Tragedy at Beechcroft (Musaicum Murder Mysteries). Dorothy Fielding

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      CHAPTER III.

       A VISIT TO BRUSSELS, AND A LOST BOX OF CHOCOLATES

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      NEXT morning, Santley was at the Victoria Air Terminus station when a hand touched his arm. It was Lavinia Moncrieff. She had a small package, obviously from a confectioners, dangling in her hand from a pink and silver ribbon. Across the top, also in pink and silver, was the name of a very smart sweet-shop.

      "I wondered if you would be kind enough to take this to Brussels for me. You know the Hotel Adolphe Max? Yes, I thought you would be going there as you're flying over. Will you give this to the head porter? It's for his little daughter. See, I've written her name on it. She's learning English, and I promised her some English chocolates last time I was over there."

      Santley saw the name Gudule Broukere in Lavinia's small writing, and below, "English sweets to help with English verbs." Privately, he thought that sending chocolates to Brussels was like taking coals to Newcastle, but he said he would take charge of the little box with pleasure.

      "It's under a pound," she went on, "so even if you have to pay duty it won't be much. Let me know if you do, won't you?" She left him almost immediately with a charming smile and wave of her hand.

      Santley put the box in the pocket of his summer overcoat, which he hung over the back of his seat in the air-liner. Then he got out some papers and looked at designs. He felt something twitch him as they were nearly in. He looked around. Two men were in the seat behind him, one was leaning forward, apparently trying to see something of the Belgian coast far below, the other appeared to be asleep. But he had drawn the end of Santley's coat over his knees and this was what had roused the artist from his study of an old Flemish border design.

      Santley saw no reason why the man needed a rug, nor even so, why his coat should serve for one, and picking up the overcoat, he laid it folded beside him. But there was no box of sweets in the pocket. He sat around instantly, saw the box on the floor, made a long arm, and picked it up, looking indignantly at the sleeper who, apparently, was quite oblivious of it.

      Santley was well known to the douaniers of the Brussels Aerodrome, and with a smile they waved the little box of chocolates aside as of no importance. Arrived at his hotel, after securing his rooms, he asked for Monsieur Broukere, the head porter, saying that he had a little box of sweets for his daughter sent her by an English lady.

      He was told that the man had had an accident only this morning. A car had run him down in the Avenue outside, and he was now in the hospital of St. Jean Tenoode near by, with a broken arm. Santley decided to go to the hospital, which was only a few minutes' drive away, and hand him the box personally. Visitors' hour at the hospital for the private rooms was from four to five, he was told. It was now just past three. His head weaver would be at the hotel at five for the alterations and dye patterns...Santley thought that he could fill in a half-hour very nicely by a nap on his bed. He fell asleep almost instantly, and woke with a start to see his door gently closing. He had asked the chambermaid to call him at a quarter to four without fail. Probably some servant had strayed in, found a visitor in occupation, and retired. Santley watched the door being closed with elaborate caution. The hand that was drawing it shut was a man's hand, brown and muscular, with a nail on the first finger which had evidently been crushed many years ago and still showed as an oval of corrugated blue and purple.

      Santley looked at his watch. He had been asleep only twenty minutes, but he felt refreshed, and getting up, went downstairs into the cool and airy garden room, where he ordered a cocktail and had a glance at the papers. At five to four he asked for a taxi, and went up to his room again for the box of chocolates, which he had put on a side table when he first went in.

      It was not there. He rang for the maid. She had not been near the room after knocking—futilely—at a quarter to four. The floor waiter was summoned. He knew nothing about the box, he said. Santley, ruffled, reported the loss downstairs, explaining whose loss it really was. The manager could only look his vexation, and assure him that he would keep an eye on the chambermaid, though both he and Santley agreed that it might have been some wandering child who, stepping in by accident, had succumbed to temptation. At that, Santley recalled the incident of the closing door. He described the broken nail, or rather the crushed nail. No one in the hotel staff had such a deformity. The manager and Santley, both half annoyed, half amused, at the absurdity of the theft, were talking by the reception clerk's desk. It was a quiet hour, and they had the corner to themselves. At the description of the nail, the clerk had started.

      "On his right hand? But that is droll! An Englishman called in here about half an hour ago who had a nail just like that. He took a room, signed his name, here it is, 'Alfred Green, Lordship Lane, London,' and went upstairs, promising to let me have his passport later, but instead when he came down, he said that he had decided to go on at once to Waterloo, and not put up here till his return, to-morrow. He offered to pay for the room, but of course, we refused. He seemed, however, Mr. Santley, the last sort of man one would associate with an interest in a box of chocolates! A business man, I should have said. Or very likely connected with railways. He may have made a mistake in the number of his room, and you may have seen him stepping out again, but I really think that it a mere coincidence about the sweets being gone."

      Santley, too, saw no reason to credit the unknown СКАЧАТЬ