“Oh, one of those nondescript grey things,” said Mrs. Ferne. “Dark grey.”
“Dark grey overcoat. Got all that? . . . Well, bring the car round here—where are you exactly? . . . Behind the church? Good——”
“Oh, I’ve got it. Portable wireless again,” said Marden, inaudibly addressing himself.
“—car round to the front door; keep the engine running. He always walks out at the front door for a few minutes before turning in, they tell me. When you see him you know what to do. Don’t make a fool of yourself and bump off the wrong man.”
Indignation took possession of Marden and drove out any natural fear which would otherwise have seized him. If this fellow thought he could sit in a respectable London hotel and issue orders for assassination as quietly as though he were ordering a dozen of beer from the local wine merchant, he was wrong. He was very wrong. Who the devil did the half-bred mongrel think he was? Hambledon would be very interested indeed and should receive a report at the earliest possible moment. In fact, probably the most sensible thing Marden could do would be to walk straight out of the room and ring up the Foreign Office then and there. Sensible, but not satisfying. What he really wanted to do was to take the man firmly by the beard, punch the more outstanding portions of his face out through the back of his head, and throw the debris down the stairs. While he was hesitating he heard Mrs. Ferne say she had seldom been so surprised. “I thought him quite harmless. Rather a nice little man, in fact. Are you sure you’re not mistaken?”
“Perfectly sure. I know I’m right. His childish attempts at disguise did not deceive me for a moment.”
“But you only saw him for a moment, you tell me, and under such different circumstances.”
“My good woman, when a man has suddenly attacked you without warning you remember his face forever after.”
Perhaps being called “my good woman” annoyed Mrs. Ferne, or perhaps it was merely the domineering tone he used. Whatever the reason, she persisted.
“I shall go and call him up here,” she said, opening the bedroom door as she spoke. “I think you ought to make quite sure. He was kind to Persephone, and it won’t make any difference, if you are right.”
The balcony window, which was close to the bedroom door, had long curtains drawn across it, which reached to the floor. Marden was behind these long before she finished her sentence. She walked across the room and paused to pick up her stick; Marden had a moment’s fear that one of his feet was showing and moved it back.
Instantly there was a bloodcurdling yell and several sharp points sank into his ankle; he had trodden on the tail of one of the cats, and the beast had turned on him. Marden abandoned concealment and made a dash for the door; it should be an easy matter to push past the old lady.
“You!” she cried, and sprang at him as actively as one of her cats. She caught his arm in a jujitsu hold for which he was unprepared and threw herself back. Marden felt himself falling when there was a loud bang from behind him.
Mrs. Ferne released his arm, leaned against the wall by the door, and slid slowly down it, switching off the light in her fall. Marden, on the floor, shot backwards and under the table and lay still. Blackbeard leaped out of the bedroom door, stooped over Mrs. Ferne, and immediately straightened up and walked quietly out. The electrician, who must have been startled, came quickly down his stepladder, staring at Blackbeard as he approached, and began to say something. Blackbeard promptly hit him hard under the jaw, and the electrician ceased for the time to take any more interest in these curious happenings.
Blackbeard turned the corner towards the stairs and met the manager coming up.
“Is everything all right, sir? I thought I heard——”
“Perfectly all right, perfectly,” said Blackbeard soothingly. “My fault entirely; I banged the door when I came out.” He slipped his hand under the manager’s elbow, and they went downstairs together. “It is a foul habit of mine, slamming doors; I must break myself of it.” Still apologizing cheerfully, he took leave of the manager and walked out of the hotel. There was a car standing outside with the engine running; he got into it and was driven away.
Marden lay still for a moment, expecting to hear sounds of running feet and cries of alarm, but everything remained perfectly quiet. None of the other inhabitants of the passage were in their rooms at the time, and the electrician was lying quietly along the floor with his nose pressed against the skirting board.
