an old friend of
my uncle's--"

"Interview him by all means," snapped Duff. "Who is next? Miss Pamela, we
have had our chat. And Mrs. Spicer--I have seen you before. That
gentleman next to you--"

The man answered for himself. "I am Stuart Vivian, of Del Monte,
California." He was bronzed, lean, and would have been handsome had it
not been for a deep scar across the right side of his forehead. "I must
say that I'm quite in sympathy with Mr. Fenwick. Why should we be put
under restraint in this affair? Myself, I was a complete stranger to the
murdered man--I'd never even spoken to him. I don't know any of these
others, either."

"With one exception," Duff reminded him.

"Ah--er--yes. With one exception."

"You took Mrs. Spicer to the theater last evening?"

"I did. I knew her before we came on this tour."
"You planned the tour together?"

"A ridiculous question," the woman flared.

"Aren't you rather overstepping the bounds?" cried Vivian angrily. "It
was quite a coincidence. I hadn't seen Mrs. Spicer for a year, and
imagine my surprise to come on to New York and find her a member of the
same party. Naturally there was no reason why we shouldn't go on."

"Naturally," answered Duff amiably. "You know nothing about Mr. Drake's
murder?"

"How could I?"

"Have you been out of the hotel this morning?"

"Certainly. I took a stroll--wanted to buy some shirts at the Burlington
Arcade."

"Make any other purchases?"

"I did not."

"What is your business, Mr. Vivian?"

"I have none. Play a bit of polo now and then."

"Got that scar on the polo field, no doubt?"

"I did. Had a nasty spill a few years back."

Duff looked about the circle. "Mr. Honywood, just one more question for
you."

Honywood's hand trembled as he removed the cigarette from his mouth.
"Yes, Inspector?"

"Have you been out of the hotel this morning?"

"No, I--I haven't. After breakfast I came in here and looked over some
old copies of the New York Tribune."

"Thank you. That gentleman next to you?" Duff's gaze was on a middle-aged
man with a long hawk-like nose and strikingly small eyes. Though he was
dressed well enough and seemed completely at ease, there was that about
him which suggested he was somewhat out of place in this gathering.

"Captain Ronald Keane," he said.

"A military man?" Duff inquired.

"Why--er--yes--"

"I should say he is a military man," Pamela Potter put in. She glanced at
Duff. "Captain Keane told me he was once in the British army, and had
seen service in India and South Africa."

Duff turned to the captain. "Is that true?"

"Well--" Keane hesitated. "No, not precisely. I may have been--romancing
a bit. You see--on board a ship--a pretty girl--"

"I understand," nodded the detective. "In such a situation one tries to
impress, regardless of the truth. It has been done before. Were you ever
in any army, Captain Keane?"

Again Keane hesitated. But the Scotland Yard man was in too close touch
with records to make further lying on this point advisable. "Sorry," he
said. "I--er--the title is really honorary. It means--er--little or
nothing."

"What is your business?"

"I haven't any at present. I've been--an engineer."

"How did you happen to come on this tour?"

"Why--for pleasure, of course."

"I trust you are not disappointed. What do you know about last night's
affair?"

"Absolutely nothing."

"I presume that you, too, have been out for a stroll this morning?"

"Yes, I have. I cashed a check at the American Express Office."

"You were supposed to carry only Nomad checks," put in Doctor Lofton; his
business sense coming to the fore.

"I had a few of the others," Keane replied. "Is there any law against
that?"

"The matter was mentioned in our agreement--" began Lofton, but Duff cut
him off.

"There remains only the gentleman in the corner," said the detective. He
nodded toward a tall man in a tweed suit. This member of the party had a
heavy walking-stick, and one leg was stiff in front of him. "What is your
name, sir?" Duff added.

"John Ross," the other replied. "I'm a lumber man from Tacoma,
Washington. Been looking forward to this trip for years, but I never
dreamed it would be anything like this. My life's an open book,
Inspector. Give the word, and I'll read aloud any page you select."

"Scotch, I believe?" Duff suggested.

"Does the burr still linger?" Ross smiled. "It shouldn't--Lord knows I've
been in America long enough. I see you're looking at my foot, and since
we're all explaining our scars and our weaknesses, I'll tell you that
when I was down in the redwoods some months ago, I was foolish enough to
let a tree fall on my right leg. Broke a lot of bones, and they haven't
knitted as they should."

"That's a pity. Know anything about this murder?"

"Not a thing, Inspector. Sorry I can't help you. Nice old fellow, this
Drake. I got pretty well acquainted with him on the ship--he and I both
had rather good stomachs. I liked him a lot."

"I imagine that you, too--"

Ross nodded. "Yes--I went for a walk this morning. Fog and all.
Interesting little town you've got here, Inspector. Ought to be out on
the Pacific Coast."

Duff stood up. "You will all wait here just for a moment," he added, and
went out.

Fenwick went over to Doctor Lofton. "See here--you've got to give us our
money back on this tour," he began, glaring through his thick glasses.

"Why so?" inquired Lofton suavely.

"Do you suppose we're going on after this?"

"The tour is going on," Lofton told him. "Whether you go or not rests
with you. I have been making this trip for many years, and death is not
altogether an unknown occurrence among the members of my parties. That it
happens to be a murder in this case in no way alters my plans. We shall
be delayed for a time in London but that is, of course, an act of God.
Read your contract with me, Mr. Fenwick. Not responsible for acts of God.
I shall get the party around the world in due course, and if you choose
to drop out, there will be no rebate."

"An outrage," Fenwick cried. He turned to the others. "We'll get
together. We'll take it up with the Embassy." But no one seemed to be in
a mood to match his.

Duff returned, and with him came Eben, the night watchman.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the inspector began, "I have asked this man to
look you over and see if he can identify a certain person who, at two
o'clock last night, was a trifle confused as to the whereabouts of his
room. A person who, in point of fact, was wandering about the floor on
which the murder took place."

He turned to Eben, who was grimly studying the faces of the men in that
old-fashioned parlor. The servant stared at Lofton, then at Honywood, at
Ross, the lumber man, and at Vivian, the polo player. He gave the weak
face of Fenwick but a fleeting glance.

"That's him," said Eben firmly, pointing at Captain Ronald Keane.

Keane sat up. "What do you mean?"

"I mean it's you I met on my two o'clock round. You told me you'd got
onto that floor by mistake, thinking it was your own."

"Is this true?" Duff asked sternly.

"Why--" Keane looked anxiously about him. "Why, yes--I was up there. You
see, I couldn't sleep, and I wanted a book to read."

"That's pretty old--that wanted-a-book-to-read-stuff," the detective
reminded him.

"I fancy it is," returned Keane with a sudden show of spirit. "But it
happens occasionally--among literate people I mean. I knew Tait had a lot
of books--that young fellow reads to him until late at night. I found it
out on the boat. I knew, too, that he was on the third floor, though I
wasn't sure of the room. I just thought I'd go up there and listen
outside the doors, and if I heard any one reading, I'd go in and borrow
something. Well, I didn't hear a thing, so I decided it was too late.
When I met this watchman here, I was on my way back to the floor below."

"Why the statement about being confused as to the location of your room?"
Duff wanted to know.

"Well, I couldn't very well take up the subject of my literary needs with
a servant. He wouldn't have been interested. I just said the first thing
that came into my head."

"Rather a habit with you, I judge," Duff remarked. He stood for a moment
staring at Keane. A mean face, a face that he somehow didn't care for at
all, and yet he had to admit that this explanation sounded plausible
enough. But he resolved to keep an eye on this man. A sly wary sort, and
the truth was not in him.

"Very good," the detective said. "Thank you, Eben. You may go now." He
thought of Hayley, still searching above. "You will all remain here until
I release you," he added, and ignoring a chorus of protest, walked
briskly over and stepped into the smaller parlor.

As he closed the connecting door behind him, he saw Patrick Tait sitting
erect on the couch, a glass of spirits in his hand. Kennaway was hovering
solicitously about. "Ah, Mr. Tait," Duff remarked. "I am happy to see you
are better."

The old man nodded his head. "Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all." The
booming voice was a feeble murmur now. "I am subject to these
spells--that is why I have this boy with me. He will take good care of
me, I'm sure. A little too much excitement, perhaps. Murder, you know--I
hardly bargained for that."

"No, of course not," the inspector agreed, and sat down. "If you're quite
well enough now, sir--"

"Just a moment." Tait held up his hand. "You will pardon my curiosity,
I'm sure. But I still don't know who was killed, Mr. Duff."

The detective gave him a searching look. "You're sure you are strong
enough--"

"Nonsense," Tait answered. "It means nothing to me, one way or the other.
To whom did this appalling thing happen?"

"It happened to Mr. Hugh Morris Drake, of Detroit," said Duff.

