by John Rowland
As I strolled along the promenade, whistling gently to myself, I almost bumped into Shelley. The man from Scotland Yard was standing by the railings, leaning on them and looking out to sea in a dreamy manner.
“Penny for them, Jimmy,” he said as I passed him.
“They’re worth more than that, Inspector,” I replied with a grin.
“Sold your story?” he enquired.
“Yes.”
“What paper?”
“The Daily Wire.”
“Well, that’s better than some of the rags that you’ve worked for in your time, my lad,” he said. “And now you’re coming to a peaceful little restaurant with me to drink a peaceful little cup of coffee.”
“What for?” I asked. I didn’t altogether like his approach. There was, I thought, something slightly sinister about his expression, as if he had got something in for me. I had, as a matter of fact, never known Shelley to try on any fast practice with anyone, unless, perhaps with an undoubted criminal; but all the same I felt a little uncomfortable at what he was now proposing to do.
Yet I had no reason whatever for refusing his invitation to coffee. Indeed, I was ready for a coffee myself. I suddenly realised that in all the excitement of the morning I had completely forgotten to have any breakfast.
“I’ll not merely have a cup of coffee, Inspector, I’ll have something to eat with it,” I said. “I’ve just realised that I gave breakfast a complete miss this morning.”
“Silly habit,” Shelley said.
“Eating, you mean?” I enquired.
“No, missing breakfast.”
And so we made our way up the steep main street of Broadgate to a little café in a peaceful side-street which Shelley had somehow discovered. There we seated ourselves in a corner and ordered coffee and toast. I felt positively ravenous, and wolfed down the toast as if I had nothing to eat for days. Actually, my last meal had been dinner on the previous night, and after about fifteen hours I was ready for something. I should have liked to have had something more; but I knew that Shelley had some sort of business up his sleeve. I knew, moreover, that he would not descend to talking business while I was engaged in the urgent matter of food.
Therefore I hastily finished my toast, caught the eye of the waitress, and then ordered another two cups of coffee. When these had been set before us, I looked the Inspector straight in the eye.
“Shoot!” I said.
Shelley looked puzzled. “I don’t altogether understand you, Jimmy,” he said.
“Don’t talk nonsense, Inspector,” I said with a laugh. “I know something about your methods now, and I’m sure that you didn’t bring me in here merely for the pleasure of drinking coffee with me. You’ve either got something you want to talk to me about—some information which you imagine I’ve got hold of, and which you want me to share with you. Or, if that’s not it, you’ve got some sort of proposition which you want to put before me. I’m not as green as you fondly imagine I am, you know.”
Shelley smiled that deceptively quiet smile of his. “All right, Jimmy, you win,” he said.
“And what’s the proposition?” I asked.
He smiled and stirred his coffee thoughtfully. Then he got out his briar pipe, filled it with the rank weed he called tobacco, rammed it down with his thumb, and lit it. This was all done with a slow deliberation that I found positively maddening. But I knew well enough that he had tried to irritate me, and I was firmly resolved to show no sign of irritation.
“What do you know of John Tilsley?” he asked.
“Nothing, save that he was staying at the Charrington Hotel, and that his London address was 25 Thackeray Court, S.W.5., which will be either Kensington or Chelsea,” I said. No point, I told myself, in trying to hide from Shelley what I had found out.
“You’re a scamp, Jimmy,” Shelley said seriously. “I guessed that, left alone with the body for ten minutes or so, you wouldn’t let the time be altogether wasted. And I suppose that the man’s name and address is already in type, ready for the Wire’s first edition tomorrow morning?”
“The Broadgate address is,” I admitted. “Not the London one; I was keeping that for my second story, to be phoned to them later in the day. It wouldn’t do to give them the whole story in one chunk, you know. It’s already a scoop, but I’m being paid space-rates, and I’ve got to do something to keep the story alive for a week or two.”
Shelley grinned again, and this time his grin was very much more good-humoured than it had been before.
“I said you were a scamp, Jimmy, and I still think that you are,” he said. “But then no journalist has any sort of conscience, anyhow.”
I smiled. “But I’m sure, Inspector,” I said, “that you did not bring me here merely to confirm what you already knew—that I’d picked up all the information that I could from Tilsley’s pockets.”
“No.” He looked much more serious now. “What I wanted to say to you, Jimmy, is to suggest that we should be collaborators rather than rivals in this case.”
“I don’t quite know what you mean,” I said. Actually, I knew well enough, but I wanted him to put his proposition into precise terms.
“Well,” he went on, “you are no doubt going to do all you can in the way of investigation on this case.”
“Naturally,” I said. “I want to give my paper some good meaty stuff which they’ll want to print extensively. As I said, I am being paid on space for whatever they use, and therefore I shall want to give them a good story each day. And since there is not much chance of getting anything good from the police, except the hand-out statement that all the papers will get, I am proposing to set myself to find out what I can about Tilsley and his background.”
“Shall we pool our knowledge?” Shelley suggested in all seriousness.