Marden got up, dashed into the bedroom and locked the door behind him, turned hastily, and was nearly thrown by another of the bereaved cats who got under his feet. Marden bumped heavily into the wardrobe door, said something uncomplimentary to the cat, and started feverishly collecting all the papers he could find lying about; he had no time to search the room. There was a loose-leaf notebook near the wireless set, a couple of letters on the table, and a long envelope on the settee. He stuffed these hastily into his pockets, opened the window, and stepped out onto the sill. It was wide enough to stand on, so he closed the window carefully behind him and felt along the wall for the down pipe from the eaves of which he had previously taken particular notice. He had had an idea it might come in useful. He slid carefully down it and landed in the hotel back yard among dustbins and empty packing cases. There was a door in the rear wall of this which led into a narrow alley between the houses; he went out this way, not knowing that the car which had been waiting for him had already left with Blackbeard inside. Marden emerged at the end, stopped the second taxi which passed empty—he thought there might be something funny about the first—and drove back to Warnford’s flat as fast as the driver would take him.
The pyramid-obsessed lady in the lounge had found another listener after Marden left her who seemed much more reasonable, not to say intelligent.
“I have a very interesting little booklet upstairs,” said the lady, “which puts the matter in a very clear light. I should so much like to show it to you—I will run upstairs and get it. No, no trouble at all, a pleasure. I won’t be a moment.”
Her room was at the far end of Mrs. Ferne’s passage, so she turned left at the top of the stairs and found the unconscious electrician still on the floor.
“Oh, the poor man,” she said aloud; “he must have fallen off the steps and hurt himself. Are you much hurt? I’d better ring for help. No doubt that was the bump we heard just now.”
She saw an open door almost opposite, which was Mrs. Ferne’s, and entered it, meaning to ring the bell. She switched the light on and looked down.
Mrs. Ferne was lying on the floor just inside the door with a little blue hole in her temple, and the great grey cat Persephone, walking round and round the body, rubbed her head against her mistress’s every time she passed it.
Marden, in the yard below, heard the shriek and broke into a run. The manager heard it and came up the stairs two steps at a time; all the guests heard it and rushed up, headed by the old colonel. Waiters, tidying the dining room, heard it and ran up; chambermaids in their mysterious lairs heard it and joined the throng; everyone heard it except the electrician, who still took no notice, even when people tripped over him.
“Murder!” shrieked the lady. “Murder!”
“What is all this?” said the manager.
“Murder!”
“For goodness’ sake, stop yelping,” said the colonel. “Get the police, man, at once.”
“What’s this man doing in the passage?”
“Who’s murdered him?”
“He isn’t murdered,” said the colonel after a brief inspection.
“Then why is he dead?” said someone in the back row who couldn’t see properly.
“Ladies! Gentlemen!” appealed the manager. “Quiet, please. Let me——”
“Nothing must be touched,” said the colonel authoritatively. “Lock the door, put the key in your pocket, and send for the police.”
15. And the Manager Fainted
The manager rang up the nearest police station and reported th
e affair. He was told that they would send somebody round at once but was mildly surprised when a short grey man with an official manner walked in thirty seconds later and said he was Detective-Inspector Barnes from Scotland Yard.
“Dear me,” said the manager, “you have been quick.”
“Naturally. I understand there has been a death here.”
“Yes—upstairs——”
“Take me up at once, please.”
The manager led the way upstairs at a smart pace, for that was the effect the grey man had upon him. “Will you wish to question everyone?” he asked nervously.
“Naturally. When I have examined the scene of the crime—if it is one. No one must leave the premises under any pretext whatever.”
“No, sir. Certainly not.”
They passed the still-unconscious form of the electrician, who was receiving first-aid from the colonel, the hotel porter, and a couple of chambermaids, but the detective barely glanced at him.
“This the room? Is that the key? Give it to me, please. Thank you.”
The detective opened the door for himself, went in, taking the key with him, and shut the door again at once. The manager, left outside in the passage, heard the key turn in the lock.