Tait bowed his head, and was silent for a moment. "I knew him, very
slightly, for many years," he remarked at last. "A man of unsullied past,
Inspector, and with the most humanitarian impulses. Why should any one
want to remove him? You are faced by an interesting problem."

"And a difficult one," Duff added. "I should like to discuss it with you
for a moment. You occupy, I believe, room 30, which is near the spot
where the unfortunate affair occurred. At what time did you retire for
the night?"

Tait looked at the boy. "About twelve, wasn't it, Mark?"

Kennaway nodded. "Or a few minutes after, perhaps. You see, Inspector, I
go to Mr. Tait's room every evening and read him to sleep. Last night I
began to read at ten, and at a few minutes past twelve he was sleeping
soundly. So I slipped out, and went to my own room on the second floor."

"Quite, quite," agreed Duff. He was silent, drumming with his fingers on
the arm of his chair. Suddenly he turned, and with the speed and
precision of a machine-gun began to fire questions at the lawyer.

"You heard nothing on that third floor last night?"

"Nothing."

"I am asking you, Mr. Tait. I meet you in the hallway, and you appear to
be strong and well. You have heard rumors of a murder, but you do not
know who was killed. You walk with a firm step to the doorway of the
parlor. You glance around the faces inside, and in another moment you are
on the floor, in what seems a mortal attack--"

"They come like that--"

"Do they? Or did you see some one in that room--"

"No! No!"

"Some face, perhaps--"

"I tell you, no!"

The old man's eyes were blazing, the hand that held the glass trembled.
Kennaway came forward.

"Inspector, I beg your pardon," he said quietly. "You are going too far.
This man is ill--"

"I know," admitted Duff softly. "I'm sorry. I was wrong, and I apologize.
I forgot, you see--I have my job to do, and I forgot." He arose. "None
the less, Mr. Tait," he added, "I think that some surprising situation
dawned upon you as you stood in that doorway this morning, and I intend
to find out what it was."

"It is your privilege to think anything you please, sir," replied the
old man, and as Duff went out he carried a picture of the great criminal
lawyer, gray of face and breathing heavily, sitting on a Victorian sofa
and defying Scotland Yard.

Hayley was waiting in the lobby. "Been through the rooms of every man in
the party," he reported. "No fragment of watch-chain. No gray coat with a
torn pocket. Nothing."

"Of curse not," Duff replied. "Practically every mother's son of 'em has
been out of the hotel this morning, and naturally any evidence like that
went with them."

"I really must get back to my duties at Vine Street," Hayley went on.
"You'll drop in after you've finished, old man?"

Duff nodded. "Go along. What was it that street orchestra was playing?
There's a Long, Long Trail A-Winding. It's true, Hayley. Damned true."

"I'm very much afraid it is," the other answered. "See you at the
station."

As Duff turned, his worried frown disappeared. Pamela Potter was
beckoning to him from the parlor doorway. He went over to her at once.

"I was wondering, Inspector," she said, "if you want to see mother now, I
believe I can arrange it."

"Good," he answered. "I'll go up with you in a moment." He stepped inside
the parlor, and with one final warning against leaving Broome's Hotel for
the present, he dismissed the assembled crowd. "I shall want to see the
five remaining members of your party," he, said to Lofton.

"Of course. The moment they come in, I'll let you know," Lofton agreed.
He went on down the lobby, with Fenwick still arguing at his heels.

At the door of the suite occupied by Pamela Potter and her mother, Duff
waited while the girl went inside. After several moments, during which he
heard the sounds of a discussion ping on beyond the door, the young woman
returned and admitted him.

The shades were all drawn in the sitting-room where he now found himself.
Gradually accustoming his eyes to the gloom, he perceived, on a chaise
lounge in the darkest corner, he figure of a woman. He stepped nearer.

"This is Inspector Duff, Mother," said Pamela Potter. "Oh, yes," answered
the woman faintly.

"Mrs. Potter," remarked the detective, feeling rather ill at ease, "I am
extremely sorry to trouble you. But it can not be avoided."

"I fancy not," she replied. "Won't you be seated? You won't mind the
curtains being down, I hope. I'm afraid I'm tot looking my best after
this terrible shock."

"I have already talked with your daughter," continued Duff, moving a
chair as close to the couch as he dared, "so I shan't e here more than a
moment. If there is anything you can tell me about this affair, I assure
you that it is very important you should do so. Your knowledge of the past
is, of course, a trifle more extensive than that of Miss Pamela. Had your
father my enemy?"

"Poor father," the woman said. "Pamela, the smelling salts." The girl
produced a green bottle. "He was a saint, Mr.--er--what did you say his
name was, my dear?"

"Mr. Duff, Mother."

"My father was a saint on earth if ever there was one. Not an enemy in the
world. Really, I never heard of anything so senseless in all my life."

"But there must be sense in it somewhere, Mrs. Potter. It for us to find
out. Something in your father's past--" Duff paused, and took from his
pocket a wash leather bag. "I yonder if we might have that curtain up
just a little way?" he added to the girl.

"Certainly," she said, and raised it.

"I'm sure I look a fright," protested the woman.

Duff held out the bag. "See, Madam--we found this on the bed beside your
father."

"What in the world is it?"

"A simple little bag, Mrs. Potter, of wash leather--chamois, I believe
you call it." He poured some of the contents into the palm of his hand.
"It was filled with a hundred or more pebbles, or small stones. Do they
mean anything to you?"

"Certainly not. What do they mean to you?"

"Nothing, unfortunately. But--think, please, Mrs. Potter. Your father was
never, for example, engaged in mining?"

"If he was, I never heard of it."

"These pebbles could have no connection with automobiles?"

"How could they? Pamela--this--pillow--"

"I'll fix it, Mother."

Duff sighed, and returned the bag to his pocket. "You did
not mingle, on the boat, with the other members of the travel Party?"

"I never left my cabin," the woman said. "Pamela here was constantly
wandering about. Talking with all sorts of people, when she should have
been with me."

The detective took out the fragment of watch-chain, with the key
attached. He handed it to the girl. "You did not, I suppose, happen to
notice that chain on any one with whom you talked?"

She examined it, and shook her head. "No. Who looks at a man's
watch-chain?"

"The key means nothing to you?"

"Not a thing. I'm sorry."

"Please show it to your mother. Have you ever seen that chain or key
before, Madam?"

The woman shrugged. "No, I haven't. The world is full of keys. You'll
never get anywhere that way."

Duff restored this clue to his pocket and stood up. "That is all, I
fancy," he remarked.

"The whole affair is utterly senseless, I tell you," the woman said
complainingly. "There is no meaning to it. I hope you get to the bottom
of it, but I don't believe you ever will."

"I shall try, at any rate," Duff assured her. And he went out, conscious
of having met a vain and very shallow woman. The girl followed him into
the hall.

"I thought it would be better for you to see mother," she said. "So you
might understand that I happen to be spokesman for the family, sort of in
charge, if you care to put it that way. Poor mother has never been
strong."

"I understand," Duff answered. "I shall try not to trouble her again.
It's you and I together, Miss Pamela."

"For grandfather's sake," she nodded gravely.

Duff returned to room 28. His two assistants were waiting, their
paraphernalia packed.

"All finished, Mr. Duff," the finger-print man told him. "And very
little, I fear, sir. This, however, is rather odd." He handed to the
inspector the ear-phone of the dead man. Duff took it. "What about this?"

"Not a print on it," the other said. "Not even that of the man on the
bed. Wiped clean."

Duff stared at the instrument. "Wiped clean, eh? I wonder now. If the old
gentleman and his ear-phone were in some other part of the hotel--if he
was killed there, and then moved back here--and the ear-phone was carried
back too--"

"I'm afraid I don't follow you, sir," the assistant remarked. Duff
smiled. "I was only thinking aloud. Come on, boys. We must be getting
along." He returned the ear-phone to the table.

Though he did not suspect it at the moment, he had just held in his hand
the key to his mystery. It had been Hugh Morris Drake's deafness that led
to his murder in Broome's Hotel.



CHAPTER V - LUNCHEON AT THE MONICO


When they reached the ground floor, Duff directed his two assistants to
return to the Yard at once with their findings, and then send the
chauffeur back with the green car to await his own departure from
Broome's. He began a round of the corridors, and came presently upon
Doctor Lofton, who still had an upset and worried air.

"The other five members of the party are here," the doctor announced.
"I've got them waiting in that same parlor. I hope you can see them now,
as they are rather restless."

"At once," answered Duff amiably, and together with Lofton, entered the
familiar room.

"You people know what has happened," the conductor said. "This is
Inspector Duff, of Scotland Yard. He wants to talk with you. Inspector,
Mr. and Mrs. Elmer Benbow, Mr. and Mrs. Max Minchin and Mrs. Latimer
Luce."

