Chief Inspector Pointer's Cases - 12 Golden Age Murder Mysteries. Dorothy Fielding

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

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

      "Positively."

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

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

      Enterprise Hotel,

       Aug. 4th.

      Sir,

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

      Faithfully yours,

      Reginald Eames.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      "No, nothing."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      The two detectives turned to the wardrobe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

      "Came over on the Campania for a year's holiday last month,—by the way, here's my passport, but don't tell me that photo's СКАЧАТЬ