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Title: Charlie Chan Carries On (abridged edition) Author: Earl Derr Biggers * A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook * eBook No.: 0700761h.html Language: English Date first posted: June 2007 Date most recently updated: June 2007 Project Gutenberg of Australia eBooks are created from printed editions which are in the public domain in Australia, unless a copyright notice is included. We do NOT keep any eBooks in compliance with a particular paper edition. Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing this file. This eBook is made available at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg of Australia License which may be viewed online at http://gutenberg.net.au/licence.html
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CONTENTS:
CHAPTER I - RAIN IN PICCADILLY CHAPTER II - FOG AT BROOME'S HOTEL CHAPTER III - THE MAN WITH A WEAK HEART CHAPTER IV - DUFF OVERLOOKS A CLUE CHAPTER V - LUNCHEON AT THE MONICO CHAPTER VI - TEN-FORTY-FIVE FROM VICTORIA CHAPTER VII - AN ADMIRER OF SCOTLAND YARD CHAPTER VIII - FOG ON THE RIVIERA CHAPTER IX - DUSK AT SAN REMO CHAPTER X - THE DEAFNESS OF MR. DRAKE CHAPTER XI - THE GENOA EXPRESS CHAPTER XII - THE JEWELER IN CHOWWRINGHEE ROAD CHAPTER XIII - A KNOCK AT CHARLIE'S DOOR CHAPTER XIV - DINNER ON PUNCHBOWL HILL CHAPTER XV - BOUND EAST FROM HONOLULU CHAPTER XVI - THE MALACCA STICK CHAPTER XVII - THE GREAT EASTERN LABEL CHAPTER XVIII - MAXY MINCHIN'S PARTY CHAPTER XIX - THE FRUITFUL TREE CHAPTER XX - MISS PAMELA MAKES A LIST CHAPTER XXI - THE PROMENADE DES ANGLAIS CHAPTER XXII - TIME TO FISH CHAPTER XXIII - TIME TO DRY THE NETS
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.
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."
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.
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.
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."
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.
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."
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 mur