The inspector stood regarding this oddly assorted group. Funny lot, these
Americans, he was thinking: all types, all races, all classes of society,
traveling together in apparent peace and amity. Well, that was the
melting-pot for you. He was reaching for his note-book when the man named
Elmer Benbow rushed up and pumped enthusiastically at his hand.

"Pleased to meet you, Inspector," he cried. "Say, this will be something
to tell when we get back to Akron. Mixed up in a murder--Scotland Yard
and all that--just like I've been reading about in your English mystery
novels. I read a lot of 'em. My wife tells me they won't improve my mind,
but when I get home from the factory every night, I'm just about done up,
and I don't want any of the heavy stuff--"

Duff glanced at his watch. "I got you here, Mr. Benbow, to ask if you
could throw any light on that unfortunate affair in room 28?"

"Unfortunate is right," Benbow replied. "You said it. As nice an old
gentleman as you'd want to meet. One of the big men of the country, rich
as all get out, and somebody goes and murders him. I tell you, it's a
slap at American institutions--"

"Indeed," murmured Duff. He turned to Mrs. Latimer Luce, a keen-eyed old
woman of indefinite age and cultivated bearing. "Mrs. Luce, have you
anything to tell me about this murder?"

"I'm sorry, Inspector," she replied, "but I can tell you nothing." Her
voice was low and pleasing. "I've been traveling most of my life, but
this is a new experience."

"Where is your home?"

"Well--Pasadena, California--if I have one. I keep a house there, but I'm
never in it. I'm always on the go. At my age, it gives one something to
think about. New scenes, new faces. I'm so shocked over this Drake
affair. A charming man."

"You've been out of the hotel this morning?"

"Yes--I breakfasted with an old friend in Curzon Street. An English woman
I knew when I lived in Shanghai, some twenty years ago."

Duff's eyes were on Mr. Max Minchin, and they lighted with interest. Mr.
Minchin was a dark stocky man with close-cropped hair and a protruding
lower lip. He had shown no such enthusiasm as had Mr. Benbow at meeting a
man from Scotland Yard. In fact, his manner was sullen, almost hostile.

"Where is your home, Mr. Minchin?" Duff inquired.

"What's that got to do with the case?" Minchin inquired. With one hairy
hand he fingered a big diamond in his tie.

"Oh, tell him, Maxy," said his wife, who overflowed a red plush chair.
"It ain't nothing to be ashamed of, I guess." She looked at Duff. "We're
from Chicago," she explained.

"Well, Chicago, it is," her husband remarked harshly. "And what of it,
hey?"

"Have you any information about this murder?"

"I ain't no dick," said Maxy. "Do I look it? Dig up your own info. Me--I
got nothing to say. My lawyers--well, they ain't here. I ain't talking.
See what I mean?"

Duff glanced at Doctor Lofton. Some queer characters had certainly crept
into Lofton's Round the World Tour this year. The doctor looked the other
way obviously embarrassed.

Mrs. Minchin also appeared rather uncomfortable. "Come on, Maxy," she
protested. "There's no use nursing a grouch. Nobody's accusing you."

"Patrol your own beat," he said. "I'll handle this."

"What have you been doing this morning?" Duff inquired. "Buying,"
answered Minchin tersely.

"Look at that sparkler." Sadie held out a fat hand. "I seen it in a
window, and I says to Mary--if you want me to remember London, that's
what I remember it by. And he come across, Maxy did. A free spender--ask
the boys in Chicago--"

Duff sighed, and stood up. "I won't detain you any longer," he remarked
to the little group. He explained again that no one must leave Broome's
Hotel, and the five went out. Lofton turned to him.

"What's to be the outcome of this, Mr. Duff?" he wanted to know. "My tour
is on schedule, of course, and a delay is going to tangle things
frightfully. Boats, you understand. Boats all along the line, Naples,
Port Said, Calcutta, Singapore. Have you any information that will
entitle you to hold any of my party here? If so, hold them, and let the
rest of us go on."

A puzzled frown was on Duff's usually serene face. "I'll be honest with
you," he said. "I've never encountered a situation like this before. For
the moment, I'm not quite certain about my future course of action. I
must consult my superiors at the Yard. There'll be a coroner's inquest in
the morning, which will no doubt be adjourned for a few weeks."

"A few weeks!" cried Lofton, in dismay.

"I'm sorry. I'll work as fast as I can, but I may tell you that until
I've solved this thing, I'll be very reluctant to see your tour resume."

Lofton shrugged. "We shall see about that;" he remarked. "No doubt," Duff
answered, and they parted.

After a few words with the managing director of the hotel, the detective
went out to the street. The little green car was waiting.

In a few moments they drew up before the police station that is hidden
away in the heart of the West End, on a street so brief and unimportant
it is unknown to most Londoners. Duff dismissed the car, and went
inside. Hayley was in his room.

"Finished, old man?" he inquired.

Duff gave him a weary look. "I'll never be finished," he remarked. "Not
with this case." He glanced at his watch. "It's getting on toward twelve.
Will you come have a spot of lunch with me, old chap?"

Hayley was willing, and presently they were seated at a table in the
Monico Grill. After they had ordered, Duff sat for some moments staring
into space.

"Cheerio!" said his friend at last.

"Cheerio, my hat!" Duff answered. "Was there ever a case like this
before?"

"Why the gloom?" Hayley wanted to know. "A simple little matter of
murder."

"The crime itself--yes, that's simple enough," Duff agreed. "And under
ordinary conditions, no doubt eventually solved. But consider this, if
you will." He took out his note-book. "I have here the names of some
fifteen or more people, and among them is probably that of the man I
want. So far, so good. But these people are traveling. Where? Around the
world, if you please. All my neat list of suspects, in one compact party,
and unless something unexpected happens at once, that party will be
moving along. Paris, Naples, Port Said, Calcutta, Singapore--Lofton just
told me all about it. Moving along, farther and farther away from the
scene of the crime."

Hayley laughed. "You were longing for another puzzle, last night," he
said.

Duff shook his head. "The calm man is the happy man," he murmured, as his
roast beef and bottle of stout were put before him.

"You got nothing from your examination of the party?" Hayley asked.

"Not a thing that's definite. Nothing that links any one of them with the
crime, even remotely. A few faint suspicions--yes. A few odd incidents.
But nothing that I could hold anybody on--nothing that would convince the
American Embassy--or even my own superintendent."

"There's an unholy lot of writing in that book of yours," commented the
Vine Street man. "Why not run over the list you talked with? You might
get a flash--who knows?"

Duff took up the note-book. "You were with me when I interviewed the
first of them. Miss Pamela Potter, a pretty American girl, determined to
find out who killed her grandfather. Our friend Doctor Lofton, who had a
bit of a row with the old man last evening, and with whose strap the
murder was committed. Mrs. Spicer, clever, quick, and not to be trapped
by unexpected questions. Mr. Honywood--"

"Ah, yes, Honywood," put in Hayley. "From a look at his face, he's my
choice."

"That's the stuff to give a jury!" replied Duff sarcastically. "He looked
guilty. I think he did, myself, but what of it? Does that get me
anywhere?"

"You talked with the others down-stairs?"

"I did. I met the man in room 30--a Mr. Patrick Tait." He told of Tait's
heart attack at the door of the parlor. Hayley looked grave.

"What do you make of that?" he inquired.

"I suspect he was startled by something--or some one--he saw in that
room. But he's a famous criminal lawyer on the other side--probably a
past master of the art of cross-examination. Get something out of him
that he doesn't want to tell, and you're a wonder. On the other hand, he
may have nothing to tell. His attacks, he assured me, come with just that
suddenness."

"None the less, like Honywood, he should be kept in mind."

"Yes, he should. And there is one other." He explained about Captain
Ronald Keane. "Up to something last night--heaven knows what. A fox in
trousers, if I ever met one. Sly--and a self-confessed liar."

"And the others?"

Duff shook his head. "Nothing there, so far. A nice young chap who is
Tait's companion. A polo player with a scar--a Mr. Vivian. Seems somehow
connected with Mrs. Irene Spicer. A lame man named Ross, in the lumber
trade on the West Coast. A brother and sister named Fenwick--the former a
pompous little nobody who has been frightened to death, and seems
determined to leave the tour."

"Oh, he does, does he?"

"Yes, but don't be deceived. It means nothing. He hasn't nerve enough to
kill a rabbit. There are just four, Hayley,--four to be watched.
Honywood, Tait, Lofton and Keane."

"Then you didn't see the remaining members of the party?"