“Well, I think that is rather—— No doubt detectives are busy men, but——”
Mr. Barnes wasted no time on Mrs. Ferne or on Persephone but walked straight across and tried the bedroom door. It was locked, which surprised him, but he produced a small lever from his pocket and forced it open. He looked hastily round the room, then again more thoroughly with a puzzled expression, and turned over one or two cushions.
“Where the hell did he put them, then?” he said aloud.
Nearly two hours earlier, as soon as Blackbeard had arrived at the hotel and asked for Mrs. Ferne, a telephone call went through to Tommy Hambledon from the hotel porter who was new to the place, having only been there a few weeks. The previous one had left for a better job for which, if he had only known it, he had to thank the Foreign Office. Hambledon had found the description of the visitor so interesting that he rang up Chief Inspector Bagshott about it, and both men had come to the hotel while the residents were at dinner. They were at once taken upstairs by the porter during the manager’s temporary absence. Bagshott was the electrician in the corridor, wearing a shabby suit with the pockets bulging with tools. Hambledon went straight into Mrs. Ferne’s bedroom and looked round for a place of concealment. Unfortunately for him the bed was of the divan type and would not receive him underneath; the only place available was the wardrobe. Hambledon got into it, left the door ajar, and waited upon events. He took great interest in everything Mrs. Ferne and her visitor had to say to each other and was enjoying himself thoroughly up to the point where Marden trod on the cat’s tail.
Hambledon took the risk of opening the door wide enough to peep out while the excitement was going on but could see nothing of what happened in the farther room. Blackbeard fired one shot from an automatic and immediately left; Hambledon was just about to step out and take an active part in the proceedings when a middle-aged man with brown hair turning grey bounced into the room, locked the door, tripped over the cat, bumped into the wardrobe door, and slammed it shut. Hambledon just got his fingers out of the way in time.
After that things became, for Hambledon, a trifle confusing. Wardrobe doors have no handles on the inside, so he could not open it again. He assumed from Blackbeard’s references to Frog Farm that the newcomer was probably either Warnford or Marden—Marden by the description—but he could not be sure; it might be someone else altogether. Mrs. Ferne did not come back, which, if she had received the shot, was not surprising, but where was Bagshott? Someone fell when the pistol was fired. Why was everything so quiet when one would have expected shrieks and rushings about, and what was this fellow doing?
At that point Hambledon heard the window being pushed up; a slight scuffling sound followed, and then the window closed again. Silence, more profound than ever, settled on the scene.
“He dropped something out of the window,” said Hambledon to himself, “in order not to be seen with it on him, whatever it was. He will now open the door, walk downstairs with a calm unruffled countenance, and pick it up outside.” No door opened, however, and no movement was to be heard.
“He didn’t drop anything out,” said Hambledon; “he got out——”
There was a piercing shriek, followed by cries of “Murder! Murder!” Hambledon relaxed a little. This was what one expected; this was natural; now things would begin to move, but what was Bagshott doing all this time? Voices were heard, many voices.
A door shut—that was when the manager locked the outer one—and once again quiet descended. “They are sending for the police,” said Hambledon. “I am tired of being in here.” He began to feel along the panels and push here and there, but the door resisted firmly. He braced his feet against the back, put his shoulder against the lock, and was just going to break out when a door opened and shut again. He stopped to listen.
The bedroom door was tried; the handle rattled again. “It’s locked, old boy,” said Hambledon softly, hoping it was Bagshott but waiting to make sure. There was a sort of splintering crash, and someone walked hurriedly in.
“If this is Bagshott he knows where I am and he’ll let me out.”
But the newcomer took no notice of the wardrobe, and presently Hambledon heard an aggrieved voice, perfectly strange to him, asking where the devil somebody had put something. There was a click, as of a switch, and a deep voice said, “Hullo?”
“Blackbeard,” muttered Hambledon. “Where did——?”