“Have you got any?” I grinned.
“More than you think, perhaps, Jimmy,” he said. “But the point is that I think it would be as well if we agreed to share the work of investigation. You see, there are people who might talk to a journalist, who, on the other hand, would not so readily talk to a policeman. Queer, no accounting for personal taste.” That there was a sting in the last remark did not worry me. I was only too delighted at the proposition that he was putting to me. It meant that I should be in on the inside of the police case.
“Does Inspector Beech know anything about this idea of yours?” I asked.
“Inspector Beech is an excellent officer, able and capable,” Shelley said. “But, like so many policemen, he is totally lacking in imagination.”
I understood. Shelley was doing this completely off his own bat. It was good to know that I had, at any rate, retained his confidence, even though I had probably not impressed the local man as being in any way trustworthy.
“And how do you propose we shall begin?” I asked.
“Well, to begin with,” Shelley said, “I think that you might go around to the Charrington Hotel, as a journalist trying to find out something about Mr. Tilsley’s background. See if you can dig out any facts. Naturally, the police will also have made some enquiries; but it is quite possible that you will get hold of some information unknown to us. Are you agreed?”
“What about publishing anything I find?” I asked.
“You’ll have a chat with me before phoning your paper,” Shelley said seriously. “But I don’t think that you’ll find me in any way unreasonable, Jimmy. I’ll not put an embargo on publishing anything unless I think that it is likely to put the murderer on his guard; and if I do stop you from publishing anything at any time, I’ll undertake to let you publish it well ahead of any of your competitors. Is it a bargain?”
We solemnly shook hands. It was only when I had left Shelley and was making my way down the hill to the Charrington Hotel that I recalled that I had completely forgotten to tell him about the queer Doctor Watford or to show him the black not
ebook.
Chapter VI
In Which I Visit a Strange Hotel
It was good to feel that I was now working with Scotland Yard. Even though the arrangement was strictly unofficial, and would doubtless be forcefully repudiated by Shelley if I claimed to be doing anything on behalf of police headquarters, the fact remained that an understanding of this sort was about as valuable as anything which could be possessed by a journalist in my position.
Shelley had suggested that the best thing that I could do as a first move on his behalf (as well, incidentally, as my own) was to visit the Charrington Hotel and see if there was any clue to the identity of John Tilsley there—or, for that matter, if there was any kind of background information about the man to be picked up.
I wasn’t at all sure where the Charrington Hotel could be. The name was slightly familiar to me, so that I had probably seen it somewhere in my wanderings about Broadgate; but I couldn’t make up my mind just where it was.
I went up to a policeman who was lazily waving slow-moving cars around a corner.
“Excuse me, officer,” I said.
“Yes?” There was something sleepy about the way he spoke, almost as if life in a seaside resort did not make for any kind of briskness.
“Can you tell me where the Charrington Hotel is?”
He looked at me for a moment, almost as if he thought that there was something infinitely suspicious in such an enquiry.
Then he said: “Top of St. Peter’s Street.”
“Over there?” I asked, indicating what I thought I remembered to be the street of that name.
“That’s right.”
“Thank you very much,” I replied.
“You’re welcome,” he said with what I thought was a rather surprising touch of humanity.
The Charrington, indeed, was only about a hundred yards from the spot on which I stood. From the outside it looked normal enough, the average small hotel in a small seaside resort. The open door led to an entrance hall in which stood a tall palm. I glanced in. There seemed no sign of life. Not a single human being was in sight. It was peculiar, it seemed to me, though there might well be an explanation.
Anyhow, there seemed to be no reason why I shouldn’t go in and explore. I strolled carelessly into the hotel, more or less as if I had come there to meet someone. Then I stopped, irresolute. I thought I had better put on an act, in case someone was watching me through a peep-hole somewhere. That probably sounds a bit melodramatic; but I had got more than a trifle worked up over this business, and I don’t mind admitting that at that moment I was prepared for anything to happen, no matter how fantastic it might seem.
At first nothing fantastic did happen, however. Indeed, nothing happened at all. The hotel lobby was silent, dead silent. I was just able to detect the ticking of a clock in some distant corner, out of sight. The general atmosphere of that hotel lobby was oppressive, almost eerie. There was something about it that I strongly resented; yet I was not at all sure what it was that I disliked, save the fact that there was no one to whom I could talk, and I had come prepared to talk in plenty.
Then I sensed, rather than saw, that someone had come in. I glanced around me, and at first couldn’t see anybody. Then, behind the glass front of the small reception kiosk, I saw the woman.
She was more or less what I might have expected in this odd place. Yet I felt a sense of surprise as I looked at her. She was sitting down there, apparently more or less in a daze. Her face was dead white, and against that white the sleek blackness of her hair showed up with a sense of vivid contrast. Her mouth was a slash of scarlet across the white background of her countenance. Everything about her was contrasted. Her dress was of some kind of silky material, black, but with a sash of the same scarlet as her lipstick.