"Oh, yes I did. But they don't matter. A Mr. and Mrs. Benbow from a town
called Akron--he runs a factory and is quite insane about a motion
picture camera he carries with him. Going to look at his tour around the
world when he gets home, and not before. But stop a bit--he told me Akron
was near Canton, Ohio."

"Ah, yes--the address on the key?"

"Quite so. But he wasn't in this, I'm sure--he's not the type. Then there
was a Mrs. Luce, an elderly woman who's been everywhere. An inevitable
feature, I fancy, of all tours like Lofton's. And a pair from
Chicago--quite terrible people, really--a Mr. and Mrs. Max Minchin--"

Hayley dropped his fork. "Minchin?" he repeated. "Yes, that was the name.
What about it?"

"Nothing, old chap, except that you have evidently overlooked a small
item sent out from the Yard several days ago. This man Minchin, it seems,
is one of Chicago's leading racketeers, who has recently been persuaded
to interrupt--perhaps only temporarily--a charming career of violence and
crime."

"That's interesting," nodded Duff.

"Yes, isn't it? In the course of his activities he has been forced to
remove from this world, either personally or through his lieutenants, a
number of business rivals--'to put them on the spot,' I believe the
phrase goes. Recently, for some reason, he was moved to abdicate his
throne and depart. The New York police suggested we keep a tender eye on
him as he passes through. There are certain friends of his over here who,
it was felt, might attempt to pay off old scores. Maxy Minchin, one of
Chicago's first citizens."

Duff was thinking deeply. "I shall have another chat with him after
lunch," he said. "Poor old Drake's body wasn't riddled with machine-gun
bullets--but then, I fancy the atmosphere of Broome's might have its
chastening effect even on a Maxy Minchin. Yes--I shall have a chat with
the lad directly."



CHAPTER VI - TEN-FORTY-FIVE FROM VICTORIA


When they had finished luncheon, Duff went with Hayley back to the Vine
Street station. Together they unearthed a dusty and forgotten atlas of
the world, and Duff turned at once to the mar of the United States.

"Good lord," he exclaimed, "what a country! Too big for comfort, Hayley,
if you ask me. Ah--I've found Chicago. Max Minchin's city. Now, where the
deuce is Detroit?"

Hayley bent over his shoulder, and in a moment laid a finger on the
Michigan city. "There you are," he remarked. "No distance at all, in a
country the size of that. Well?"

Duff leaned back in his chair. "I wonder," he said slowly. "The two
cities are close together, and that's a fact. Was there some connection
between the Chicago gangster and the Detroit millionaire? Drake was an
eminently respectable man--but you never can tell. Liquor, you know,
Hayley--liquor comes over the border at Detroit. I learned that when I
visited the States. And liquor has been, no doubt, at least a side-line
with Mr. Minchin. Was there some feud--some ancient grudge? How could the
pebbles figure in it? They may have been picked up from a lake shore. Oh,
it all sounds devilish fantastic, I know--but in America, anything is
possible. This angle will bear looking into, old chap."

With Hayley's encouragement, Duff set out for Broome's Hotel to look into
it. Mr. Max Minchin sent down word that he would receive the inspector in
his suite. The detective found the celebrated racketeer in shirt sleeves
and slippers. His hair was rumpled, and he explained 'that he had been
taking his afternoon siesta.

"Keeps me fresh--see what I mean?" he remarked. His manner was more
friendly than it had been earlier in the day.

"I'm sorry to disturb you," Duff said. "But there are one or two
matters--"

"I get you. The third degree for Maxy, hey?"

"Something which is not practised over here," Duff told him.

"Yeah?" remarked Maxy, shrugging. "Well, if it ain't, that's another
thing you got on us Americans. Oh, we think we're on the up and up in our
country, but I guess we got a few things to learn. Well, what's the dope,
Officer? Make it snappy. We was just talking about going to a pitcher."

"There was a murder in this hotel last night," the detective began.

Maxy smiled. "And who do you think I am? Some hick that just got in from
Cicero? I know they was a murder."

"From information received, I believe that murder is one of your
avocations, Mr. Minchin."

"Try that again."

"One of your pastimes, if I may put it that way."

"Oh, I get you. Well, maybe I have had to rub out a few guys now and
then. But they had it coming, get me? And them things don't concern you.
They happened in the good old U. S. A."

"I know that. But now that there has been a killing in your immediate
vicinity, I am--er--forced to--"

"You gotta prowl around me a little, hey? Well, go ahead. But you're
wasting your breath."

"Had you ever met Mr. Drake before you took this journey?"

"Naw, I meta, hear about him in Detroit--I went over there now and then.
But I never had the pleasure of his acquaintance. I talked with him on
the boat--a nice old guy. If you think I put that necktie on him, you're
all wet."

"Kindest man in the world, Maxy is," his wife interposed. She was slowly
unpacking a suitcase. "Maybe he has had to pass the word that put a few
gorillas on the spot in his day, but they wasn't fit to live. He's out of
the racket now, ain't you, Maxy?"

"Yeah--I'm out," her husband agreed. "Can you beat it, Officer? Here I
am, retired from business, trying to get away from it all, just taking a
pleasure trip like any other gentleman. And right off the bat a bird is
bumped off almost in my lap, you might say." He sighed. "It just seems a
guy can't get away from business, no matter where he goes," he added
gloomily.

"At what time did you retire last night?" Duff inquired.

"When did we go to bed? Well--we went to a show. Real actors, get me? But
slow--boy, I couldn't keep awake. When I take a chance and go to a
theater, I want action. 'This bunch was dead in their tracks. But we
didn't have nothing else on, so we stuck it out. Come back here about
eleven-thirty, and hit the hay at twelve. I don't know what happened in
this hotel after that."

"Out of the racket, like he told you," added Sadie Minchin. "He got out
for little Maxy's sake. That's our boy. He's at a military school, and
doing fine. Just seemed to take naturally to guns."

Despite the fact that he was getting nowhere, Duff laughed. "I'm sorry to
have troubled you," he said, rising. "But it's my duty to explore every
path, you know."

"Sure," agreed Maxy affably. He stood up too. "You got your racket, just
like I got mine--or did have. And say--listen. If I can help you any way,
just hoist the signal. I can work with the bulls, or against 'em. This
time I'm willing to work with 'em, get me? There don't seem no sense to
this kick-off, and I ain't for that sort of thing when it don't mean
nothing. Yes, sir." He patted Duff's broad back. "You want a hand on
this, you call on Maxy Minchin."

Duff said good-by, and went out into the corridor. He was not precisely
thrilled over this offer of assistance from Mr. Minchin, but he reflected
that indeed he seemed to need help from some quarter.

On the ground floor he encountered Doctor Lofton. With the conductor was
a strikingly elegant young man, who carried a walking-stick and wore a
gardenia in the buttonhole of his perfectly fitting coat.

"Oh, Mr. Duff," Lofton greeted him. "Just the man we want to see. This is
Mr. Gillow, an under-secretary at the American Embassy. He has called
about last night's affair. Inspector Duff, of Scotland Yard."

Mr. Gillow was one of those youthful exquisites who are the pride of the
embassies. They usually sleep all day, then change from pajamas to
evening clothes and dance all night for their country. He gave Duff a
haughty nod.

"When is the inquest, Inspector?" he inquired. "To-morrow at ten, I
believe," Duff replied.

"Ah, yes. And if nothing new is disclosed at that time, I presume the
doctor may continue his tour as planned?"

"I don't know about that," muttered the detective. "Really? You have some
evidence then, that will enable you to hold the doctor here?"

"Well--not precisely."

"You can hold some of his party, perhaps?"

"I shall hold them all."

Mr. Gillow lifted his eyebrows. "On what grounds?"

"Well--I--I--" For once the capable Duff was at a loss.

Mr. Gillow gave him a pitying smile. "Really, my dear fellow, you're
being rather absurd," he remarked. "You can't do that sort of thing in
England, and you know it. Unless you have more evidence after the inquest
than you have now, your hands are tied. Doctor Lofton and I have been
over the entire case."

"Some one in that party killed Hugh Drake," protested Duff stubbornly.

"Yes? And where is your proof? What was the motive behind the killing?
You may be right, and on the other hand you may be talking nonsense.
Perhaps some hotel prowler--'

"With a platinum watch-chain," Duff suggested.

"Some one who had no connection with the party--just as probable, my dear
sir. Even more so, I should say. Evidence--you must have evidence, as you
well know. Otherwise I am sorry to tell you that Doctor Lofton and his
group will continue their tour at once."

"We'll see about that," Duff answered grimly. He left Mr. Gillow's
presence with ill-concealed annoyance. He did not approve of elegant
young men, and he disliked this one all the more because he foresaw that
unless light broke quickly, Mr. Gillow's prediction would undoubtedly
come true.

