Rogue's Holiday

by Maxwell March

  “Oh no,” she said. “I’m supposed to be in bed. Good-night.”

  “My name is Marguerite Ferney,” the woman murmured.

  Again Judy responded.

  “I’m Judy Wellington,” she said. “Good-night, Miss Ferney.”

  Already she had opened the door, and it was only as she stepped inside that she smiled back at the man.

  “Good-night, David,” she whispered, and disappeared.

  In spite of his intense curiosity concerning the woman’s possible motives in forcing an acquaintance with them, David was conscious of a definite state of disappointment as the door closed.

  He turned away and caught Miss Ferney looking at him quizzically; he had the uncomfortable feeling that she had read his thoughts and might, if he were not very careful, chip him about them.

  However, she was much more politic.

  “We’ll go down, shall we?” she suggested, adding inconsequentially, “What a charming girl!”

  David did not reply save by the most noncommittal of nods, but he walked down the corridor beside the woman, and they stepped into the lift together.

  On closer inspection Marguerite Ferney was an even more interesting person than she had appeared at first sight. David thought he had a pretty thorough knowledge of this particular type of woman. He came up against it fairly often in his work. But never before had he seen so exotic and artificial a specimen with such extraordinarily intelligent eyes; eyes so shrewd and clever that they completely belied the ingenuous, rather vapid, well-meaning character she was endeavouring to assume.

  As they rode down together she chattered on in the frankest and most brainless fashion, but all the time David was asking himself what she had been doing at Judy’s door and trying to reconcile reason with his conviction that the woman had achieved her purpose, and that that purpose had been nothing more or less than an attempt to strike up an acquaintance, however slight, with Judy Wellington.

  He was reproaching himself for being unduly nervous where Judy was concerned when a very curious thing happened.

  As they stepped out of the lift together, the woman still talking and smiling up into his face, the first person to see them was Sir Leo.

  He had been waiting for the lift to descend and had come forward as the steel doors swung back. David saw his face. He saw the expression change as Sir Leo caught sight of Marguerite Ferney, saw the look that was half fury, half apprehension in his eyes, and then, as his gaze travelled on and he recognized the inspector himself and realized that the two were not only acquainted but seemed to be on the best of terms, the colour slowly drained out of his florid face, and his eyes widened with something which, to the bewildered detective, appeared to be nothing less than frank, unadulterated terror.

  Sir Leo stepped hurriedly into the lift as though fearful of being seen and disappeared from view.

  Still pondering on this odd incident, David escorted the fascinating Miss Ferney to the office and then left her, firmly refusing to understand her obvious overtures.

  He was hurrying back through the lounge when the hoarse voice of the page boy crying his room number caught his attention. He beckoned the youngster and gave his name.

  “Mr. Blest, sir?” The boy seemed relieved. “You’re wanted on the phone. It seems to be urgent. This way, sir.”

  David followed the page to the telephone and raised the receiver. Ex-Sergeant Bloomer’s voice, hoarse with excitement, reached him across the wire.

  “Is that you, Captain? I’ve been trying to get you for some minutes. Yes, it’s urgent all right. It’s that fellow Deane you told me to keep an eye on. We’ve just found him up in his room, shot through the head.”

  There was a pause as David put a question.

  “Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. Quite dead.” Bloomer sounded apologetic. “We’ve sent for the local police, of course. But I thought I’d let you in on the ground floor.”

  “Right, Bloomer. I’ll be over right away.”

  Slowly David hung up the receiver and for a moment stood staring unseeingly at the instrument.

  The page, who had hung about outside the booth, sensing a sensation, mentally decided that the gentleman had received bad news, but his youthful mind had no conception of the utter chagrin and dismay which at that moment descended upon Inspector David Blest.

  Dead. Johnny Deane dead. The one witness upon whom he had relied to give him the all-important information he sought. David could hardly believe it. Five minutes before he had been confident that the whole of the bewildering mystery which surrounded Judy Wellington would be made clear to him.

