The Greatest Murder Mysteries - Dorothy Fielding Collection. Dorothy Fielding

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      The Irishman reveled in these talks early in a case, when there were not sufficient facts to hamper his idle fancy in its flights.

      "Ah, as for the manager—" Pointer walked up and down the room. "That bit of acting about that green and white striped paper was badly enough done."

      "So badly that it was creditable to him, eh?"

      "...And as for not discussing Eames' death with Mr. Beale—well, was it likely! When our expert tells me how much of that ash is Mr. Beale's cigars and how much the manager's cigarettes—he doesn't smoke cigars—I shall know better how much time those two spent hobnobbing together. At any rate something has changed the manager overnight. Then he acted like—well, if not an innocent man, then at least like a man who feels himself safe."

      "Perhaps this bolt of Beale's has made the manager, too, think him guilty."

      "He should tell us his reasons, then," the police-officer spoke very firmly. "Whatever it is, today he's all nerves, afraid to commit himself as to the day of the week."

      "I wonder if he left some clue lying around in that room No. 14 and has recollected it during the night?"

      "He needn't worry if it's that," Pointer spoke bitterly, "unless it's tagged: 'This is a Clue; don't miss ME!' I shouldn't see it. Too much fog about."

      "Oh, come now," persisted his friend, "you've done jolly well so far—going at once to the Marvel and ferreting out about Cox. I don't know that I should have thought of that myself," he added handsomely.

      "Well, true, I've not fallen far below you as yet," agreed Pointer in a cheered-up tone of voice. "I've already lost Mr. Beale, missed Cox, and can't find Eames' bag nor any trace of its whereabouts."

      The two men laughed.

      "As for Mr. Smalltoes,—I mean the man who stood on the canvas and walked out and then back through the little side door—I don't know where to place him yet. Center or circumference."

      "You mean Beale?"

      "He may prove to be, but Mr. Beale picks his feet up as neatly as a water-rail; this man dragged his along. Mr. Beale wears pointed shoes; this man had on curious 'reformed' or 'true-shaped' boots. Straight on the inside and curving sharply about in a semicircle. Here's the outline." He held it out to O'Connor, who asked: "What are the manager's feet like?"

      "Two sizes larger. Well, this case is going to make or break me. I feel it in my bones."

      Next morning Pointer was early at the Yard mapping out the day's campaign. As he expected, on telegraphing to the American Embassy he was assured that Mr. Augustus P. Beale, a sub-editor and part proprietor of the New York Universe, a small gentleman, very bald, with reddish moustache, and gold fillings in his front teeth, was one of the States' choicest ornaments, a man of vast wealth and many interests. To clinch matters, one of Lester's snapshots was sent off to the Embassy, who sent back an immediate reply that this was undoubtedly the Mr. Beale whom all Americans abroad had been instructed to honour. If he were missing, he must be missed, until such time as it might please him to re-appear.

      "Just so," sighed Pointer as he hung up the receiver. His first outing was to the small confectioner-tobacconist near the hotel which he had marked in his yesterday's rambles.

      "Any letter for Mr. Eames? He's ill."

      The man behind the counter stared at him suspiciously, but Pointer planked down a half-crown—"and if you'll look after any letters for me, too—Charles Rowntree—for a while I'll be much obliged. Yes, Mr. Eames' cold has got a bit too bad for him to come out." Whistling blithely, he bent over a comic paper.

      The man behind the counter softened. "What name did you say, sir? Mr. Charles Rowntree? Very good. Of course, strictly speaking, I might get into trouble if it got known; but there, why not be obliging? That's my motter. Mr. Eames' cold was pretty bad on Saturday, and what with the rain Saturday night—" He laid a letter down. Pointer handed over a penny, and bought a shilling packet of cigarettes before he left the shop. Eames' future correspondence would be sent on to the Yard, but any back numbers were equally valuable.

      He opened the thin envelope, postmarked Dover, and drew out a sheet of paper ruled in squares.

      August 4th. Wire me what's wrong. Be careful.

      That was all, but the handwriting was the same as that on the Marvel's register. This document was carefully placed in the Chief Inspector's pocketbook.

      At the Enterprise a man from the Yard was waiting for him with a wire from Watts. It appeared that Sikes the cycle-maker had left Coventry ten months ago. Should he try to trace him?

      Pointer sent an affirmative reply, and listened to Miller's report. This time there had been no disturbance of any kind during the night, and the Chief Inspector could pass on quickly to the looking up of the two women who occupied rooms Nos. 11 and 12, the rooms nearest to No. 14. As to the other numbers, who were known to the hotel, Pointer left them to Miller.

      Number eleven, nearest to the stairs, was occupied by a Mrs. Willett, a brightly painted lady whose diamonds and startling dresses turned every head, literally but not figuratively, as she tripped past on stilt-heels. Her age was a subject of some speculation. It was generally agreed, in spite of flashing teeth and gold brown hair, that forty would be nearer the mark than twenty.

      She told Pointer quite frankly that she had been a smart dressmaker years ago, and now lived on the successful investing of her profits—partly in London, partly travelling.

      "To Monte Carlo," he added mentally. She had been in the lounge nearly all of Saturday morning writing letters, and all of Saturday afternoon at the theatre. She had never seen anyone pass her window going towards No. 14.

      "We want to find out if the gentleman—Mr. Eames—had any friends or acquaintance in the hotel. People often don't like to come forward in a suicide case," Pointer explained.

      Mrs. Willett closed her black eyes convulsively.

      "Don't," she begged. "I'm leaving the hotel as soon as I can make other arrangements. I had meant to leave Sunday morning, but some friends to whom I was going have a child down with the measles; but stay on here I can't—it's too terrible...such a shock...poor young man!"

      Pointer agreed that it was terrible, and bowed himself out, thankful that the interview was over; for with her arch gestures, and frenzied vivacity, and her screaming, high-pitched voice, she exhausted the air of any room. He found the inmate of number twelve quite a change. Low-voiced, gentle-mannered Miss Leslie was a hardworking young actress, who had just got into a good part at one of London's leading theatres by sheer merit and hard work. She had been away all Saturday morning rehearsing, and all afternoon on the river with friends. She had never heard voices from Mr. Eames' room since he had taken it, nor had she ever seen anyone pass the window from Mr. Eames' room in either direction; but as she had not returned from her Saturday outing till seven o'clock, when she had taken off her sodden things and crept immediately into bed, she had not been in the hotel during the afternoon hours which interested the police most.

      Much of this Pointer knew from his and Watt's examination of her room and wardrobe, while she had been at her bath yesterday morning, and from questions downstairs. Her wet clothes were noted in the little book the Chief Inspector consulted now and again.

      "You never heard any voices from next door, you say?"

      "Not СКАЧАТЬ