The inquest on the following morning revealed nothing that was not
already known. The hotel servants and the members of the Lofton party
repeated all they had told Duff on the previous day. The little bag of
stones roused considerable interest, but since no explanation of it was
available, the interest quickly died. There was obviously no evidence
sufficient to hold any one on, and the inquest was adjourned for three
weeks. Duff saw Mr. Gillow smiling at him from across the MOM.

For the next few days, Duff worked like a mad man. Had some one in that
travel party purchased a watch-chain to replace the one torn in the
struggle at Broome's? He visited every jeweler's shop in the West End,
and many in the City. Had the gray suit with a torn pocket been disposed
of through a pawn shop or a second-hand clothing emporium? These, too,
were thoroughly combed. Or had the suit been made up into a bundle and
carelessly tossed away? Every lost package that turned up in that great
city was personally examined by Duff. Nothing came of his efforts. His
face grew stern, his eyes weary. Rumblings from the region above him
warned him that his time was short, that Lofton was preparing to move on.

Mrs. Potter and her daughter were planning to sail for home on Friday,
just one week after the morning when Drake's body was discovered in that
room at Broome's. On Thursday evening Duff had a final talk with the two
women. The mother seemed more helpless and lost than ever; the girl was
silent and thoughtful. With a feeling of chagrin such as he had never
known before, the inspector bade them good-by.

When, after a fruitless day of it, he came back to his office at the Yard
late Friday afternoon; he was startled to find Pamela Potter waiting for
him. With her was Mrs. Latimer Luce.

"Hello," Duff cried. "Thought you'd sailed, Miss Potter?"

She shook her head. "I couldn't. With everything unsolved--up in the
air--no answer to our question. No--I engaged a maid for mother, and sent
her home without me. I'm going on with the tour."

The detective had heard that American girls did pretty much as they
pleased, but he was none the less surprised. "And what did your mother
say to that?" he inquired.

"Oh--she was horrified, of course. But I'm sorry to tell you I've
horrified her so often, she's rather used to it now. Mrs. Luce here
agreed to take up the old-fashioned role of chaperon--you've met Mrs.
Luce?"

"Of course," Duff nodded. "I beg your pardon, Madam. I was so taken back
at seeing Miss Pamela--"

"I understand," smiled the old lady. "The girl's got spirit, hasn't she?
Well, I like spirit. Always did. Her mother and I happened to have mutual
friends, so I helped put it over. Why not? Naturally the child is
curious. So am I. Give five thousand dollars right now to know who killed
Hugh Drake, and why."

Duff regarded her with keen approval. "You're a sportsman, Miss Potter,"
he remarked. "It's put new heart in me to know that you are continuing
with the tour. I shall see you both before you leave on Monday--and I'll
be in touch with you after that too, no doubt."

When the two women had gone, the inspector found a memorandum on his
desk, requesting him to see his superior at once. He went to the
superintendent's office, knowing in advance the reason for the summons.

"It couldn't be avoided, Mr. Duff," the superintendent said. "The
American Ambassador himself took an interest in the matter. We have been
forced to grant that party permission to go on. Don't look so
disappointed, my boy. There are, you know, such things as treaties of
extradition."

Duff shook his head. "The case that isn't solved promptly is likely to go
unsolved," he remarked.

"An exploded theory. Look over the records of the Yard. Think of the
months spent on many important cases. For example--the Crippen affair."

"All the same, sir, it's hard to stand aside and watch that crowd wander
off heaven knows where."

"I appreciate your position, my boy. You wouldn't care to hold this
fellow Keane? We might arrange for a warrant."

"There'd be nothing in that, sir, I'm sure. I'd rather have Honywood, or
even Tait. But of course I have nothing to take them on."

"How about Mr. Max Minchin?"

"Poor chap. Trying to put all this sort of thing behind him?"

The superintendent shrugged. "Well, there you are. You will; of course,
secure from the conductor a complete itinerary of the tour, with the
understanding that he must notify you at once of any change. Also, he
must let you know immediately if any members of the party drop out en
route."

"Of course, sir," nodded Duff. "A fat lot of good that will do," he
reflected.

"For the present, you had better pursue your inquiries in London," his
superior continued. "If they come to nothing, we shall send a man to keep
an eye on the party--some one who is unknown to them. I'm afraid that
bars you, Mr. Duff."

"I know it does, sir," the inspector replied.

He went back to his desk, baffled and in despair. But he did not let his
state of mind interfere with his activities, which were many and varied.
All through Saturday, and even under the handicap of Sunday, when all
shops were closed, he searched and questioned and studied his problem.
Hayley lent his staff and his cheery comment. It was all to no avail. The
murder in Broome's Hotel remained as far from solution as it had been on
the foggy morning when the little green car first drew up before that
respectable door.

On Monday morning, Duff went to Victoria Station on as odd a mission as a
Scotland Yard detective had ever been called upon to perform. He was
there to say good-by to a round the world party, to shake hands with them
all and wish them a pleasant journey. And among the hands he must shake,
he was quite certain in his mind, was one of the pair that had strangled
Hugh Morris Drake in Broome's Hotel on the early morning of February
seventh.

The train began to move. For as long as could see it, Duff stood there on
the platform staring after it. Some one in that party--that party moving
on to Paris--to Italy--to Egypt--to India--to the ends of the earth--

The detective turned away with a sigh. For one imaginative moment he
wished he might be aboard the express, invisible, watching the
expressions of those various faces that interested him so much.

If he had been there, he might have come upon Walter Honywood, alone in a
compartment, his face pressed close to the window as he watched the drab
backyards of London drift by. His lips were parted, his eyes staring, and
little beads of moisture were on his forehead.

The door of the compartment opened--almost noiselessly, but not quite.
Just enough sound so that Honywood turned in a flash, and on his face was
a surprising look of terror. "Oh, hello," he said.

"Hello," returned Fenwick. He advanced into the compartment, followed by
his silent colorless sister. "May we come in here? We were late--all the
seats taken--"

Honywood wet his lips with his tongue. "Come in, by all means," he said.

The Fenwicks sat down. The unlovely side of the great gray city continued
to glide by the windows.

"Well," remarked Fenwick at last, "we're leaving London. Thank God for
that."

"Yes, we're leaving London," Honywood repeated. He took out a
handkerchief and mopped his brow. The look of terror was gradually fading
from his face.



CHAPTER VII - AN ADMIRER OF SCOTLAND YARD


On the following Thursday night, Inspector Duff again walked into
Hayley's room at the Vine Street station. The divisional inspector took
one look at his old friend, and smiled sympathetically.

"I don't need to ask," he remarked.

Duff took off coat and hat and tossed them on to a chair, then slumped
into another beside Hayley's desk.

"Do I show it as plainly as that?" he said. "Well, it's true, old chap.
Not a thing, Hayley, not a blessed thing. I've hung round Broome's Hotel
until I'm beginning to feel a hundred years old myself. I've scoured the
shops until my feet ache. A clever lad, the murderer of Hugh Morris
Drake. The trail is cold."

"You're about done up," Hayley told him. "Relax a bit, my boy, and try
some entirely different method of approach."

"I'm thinking of taking a new tack," Duff nodded. "There's this key we
removed from the dead man's hand." He repeated to his friend what Benbow
had told him about its probable nature. "There was, very likely, a
duplicate, and the murderer may have that with him now. I might follow up
the party, and search the luggage of every one in it. But they know who I
am--the difficulties would be enormous. Even if we sent some one unknown
to them, his task would be a tremendous one. I might go to the States,
and visit the home town of every man in the party, seeking to ascertain
if any one of them has a safety box at his bank numbered 3260.
Difficulties there, too. But I talked it over with the chief this
afternoon, and he favors it."

"Then you'll be leaving soon for America?" Hayley inquired.

"I may. We'll decide to-morrow. But good lord--what a job that looks."

"I know," Hayley nodded. "But it seems to me the wise course. If the
murderer did have a duplicate key, he has long since thrown it away."

Duff shook his head. "Not at all," he objected. "I don't believe he has.
To do so would be to arrive back at his bank and report the loss of both
keys. That would be inviting a dangerous amount of attention to an affair
he no doubt wants kept very dark. No, I am certain--if he is the man I
think he is--that he will hold on to the duplicate through thick and
thin. But he will hide it, Hayley. It's a small object and can be
cleverly concealed. So cleverly, perhaps, that a search for it on our
part would be hopeless. The chief is right--the American journey is
clearly indicated--though I dread the whole idea. However, I've reached
the end of my string here, and I'm damned if I'll give up."

"It wouldn't be like you if you did," Hayley replied. "Take heart, old
man. I never knew a case to get on your nerves before. Why worry--you're
certain to win out in the end. What was it Inspector Chan said? Success
will always walk smiling at your side. He sensed it, and according to
him, the Chinese are psychic people."