  Then Sir Leo, the beautiful Marguerite Ferney, and the strange, likable figure of Lionel Birch had all seemed to him to be parts of a puzzle to which he held the key.

  Now, in one single moment, that key had been torn from his hand, and he was plunged into a darkness more abysmal than ever.

  He found it in his heart to be sorry for Johnny Deane, that ineffectual, good-tempered little crook who had never done anything, so far as David knew, to merit sudden death. Now he had been struck down callously so that he might not betray a secret. That secret, David reflected, must be even more important to someone than he had at first supposed.

  He walked out of the booth and made his way slowly across the lounge. As he went he cursed himself bitterly for several kinds of a fool. Had he not been so ridiculously anxious to have a word with Judy he would have let Lionel Birch get the lizard-skin case back to the girl in his own way and would have waited for Johnny Deane as he had intended.

  It suddenly occurred to him that he was taking it for granted that the man had been murdered, Bloomer had not said so. It might even be suicide, and in that case the whole business was inexplicable.

  As it was, David, who entertained the gravest suspicions of Sir Leo where the death of Ingleton-Gray was concerned, could not see the baronet as a possible killer of Deane. The two had seemed on the best of terms six or seven hours before, and, at any rate, he had just seen Sir Leo get into the lift, and, presuming that Bloomer had rung him immediately the crime was committed, the older man had not had much chance to get back from the Empress to the Arcadian in so short a time.

  He was lucky to find a taxi outside the hotel and a few seconds later was being whirled away to the scene of the tragedy. He sat forward in the cab, his arms clasping his knees. He was worried. His own position, he foresaw, might be very difficult. He was out of his district, and the local police are often jealous of Scotland Yard and are by no means always anxious to solicit their help.

  However, he reflected philosophically, the only thing to do was to go and find out, and accordingly he sat where he was, watching impatiently the darkened houses flicker by as their blank window-panes reflected the lights of the cab.

  When he arrived the Empress gave every appearance of being closed. There was not very much light in the hall, and only a small opening in the iron trellis-work doors at the foot of the front steps betrayed that something unusual was afoot.

  David pushed his way in and strolled into the foyer. There were two uniformed policemen conversing softly at the far end, and one of them came towards him and would have spoken had not Bloomer hurried out of the porter’s room and forestalled the man.

  The old sergeant looked a good ten years younger. However disastrous the tragedy might be for the hotel, however tragic the effect upon the unfortunate Major, it had certainly done old Bloomer a world of good.

  There was a flicker of excitement in his eyes, and he looked, David was shocked to see, supremely happy.

  His opening remark bore out this impression.

  “It’s like old times, isn’t it, Captain?” he said. “Oh, it’s a murder all right. I found the poor chap meself. He came in just after you left and went straight up to ’is room. I hung about for half an hour or so, and then I just wandered up there casual-like to see that ’e was all right. There was a light under ’is door, and I thought I might as well look in. I knocked and got no reply, knocked
again, and finally got the chambermaid to open the door with ’er pass-key.

  “I sent ’er in with an extra blanket, you see,” he added knowingly. “Well, she let out a scream which you could have heard at the other end of the town, and I rushed in.

  “There ’e was, lying across the bed, a nice neat hole through ’is forehead.

  “Stop,” he went on, as David opened his mouth. “I know what you’re going to ask me, Captain, and I can answer in one. There wasn’t. There wasn’t a gun about anywhere.”

  He paused for breath and grinned at David.

  “Murder,” he said at last, a certain amount of frankly ghoulish satisfaction in his tone. “After all these years, with nothing ever happening, a murder! I don’t mind telling you, Captain, I’ve got a theory already, but I’m not spilling it in case I’m wrong.”

  “Who’s in charge of the case?” said David more brusquely than he had intended.

  “Inspector Winn, of the local C.I.D. Detective Inspector Winn.”