Suddenly the still lady came to life. She looked towards me, as if she had only just become aware of my existence on earth.
“Can I help you?” she said. And her voice completed the surprise. It was a musical voice, which seemed to belong to some attractive girl from the countryside—a dairymaid, perhaps—and certainly did not seem to be in the picture with this woman, sophisticated and blasé.
“I’m looking for a friend, whom I heard was staying here,” I said. I had decided that this was the best method of attack.
“What is his name?” she asked. “I know most of the guests here, and even if I do not know him I can look up in the register and see if we have any record of his visit—tell you, indeed, if he is still here.”
“His name is Tilsley, John Tilsley,” I said watching her face with extreme care, to see if this name appeared to strike a familiar chord.
“John Tilsley,” she repeated thoughtfully, her face expressionless. “I think that he has been a guest here; but whether he is still here I cannot for the moment recall. You see, we have about twenty-five letting bedrooms here, and one doesn’t always remember who is still here and who may have left, to go on somewhere else. You will forgive me, while I go to look up our records, which are inside.”
In a flash she was gone. There must have been some inner door, leading from the back of the reception kiosk into the inner recesses of the hotel. Again that eerie quietude descended. Again I was the sole inhabitant of that strange lobby. I looked around me now with added interest, however. I couldn’t make up my mind what there was about the strange woman in the reception kiosk which seemed to me to strike a false note. It was not that she was unnecessarily polite. After all, if I was the friend of a guest in the hotel, it was only good business to speak to me in friendly fashion. No; it was no good. I shrugged my shoulders. Just what there was that was in some way out of the picture in that hotel I could not decide.
Then she was back. It seemed that she glided rather than walked. I did not hear her return. At one moment she was not there; at the next moment, when I happened to glance at the kiosk, there she was, as impassive and still as ever.
“You were enquiring after Mr. John Tilsley, I think,” she said.
“That is so.”
“Could you be so kind as to inform me what is your business with Mr. Tilsley?”
I paused. This was an unexpected check. Then I thought that before I gave in I would see if I could manage to get the better of the woman in a verbal encounter.
“Before I tell you that, could you be so kind as to tell me whether Mr. Tilsley is still in the hotel?” I asked.
“He is not in the hotel at the moment,” she said. “But he is still on our books. His luggage is still in his room.”
“Did he sleep here last night?” I asked. And now for the first time I saw a slight trace of emotion pass over the woman’s impassive features.
“I am unable to answer that question,” she said.
I snapped: “Do you mean you don’t know, or you won’t tell?”
“I mean that I do not know. We are not in the habit of keeping a watch on our guests, save to ensure that they pay for all the food and attention that they receive,” she remarked. “If a guest desires to stay out for a night, that is no business of this hotel.”
“Not even if he gets into trouble when he is out?” I said meaningly.
“What do you mean?” There was no doubt now about the tone of alarm. There was something that this woman was scared about. And yet her countenance was impossible to read. The heavy make-up disguised the emotions that must otherwise have become obvious in it.
“Even if a man gets killed when he is out?” I persisted. And this time it was clear that the thrust had gone home. The woman swayed slightly on her chair, as if she thought that she had almost lost her balance in the momentary shock.
“John murdered?” These words came in a horrified whisper. I complimented myself on the way in which I was handling the business. I didn’t know how much of this stuff I should be able to use in The Daily Wire; certainly if I tried to suggest the sinister, eerie air of
the Charrington Hotel I should probably have a libel action on my hands. But, even though I was able to use nothing of what I was now finding out, I felt no less interest in what I was doing.
“You knew him, then?” I said slowly.
She nodded.
“When did you see him last?”
“At teatime yesterday.”
“In the hotel?”
She nodded again.
This was a useful piece of information, anyhow. Last seen at the hotel where he was lodging at teatime on the day of his death. That was the sort of concrete evidence that newspaper readers like. I thought that Shelley would like it too. There seemed to be no doubt that I was ahead of the police here. That surprised me a bit, I must admit.
Still, there is something to be said for leading a freelance existence. You do get hold of things that the plodding official, working within the limits of his job, may well miss.
“He had tea here yesterday?” I pursued, wanting to have careful confirmation of the information that I was getting hold of.
“Yes.”
“In the dining-room?”
“No, in the lounge. We serve a fairly light afternoon tea in the lounge here, you see. And I actually had a cup of tea with him yesterday.”
I thought that she was going to break down. She had looked hard-boiled enough in an odd way, but now she seemed to be on the verge of tears. The thought suddenly came to me: this woman had been very fond of Tilsley. Perhaps she had been in love with him. That might go some way towards accounting for the alarm she had shown at the news of his murder—not that the murder of someone that one knows is likely to be exactly ordinary news for any of us.
“You liked him?” I said.
She nodded, her face a picture of silent misery. I felt an urge of sympathy with the woman. This affair had obviously knocked her sideways. Still, I told myself, I should not help things along any by allowing myself to be overcome with sympathy. My job was to get at the bottom of the whole affair as best I could.