A slow smile spread over Duff's face. "Good old Charlie. I wish I had him
with me on this case." He stopped. "I noticed Honolulu on the itinerary
of the tour," he added thoughtfully. "However, that's a long time yet.
And much may happen before Doctor Lofton's none too select group comes
into Honolulu harbor." He rose with a sudden air of determination.

"Going already?" Hayley asked.

"Yes. Much as I enjoy your society, old chap, it just flashed into my
mind that I'm getting nowhere sitting here. Perseverance--that was Chan's
method. Patience, hard work and perseverance. I'm going to make one more
stab at Broome's Hotel. There may be something there--something I haven't
got--and if there is, I'm going to get it or die in the attempt."

"Spoken like your old self," his friend answered. "Go to it, and the best
of luck."

Once again Inspector Duff was walking down Piccadilly. The cold drizzle
of the afternoon had turned into a fitful snowfall. Just enough to make
his footing on the pavement uncertain, to penetrate down his collar and
annoy him. Under his breath he cursed the English climate.

The night porter was on duty at the desk just inside the Half Moon Street
entrance of Broome's Hotel. He put aside his evening paper and regarded
the inspector benevolently over his spectacles.

"Good evening, sir," he said. "My word--is it snowing?'

"It's trying to," Duff answered. "Look here, you and I haven't seen much
of each other. You recall the night when the American was killed in room
28?"

"I am not likely to forget it, sir. A most disturbing occurrence. In all
my years at Broome's--,"

"Yes, yes, of course. Have you thought much about that night lately? Have
you recalled any incident about which you haven't told me?"

"There was one thing, sir. I meant to speak to you about it if I saw you
again. I'm afraid that so far there has been no mention of the
cablegram."

"What cablegram?"

"The one that came in about ten o'clock, sir. Addressed to Mr. Hugh
Morris Drake."

"There was a cablegram addressed to Mr. Drake? Who received it?"

"I did, sir."

"And who took it up to his room?"

"Martin, the floor waiter. He was just going off for the night, and none
of the bell-boys was available. So I asked Martin if he would kindly take
it up to Mr. Drake--"

"Where is Martin now?"

"I don't know, sir. Perhaps he is still at supper in the servants'
dining-room. I can send a messenger, if you wish--"

But Duff had already beckoned to a venerable bell-boy who was resting
comfortably on a bench farther down the hall. "Quick," he cried. He
handed the old man a shilling. "Get Martin, the floor waiter, for me
before he leaves the hotel. Try the servants' dining-room."

The old man disappeared with surprising speed, and Duff again addressed
the night porter. "I should have heard of this before," he said sternly.

"Do you really think it's important, sir?" inquired the porter blandly.

"Everything is important in a matter of this sort."

"Ah, sir, you've had so much more experience with such matters than we
have. I was naturally a bit upset and--"

The detective turned away, for Martin had arrived. His jaws were still
moving, so suddenly had he left the table. "You want--" He swallowed.
"You want me, sir?"

"I do." Duff was all action now; his words crisp and clear. "About ten
o'clock on the night Mr. Hugh Morris Drake was murdered in room 28, you
delivered a cablegram to his room?"

He stopped, surprised. For the usually ruddy Martin had gone white and
seemed about to collapse on the spot. "I did, sir," he managed to say.

"You took it up, I presume, and knocked at Mr. Drake's door? Then what
happened?"

"Why--why, Mr. Drake, sir, he came to the door and took the envelope. He
thanked me, and gave me a tip. A generous one. Then I came away."

"That is all?"

"Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Quite all."

Duff seized the young man rather roughly by the arm. He meant it to be
rough--all the authority of Scotland Yard behind it. The waiter cringed.

"Come with me," Duff said. He pushed the servant along to the manager's
office, deserted and in semi-darkness. Thrusting Martin into a chair, he
fumbled for the switch of the lamp on the manager's desk, and turned it
on. Moving the lamp so that the full glare of it fell on the servant, he
slammed shut the door and sat down in a chair facing the young man.

"You're lying, Martin," he began. "And by heaven, I'm in no mood to stand
it. I've dilly-dallied over this case as long as, I mean to. You're
lying--a blind man would know it. But you've finished now. The truth from
you, my boy, or by--"

"Yes, sir," muttered the waiter. He whimpered a little. "I'm sorry, sir.
My wife has been telling me I ought to give you--the whole story. She's
been nagging me. 'Tell him,' she says. But I--I didn't know what to do.
You see, I'd taken the hundred pounds."

"What hundred pounds?"

"The hundred pounds Mr. Honywood gave me, sir."

"Honywood gave you, money? What for?"

"You won't send me to prison, Inspector--"

"I'll lock you up in a minute if you don't talk, and talk fast."

"I know I've done wrong, sir--but a hundred pounds is a lot of money. And
when I accepted it, I didn't know anything about the murder."

"Why did Honywood give you a hundred pounds? Stop bit. Take it from the
beginning. The truth, or I'll arrest you at once. You went up-stairs with
that cablegram for Mr. Drake. You knocked on the door of room 28. Then
what?"

"The door opened, sir."

"Yes, of course. Who opened it? Drake?"

"No, sir."

"What! Who, then?"

"Mr. Honywood opened it, sir. The gentleman who had room 29.

"So Honywood opened Drake's door? What did he say?"

"I gave him the envelope. 'It's for Mr. Drake,' I told him. He looked at
it. 'Oh, yes,' he said, and handed it back. 'You will find Mr. Drake in
room 29, Martin. We have changed rooms for the night.'"

Duff's heart leaped at the words. A feeling of exultation, so long in
coming, swept over him. "Yes," he remarked. "Then what?"

"I knocked on the door of room 29--Mr. Honywood's room--and after a time
Mr. Drake came to the door. He was wearing his pajamas, sir. He took the
cablegram, thanked me, and gave me a tip. So I came away."

"And the hundred pounds?"

"At seven in the morning when I went on duty, Mr. Honywood rang for me.
He was back in room 29 again, sir. He asked me not to say anything about
the change of rooms the night before. And he handed me two fifty-pound
notes. Fair took my breath away, he did. So I promised--gave him my word.
At a quarter before eight, I found Mr. Drake murdered in room 28. I was
frightened, and no mistake. I--it seemed I couldn't think, sir--I was
that frightened. I met Mr. Honywood in the hall. 'I have your word,' he
reminded me. 'I swear I had nothing to do with the murder. You stick to
your promise, Martin, and you won't regret it.'"

"So you stuck to your promise," said Duff accusingly.

"I'm--I'm sorry, sir. No one asked me about the cablegram. If they had,
things might have been different. I was afraid, sir--it seemed best just
to keep mum. When I got home, my wife said I'd done wrong She's been
begging me to tell."

"You follow her advice in the future," Duff advised. "You've disgraced
Broome's Hotel."

Martin's face paled again. "Don't say that, sir. What are you going to do
to me?"

Duff rose. In spite of all the delay this weak young man had caused him,
he found it difficult to view the matter as sternly as he should. This
was the sort of news he had been waiting for, praying for, and now that
it had come, his heart was light and he was extremely happy.

"I have no time for you," he said. "What you have told me here you are
not to repeat unless I ask you to do so. Is that understood?"

"Perfectly, sir."

"You are not to leave your present position or home without advising me
of your whereabouts. With these restrictions, things go on as usual. Tell
your wife she was right, and give her my compliments."

He left the waiter wilted and perspiring in the manager's office, and
walked with jaunty air to the street. Pleasant, a bit of snow after so
much rain. Just what London needed. Pretty good climate, the English. The
very sort to keep a man on his toes, full of vim and energy. Martin's
story, it will be seen, had completely altered Inspector Duff's outlook
on life.

He walked along, considering what the waiter had told him. "Mr. Drake is
in room 29, Martin. We have changed rooms for the night." In that case.
Drake must have been murdered in room 29. But in the morning, he was back
in his own bed in room 28. Well, it all fitted in with what Duff had
thought at the time. "Something tells me that Hugh Morris Drake was
murdered elsewhere," he had said. That something had been right. Duff had
been right. Not such a fool, if you came right down to it. The
inspector's spirits soared.

Back in his own bed in the morning. Who had put him there? Honywood, of
course. Who had murdered him? Who but Honywood?

But stop a bit. If Honywood intended murder, why the change in rooms? A
ruse, perhaps, to get the door open between them and free access to the
person of Hugh Morris Drake. Yet he had already stolen the housekeeper's
key. Such a ruse was hardly necessary. And if he was intending murder,
would he have calmly involved himself by telling Martin of the change of
rooms?

No, he wouldn't. Duff came down a bit from the clouds. The matter didn't
work out quite so neatly as he thought it would. Puzzles still. But one
thing was certain, Honywood was mixed up in it somehow. Martin's story
would bring the New York millionaire back from the Continent in a hurry.
And once they had him again at the Yard; the skein would begin to
unravel.