  A certain lack of enthusiasm in Bloomer’s tone indicated that the old ex-sergeant had not much use for the gentleman in question.

  “However, you go right upstairs, sir,” he went on. “It’s room seventy-three, on the second floor. I can’t come with you because—” he lowered his voice—“between you and me, I think the chief constable ’imself’s coming down, and I’ve got to be here to take ’im straight up to the manager. Colonel Cream: he is a very nice gentleman.”

  “All right.” David moved towards the staircase. He was the last man in the world to go butting in on another’s preserves, but in this particular case he felt he had a very great personal interest.

  Bloomer hurried after him.

  “It’s the second floor, sir,” he said. “If you hear a bit of excitement on the first that’s just the manager. ’E’s taken the thing to heart terribly. O’ course it’s bad for ’im, you see, right in the middle of the season.”

  David shook off the sergeant and hurried up the staircase. Bloomer was not without charm, but there were times when he got on David’s nerves, and this was one of them.

  He did notice on the first floor a certain amount of quiet hubbub. A distraught-looking young man with “private secretary” written all over him hurried out of a door marked “Office” and disappeared down the corridor, a sheaf of papers on his arm.

  David pressed on.

  Like many hotels of its type, the Empress was something of a sham inasmuch as its first floor was less luxurious than its ground floor, and the second floor less magnificent still.

  Treading softly, David made his way down the dimly lit passage, noting the numbers on the doors. He found number seventy-three without much difficulty and paused a moment before going in. Indeed, this was necessary, for a policeman in uniform stood on duty before the door.

  To this somewhat wooden-faced individual David gave his name and rank. The magic words “Scotland Yard” had an instantaneous effect. The man looked at him respectfully.

  “If you’ll just wait a minute, I’ll tell the inspector you’re here, sir,” he said. “I can’t show you straight in, because I’ve had orders to keep everybody out.”

  David smiled. “That’s all right, Constable,” he said. “Orders are orders, I know that.”

  The policeman looked relieved and, stepping deferentially, slipped inside the room, closing the door after him.

  In three minutes he was out again. He was very red, and his round uncomfortable face shone with embarrassment.

  “I’m very sorry, sir,” he said, breathing heavily, “but Inspector Winn says he’s very busy just now, and if you have anything to say pertinent to the case he will interview you with the rest of the witnesses downstairs in the lounge in about an hour.”

  David reddened. He had felt that there might be opposition to his taking a hand in the case, but he had not expected quite such flagrant rudeness. The constable looked positively wretched.

  “I’m very sorry, sir,” he repeated. “Very sorry.” His voice trailed away into silence.

  “Please go back and tell Inspector Winn that I think I can identify his man for him,” said David.

  Again the constable disappeared, looking even more wretched than before.

  This time he did not return. Instead, the door was thrown open, and a dark military figure in an inspector’s uniform strode out into the corridor.

  Inspector Winn only just attained regulation height, but he made up for his lack of inches with a tremendous self-sufficiency. His small dark eyes were angry, and the points of his small black moustache positively bristled.

  “Inspector Blest of Scotland Yard?”

  David nodded. “That is my name, and I came to offer you any assistance I could. I think that if you have not already identified the dead man I can do that for you.”

  “That’s very kind of you.” There was a sneer in the other man’s voice. “But I assure you, you’re being overzealous. We can manage a little thing like this without any help from Scotland Yard.”

  David stared at the man and suddenly decided that he was overwrought. The importance of the case had gone to his head, and he did not fully realize the effect of what he was saying.

  David stiffened. “I beg your pardon, Inspector,” he said. “I assure you I had no wish to intrude.” Then, turning on his heel, he strode off down the corridor, his body held a trifle more erect even than usual and his eyes flashing.

  He was still angry when he reached the lounge again. The lift, of course, was not working at so late an hour, and he could see down into the hall for some time before he actually reached it.