“Heinrich here,” said the strange voice in German. “I can’t see any notes; where did you put them?”
“Oh,” said Hambledon to himself, “the wireless, of course.”
“Right in front of your nose, you fool. A notebook on the wireless set and a long envelope on the settee or a chair or somewhere. Get a move on; the police will be there in a minute. Perhaps they’re on the floor; those damned cats may have pulled them down. Get them and come out.” Click.
Heinrich sighed audibly and could be heard moving chairs about and conducting a thorough, if rapid, search. “If he opens this door,” thought Hambledon, “he’ll find something he doesn’t expect. He’ll give it up in a minute and leave by the window like the other chap, and I haven’t even seen him.” He braced his feet against the back again and leaned his shoulder against the door, ready to burst out at the first sound of the window opening, but at that moment Heinrich, trying in despair the last hiding place he could see, flung the wardrobe door open wide.
* * *
The manager, still smarting under Detective-Inspector Barnes’s snubs, had hardly sat down again in his little office when two more men walked into the hotel, followed by a constable in uniform who took his stand by the front door. The manager came out to meet them.
“Good evening,” said the older of the two in a pleasant voice. “Are you the manager here? Good. I am Detective-Inspector Egan of Scotland Yard, and this is Detective-Sergeant Knight. I understand you have had some trouble here.”
“Yes, sir, we have indeed. A lady has been found shot—a Mrs. Ferne, one of our oldest residents. You would like to see——”
“Thank you, we should. Where did this happen?”
“Upstairs, sir; this way if you’ll follow me.”
“Carry on, please. I’ll leave a constable on the door if you don’t mind, just to see that nobody goes out. When did all this happen?”
“We only heard of it about ten minutes ago,” said the manager, pattering up the stairs, “but I think it occurred about five minutes before that—this way, gentlemen—when I heard a bang——”
They rounded the corner in the passage and found Bagshott still being efficiently tended but not yet responding.
“Great Scott,” said Egan.
“That, sir,” said the manager, “is a man from the electricity company, I understan
d. I don’t know how he hurt himself, unless the shot startled him and he fell off the ladder. I told my people to look after him. This is the room.”
“There will be a doctor here in a minute,” said Egan, and left his superior officer for the time being. “This door’s locked; have you the key?”
“No, sir. Inspector Barnes has it. He took it and locked himself in; he’s still in there.”
“Inspector Barnes? Did you say Barnes?”
“Yes, sir. Detective-Inspector Barnes from Scotland Yard, he said he was. If you knock, sir, he’ll hear you.”
“When did he come?”
“About ten minutes ago, sir. Just after I’d rung up—I’d only just left the phone. I said to him, ‘You have been quick,’ and——”
The sergeant stooped down and looked at the keyhole. “He’s left the key in the lock, sir.”
“Break the door in, sergeant.”
“Break the door!” said the horrified manager. “Why don’t you call to him?”
“Because he—— What’s that?”
“That” was a cry of astonishment followed by stampings, thudding noises, and exclamations of wrath. When the wardrobe door flew open Hambledon shot out as though propelled by a spring like a jack-in-the-box. He saved himself from falling by pushing Heinrich in the chest and immediately hit him hard on the nose with satisfactory results. Heinrich reacted extraordinarily promptly, when one considers how astonished he must have been, and caught Hambledon a crack in the eye which closed it for him. In spite of this he went on hammering at his adversary even if some of his blows were rather wild, and the German jumped back and pulled out an automatic. Tommy saw that quite plainly even with one eye and kicked him violently on the wrist, whereupon Heinrich dropped the gun with one hand, caught it with the other, and started shooting. He was not a left-handed shot; a picture on the wall and the wardrobe door suffered accordingly. Hambledon produced his own Luger, but it is nearly as difficult to shoot with the wrong eye as with the wrong hand. The police outside, charging the locked door with their shoulders, counted eight shots before silence supervened and the door gave way at last.
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