Duff went back and tried again. It didn't appear likely that Honywood had
intended murder when he changed rooms with Hugh Morris Drake, and then
told Martin what had been done. No--the resolution must have come later.
Perhaps that cablegram--

Going to the near-by cable office, the detective found it about to close
for the night. After a show of authority he was handed a copy of the
message Drake had received on the evening of February sixth. It was
merely a business communication. "Directors voted price increase in
effect July first hope you approve." The cablegram was not the answer,
evidently. But Duff blessed that cablegram none the less.

Taking a taxi to the Yard, he called the home of his superior. That
gentleman, torn away from a game of bridge, was inclined at first to be
short and crisp. But as Duff's story unrolled, he began to share the
excitement of his subordinate.

"Where is the travel party now?" he inquired.

"According to the schedule, sir, they are leaving Paris for Nice
to-night. They will be in Nice for three days."

"Good. You will take the regular Riviera Express from Victoria in the
morning. Nothing to be gained by starting sooner. That will bring you
into Nice early on Saturday. I shall see you to-morrow before you leave.
Congratulations, my boy. We appear to be getting somewhere at last."

And the superintendent went back to play four hearts, doubled.

After a happy chat with Hayley over the telephone, Duff went to his rooms
and packed a bag. At eight in the morning he was in the superintendent's
office. His superior took a package of bank-notes from the safe, where
money was kept for just such occasions, and handed it over.

"You have your ticket booked, I presume?"

"Yes, sir. I'll pick it up on my way to the station."

"Have the French police hold Honywood for us in Nice until I can get the
necessary papers. I'm taking the matter up with the Home Office at
once. Good-by, Mr. Duff, and the best of luck."

Action was what Duff had wanted, and he rode down to Dover in high
spirits. The channel crossing was rough, but that meant nothing to him.
By evening they were on the outskirts of Paris, and the train began its
slow journey round the ceinture, with many interminable stops. Duff was
relieved when they finally reached the Gare de Lyon, and the road to the
Riviera stretched before them.

As he sat enjoying an excellent dinner, and watching the last walls of
Paris disappear into the dusk, he thought deeply about Mr. Walter
Honywood. No wonder the man had been in such a funk the morning after the
murder. If only, Duff reflected, he might have arrested him then, saved
himself this long journey. But things were going to come out all right in
the end. Silly to worry--they usually did. Soon he would be coming back
along this same route, and Honywood would be with him. Perhaps the man's
confession would be in the detective's pocket. Not a strong character,
Honywood. Not the sort to hold out in the face of all Duff knew now.

The next morning, at a little before ten, Duff's taxi drew up before the
gateway leading to the Hotel Excelsior Grand in Nice. This was the name
of the hostelry he had found on the detailed itinerary left with him by
Lofton. The Excelsior Grand was an enormous rambling affair, set high on
a hill overlooking the city and the aquamarine sea, in the midst of
extensive grounds. Duff noted orange and olive trees, with here and there
a tall cypress, gloomy even under the gracious Riviera sun. The taxi man
sounded his asthmatic horn, and after some delay a bell-boy appeared and
took the detective's bag. Duff followed the servant up the gravel walk
that led to the hotel's side entrance. Giant palms were overhead, and
bordering the walk were beds of fragrant Parma violets.

The first person the inspector saw when he entered the hotel lobby was
the bearded Doctor Lofton. The second person he noted gave him a distinct
shock. This was a Frenchman, also bearded, and as resplendent in gold
lace and gorgeous uniforms as the doorman of a Ritz hotel. The two men
were in close converse, their beards almost touching, and Lofton looked
worried. He glanced up and saw Duff.

"Ah, Inspector," he remarked, and a shadow crossed his face. "You made
quick time. I scarcely expected you so soon."

"You expected me?" Duff returned, puzzled.

"Naturally. If you please, Monsieur le Commissaire. May I present
Inspector Duff, of Scotland Yard, Monsieur Henrique?" He turned
to Duff. "This gentleman, as you have no doubt gathered from his uniform,
is the local commissary of police."

The Frenchman rushed over to Duff and grasped his hand. "I am so happy
for this meeting. Me, I am a fond admirer of Scotland Yard. I beg of you
that you will not judge harshly, in this case, Monsieur Duff. Consider if
you will the stupidity with which we have been faced. Is the body left as
it fell? No. Is the pistol permitted to lie in peace where it was? Not
for a moment. All--all have touched it--the concierge, two bellboys, a
clerk--five or six people. With what result? In the matter of
finger-prints we are helpless. Is it possible that you can picture such
stupidity--"

"One moment, please," Duff broke in. "A body? A pistol?" He turned to
Lofton. "Tell me what has happened."

"You don't know?" Lofton asked.

"Of course not."

"But I thought--however, it is too soon. I understand now. You were
already on your way. Well, Inspector, you arrive most opportunely. Poor
Walter Honywood killed himself in the grounds of this hotel last night."

For a moment Duff said nothing. Walter Honywood had killed himself--while
Scotland Yard moved forward to take him. A guilty conscience, no doubt.
Killed Drake, and then himself. The case was over. But Duff felt no
elation; he felt instead an unpleasant sensation of being let down. This
was too easy. Too easy altogether.

"But did Monsieur Honywood finish himself?" the commissary was saying.
"Alas, Inspector Duff, we can not be certain. The finger-prints on the
pistol--destroyed by the stupidity of the hotel employees, as I have
related to you. True--it lay by his side, as though fallen from a dying
hand. No one was seen near that vicinity. But even so, I welcome eagerly
the opinion of a man from Scotland Yard."

"You have found no note of farewell? No message of any sort?"

"Alas, no. Last night we searched his apartment. To-day I am here to
repeat the process. I should be overjoyed if you would be kind enough to
join me."

"I'll be with you in a moment," Duff said, with an air of dismissal. The
commissary bowed and retired.

Duff turned at once to Doctor Lofton. "Please tell me all you know about
this," he directed. They sat down together on a sofa.

"I gave the party only three days in Paris," Lofton began. "Trying to
make up for the time lost in London, you see. We arrived here yesterday
morning. In the afternoon Honywood decided to drive over to Monte Carlo.
He invited Mrs. Luce and Miss Pamela Potter to go with him. At six
o'clock last evening I was here in the lobby talking with Fenwick--the
prize pest of the tour, between you and me--when I saw Mrs. Luce and the
girl enter that side door over there. I asked them about their drive, and
they said they'd enjoyed it immensely. Honywood, they told me, was out at
the gate paying off the driver of the car--he would be in in a moment.
They went on upstairs. Fenwick continued to pester me. There was the
sound of a sharp report from outside, but I paid no attention. I thought
it the exhaust of a car, or possibly a bursting tire--you know how they
drive over here. In another moment Mrs. Luce came rushing from the lift.
She's the calmest of women ordinarily, and I was struck by her
appearance. She seemed to be in a state of high excitement--"

"One moment," Duff put in. "Have you told any of this to the commissary
of police?"

"No. I thought it better to save it for you."

"Good. Go on. Mrs. Luce was upset--"

"Extremely so. She hurried up to me. 'Has Mr. Honywood come in yet?' she
demanded. I stared at her. 'Mrs. Luce--what has happened?' I cried. 'A
great deal has happened,' she replied. 'I must see Mr. Honywood at once.
What can be keeping him?' The memory of that sharp report--like a shot, I
realized it now--came back to me. I rushed out, followed by Mrs. Luce. We
found the gardens in darkness, dusk had fallen, these economical French
had not yet lighted the lamps. About half-way down the walk we came upon
Walter Honywood, lying partly on the walk, partly on the floral border.
He was shot unerringly through the heart, the pistol lay at his side,
near his right hand."

"Suicide?" said Duff, giving the doctor a searching look. "I believe so."

"You want to believe so."

"Naturally. It would be better--" Lofton stopped. Mrs. Luce was standing
just back of the sofa.

"Suicide, your grandmother," she remarked briskly. "Good morning,
Inspector Duff. You're wanted here. Murder again."

"Murder?" Duff repeated.

"Absolutely," returned the old lady. "I'll tell you in a moment why I
think so. Oh, you needn't look so shocked, Doctor Lofton. Another member
of your party has been killed, and what worries me is, will there be
enough of us to supply the demand? It's still quite some distance around
the world."



CHAPTER VIII - FOG ON THE RIVIERA


Lofton was standing, and he began to pace nervously back and forth over a
patch of bright sunlight that lay on the Persian rug. He was chewing
savagely at the ends of his mustache, a habit he had when perturbed. Mrs.
Luce wished he wouldn't do it.