  Standing directly in his way were old Bloomer and a white-haired old gentleman who David knew instinctively must be Colonel Cream, the chief constable for the district.

  The Colonel was a plump, affable individual with an expansive smile and a pair of the most enormous white moustaches David had ever seen.

  Bloomer said something as David approached, and the Colonel swung round.

  “Inspector Blest? Really? God bless my soul, this is a fortunate coincidence. My dear young sir, allow me to introduce myself. My name’s Cream, J. Pennyfield Cream, chief constable for the district. Bloomer here tells me you already know about our difficulty. I’m delighted to meet you, delighted.”

  He was effusive but so obviously sincere in his delight that David’s anger evaporated.

  The Colonel went on talking. David found afterwards that this was one of his pecularities: he always talked, whether anyone else had anything important to say or not.

  “This really is a blessing,” the Colonel continued. “The best man at the Yard right on the scene of the crime half an hour after it’s happened. That’s the kind of organization I like to see, the organization of Providence. We must have you on this and get it all cleared up. Can’t have things happening like this right in the middle of the season, just when all these poor fellows are trying to put by a little for the winter. This is splendid! You must get down to it at once.”

  David hesitated. He was in a very awkward situation. The old man’s enthusiasm was irresistible, however.

  “Apart from the poor fellow who’s been killed,” he was saying, “there are the living to think of. This is the second murder case I’ve ever had since I’ve been chief constable. I was six weeks late calling in the Yard last time, and I’ve never heard the end of it. And I’m not going to make that mistake again. You’re not on a case now, are you?”

  “No, sir. I’m on leave.”

  “Splendid. They must make it up to you. I’ll get on to Sir Gervase and fix it all up. Meanwhile, you must get to work.”

  David drew back. “I don’t think Inspector Winn——” he began.

  The Colonel’s small bright blue eyes flickered uncertainly for a moment.

  “Winn’ll be delighted,” he said. “Winn’s a good man, one of the best we’ve got. But he hasn’t had the experience. We don’t get a murder every day at Westbourne. What we need is a man who
’s handled the same sort of thing before. Come along, my dear fellow. I suppose there’s no chance of these lifts working, Bloomer? No? Well, come along. We must go by the stairs.”

  Once again David climbed up to the second floor of the Empress Hotel.

  They entered room seventy-three, and Colonel Cream, either unaware of any friction between the two men or else magnificently disregarding it, reintroduced them and, in the pontifical way of chief constables, bade them make haste with their arrest.

  After some considerable talk about the case, when all the facts David already knew were repeated, the Colonel turned to the local police officer.

  “You’re extremely lucky, Winn,” he said. “Here we have one of the best men at the Yard arriving at the precise moment that you need him. Now I shall leave you to it. Put Inspector Blest in full possession of the facts and then, for heaven’s sake, put your heads together and get this thing cleared up quickly. I’m going down to see the manager. Bloomer wanted to take me straight to him, but I thought I’d see you two first.

  “Meanwhile I’ll phone the Yard and make the necessary arrangements about Inspector Blest. Don’t worry, my boy,” he went on, as David glanced at him despairingly—the Colonel had been anything but tactful, “don’t worry. I assume full responsibility for this. Let me know any new developments, Winn. I shall look in before I go, but, if I forgot to mention it, the phone’s by my bed, and you can get me the moment you want me. Good-night, good-night.”

  He went out, closing the door firmly behind him. The click of the latch echoed through the disordered and tragic little room.

  David Blest turned slowly and surveyed the other man, who he saw to his acute embarrassment was white with anger.

  “I’m extremely sorry about all this,” he began, “but Colonel Cream collared me on the staircase, and I couldn’t very well get out of it.”

  Inspector Winn’s expression did not relax.

  “I’ve been on the Force for twenty years,” he said, “and I am not used to taking advice from my juniors. However, if the great resources of Scotland Yard can assist me to solve this very simple little case, I assure you I shall give them the gratitude they deserve.”