"I can't believe it," the conductor cried. "It's incredible. One murder
in the party I might admit--but not two. Unless some one is trying to
wreck my business. Some one with a grudge against me."

"It seems more likely," the old lady said dryly, "that some one has a
grudge against the members of your party. As for your believing that this
second affair is murder too, listen to what I have to say, and then tell
me what you think." She sat down on the sofa. "Come," she went on, "draw
up that chair and stop pacing. You remind me of a lion I used to see at
the Hamburg Zoo--I got to know him quite well--but no matter. Inspector
Duff, won't you sit here beside me? I think you will both find my story
interesting."

Duff meekly took his place, and Lofton also obeyed orders. Somehow, this
was the type of woman who doesn't have to speak twice.

"Mr. Honywood, Miss Pamela and I drove to Monte Carlo yesterday
afternoon," Mrs. Luce continued. "Perhaps you already know that,
Inspector. Mr. Honywood has been rather distraught and worried on this
tour, but during our jaunt over to Monaco he seemed to relax--he was
quite charming, really. More, I imagine, like his real self. He was not
contemplating suicide--I am confident of that. He returned here at dusk
last night still in that mood. We left him out at the gate paying off the
driver of the car and, coming in, went to our rooms."

"I saw you," Lofton reminded her.

"Yes, of course. Well, as I was unlocking my door, it came over me in a
flash that the lock had been tampered with. I went inside and turned on
the light. Instantly my impressions were verified. My room was in the
utmost confusion, it had been searched from top to bottom. My trunk was
broken open, and in a moment I made sure that what I had feared had
happened. A document that had been entrusted to my keeping was missing."

"What sort of document?" Duff inquired with interest.

"We must go back to London, and the period following the murder of Hugh
Drake. On the Saturday afternoon just two days before our departure from
your city, Mr. Duff, I had a message from Mr. Walter Honywood asking me
to meet him at once in the lounge of Broome's Hotel. I was puzzled, of
course, but I did as he asked. He came into the room in what seemed a
very perturbed state of mind. 'Mrs. Luce,' he said without preamble, 'I
know you are a woman of wide experience and great discretion. Though I
have no right to do so, I am going to ask a favor of you.' He took a long
white envelope from his pocket. 'I wish you to take charge of this
envelope for me. Keep it well guarded, and if anything should happen to
me on this tour, please open it and read the contents at once.'"

"And that is the document which was stolen?" Duff demanded.

"Let's not get ahead of our story," the old lady replied. "Naturally I
was somewhat taken aback. I hadn't said two words to him thus far on the
tour. 'Mr. Honywood," I inquired, 'what is in this envelope?' He looked
at me in a queer way. 'Nothing,' he replied. 'Nothing save a list of
instructions as to what must be done in case I--in case I am not here any
more.' 'Certainly Doctor Lofton is the person with whom this should be
left,' I told him. 'No,' he said. 'Doctor Lofton is decidedly not the
person to hold that envelope.'

"Well, I just sat there, wondering, I asked him what he thought was going
to happen to him. He murmured something about being ill--one never could
tell, he said. He looked so spent, so utterly weary, I felt sorry for
him. We were all rather on edge. I knew that Mr. Honywood was supposed to
be suffering from a nervous breakdown, and I told myself that this was
perhaps the whim of a sick and troubled mind. It seemed to me a small
thing he was asking, and I told him I would take the envelope. He
appeared to be delighted. 'It's so good of you,' he said. 'I would keep
it locked up, if I were you. We had better not leave this room together.
I will wait here until you have gone. And if you don't mind, I suggest we
keep as far apart as possible when we are with the other members of the
tour.'

"All that was rather queer, too. But I had an engagement with some
friends in Belgravia that afternoon, and I was already late. I patted the
poor man on the back, told him not to worry, and hurried out. When I got
to my room, I glanced at the envelope. On it was written in a small
script: To be opened in case of my death. Walter Honywood.' I hastily
locked it in my trunk, and went out."

"You should have communicated with me at once," Duff reproved her.

"Should I? I couldn't decide. As I say, I thought it the notion of a sick
mind, and of no importance. And I was very busy those last few days in
London. It wasn't until I got on the train for Dover on Monday morning
that I really began to think about Mr. Honywood and the document he had
given into my care. For the first time I wondered if it could have any
connection with the murder of Hugh Drake. When I walked on to the deck of
the channel boat at Dover, I determined to find out.

"I saw Mr. Honywood leaning against the starboard rail, and I went over
and joined him. He seemed very reluctant to have me do so. All the while
we talked he kept glancing up and down the deck with a sort of hunted and
terrified look in his eyes. I was quite uncomfortable about the whole
affair by this time. 'Mr. Honywood,' I said, 'I have been thinking about
that envelope you left with me. I feel the moment has arrived for a frank
talk between us. Tell me--have you any reason to believe that your life
is in danger?'

"He started at that, and gave me a searching look. 'Why--no,' he
stammered. 'Not at all. No more than any one's life is in danger in this
uncertain world.' His reply didn't satisfy me. I decided to put into
words a thought that had come to me in the train. 'If you should meet the
same fate as Hugh Morris Drake,' I said, 'would the name of your
assailant be found--inside that envelope?"

"It seemed for a moment that he wasn't going to answer me. Then he
turned, and his eyes were so sad that again I pitied him. 'My dear lacy,'
he remarked, 'why should you think I would put such a burden on you? That
envelope contains just what I said it did--instructions to be carried out
in case of my death.' 'If tha is true,' I answered, 'why wasn't it left
with Doctor Lofton? Why must I guard it so carefully? Why do you object
to air being seen together?' He nodded. 'Those are fair questions he
admitted, 'and I'm frightfully sorry I can't answer then. But I give you
my word, Mrs. Luce--I am not letting you in for anything. Please--I beg
of you--hold that envelope jest a little longer, and say nothing. The
matter will soon be settled. And now--if you don't mind'--he was still
looking up and down in that frightened, anxious way--'I don't feel very
well and I am going inside to lie down.' Before I could ay another word,
he had gone.

"Well, I went on to Paris, still worried. I'm sorry to say I didn't
believe what the poor man had told me. I thought that with my usual
perspicacity I had hit upon the true situation. I was certain that Walter
Honywood expected to be murdered, just as Hugh Morris Drale was murdered,
and by the same person. And I was almost as certain that he had written
the name of that person in the letter he left with me. That would make me
a sort of accomplice in the Drake murder or something like it. I had no
fear on that score. I wanted the man who had killed Drake discovered and
punished. I was upset--and I'm not often upset. I didn't know what to
do."

"There was just one thing to do," remarked Duff sternly. "And I am
disappointed in you that you didn't do it. You had my address--"

"Yes, I know. But I'm not accustomed to calling in some mere man to help
me solve my difficulties. There was one other thing to do, and I'm
disappointed in you that you haven't thought of it. Have you never heard
of the old trick of opening an envelope by the use of steam?"

"You steamed open that envelope?" Duff cried.

"I did, and I make no apologies. All's fair in love and murder. That
night in Paris I released the flap, and took out the sheet of paper the
envelope contained."

"And what was on it?" Duff asked eagerly.

"Just what poor Mr. Honywood had told me was on it. A brief note that ran
something like this:

"'Dear Mrs. Luce: I am so sorry to have troubled you. Will you be kind
enough to ask Doctor Lofton to communicate at once with my wife, Miss
Sybil Conway? She is at the Palace Hotel, San Remo, Italy.'"

"Meaning precisely nothing," Duff sighed.

"Precisely," agreed Mrs. Luce. "I felt rather small when I read it. And
puzzled. I had never been so puzzled in all my seventy-two years. Why
couldn't he have left that message with the doctor? There was no need of
it in the first place. Doctor Lofton knew the name and whereabouts of Mr.
Honywood's wife. A number of us did--he had mentioned her several times,
and said that she was in San Remo. Yet here he had written this
unnecessary bit of information on a slip of paper and given it to me,
intimating that I must guard it with my life."

Duff stared thoughtfully into space. "I don't get it," he admitted.

"Nor I," said Mrs. Luce. "But can you wonder I believe Mr. Honywood was
murdered? I am sure he saw it coming--the look in his eyes. And the
murderer thought it necessary to get possession of that slip of paper in
my trunk before going on with his plans. Why? Heaven knows. Who told him
there was such a paper? Did Walter Honywood? It's all too obscure, for
me. You must unravel it, Mr. Duff. I hand the whole matter over to
you."

"Thanks," answered Duff. He turned to Doctor Lofton. "Is it true you
already knew that Honywood's wife was in San Remo?"

"I certainly did," Lofton replied. "Honywood told me so himself. He asked
me to stop over there a day, at the Palace Hotel, in the hope that he
might persuade