Half-Mast Murder

by Milward Kennedy

  He looked in. at the station in case there should be any fresh news. There was. Chemists in Torgate were not so numerous, perhaps, as at some health resorts ; at all events, one had been found who the day before the murder had supplied Syrupus Chloral to a stranger. The stranger had declared himself to be a doctor, and had duly signed the chemist’s book. Or perhaps “duly” was not quite the word ; for the stranger had had his right hand bound up, and had signed with his left. The hand, in fact, was his reason for the purchase of the narcotic ; he explained that he had burnt it in the course of a chemical experiment, had thought that a few days in Torgate would give him the rest and quiet that he needed, but had found that he could not sleep.

  The signature was highly illegible—no uncommon thing in doctors—but the man had been at pains to tell the chemist that it was T. L. Cummings, of 34 Brecon Street, London, West Central. That, at all events, was how the chemist deciphered the scrawl, alleging that he had a perfect recollection of the doctor’s own laughing decipherment.

  The fact that no such name appeared in the Medical Register had led the police to increase their interest in the stranger, and they had every hope of learning more about him. For not only was his right hand bandaged, but also he had had a rather stiff grey beard, and a pair of dark spectacles. On the other hand a trunk-call had quickly shown that the London address was an imaginary one.

  The Superintendent was far from optimistic.

  “Never heard of anything that was more obviously a disguise,” he observed, in rather superior tones.

  The sergeant in charge at the station tried not to sound too triumphant as he replied that they had already got on the track of a stranger answering the description ; the manager of the Grand Hotel had intimated that he might be able to help, if the Superintendent could call at the hotel shortly after two o’clock.

  CHAPTER XI

  DESCRIBES A DOPE AND A DOCTOR

  The moment for quiet contemplation of the whole mass of facts seemed once more to be postponed. The Superintendent decided that a sandwich lunch in the station was indicated, with a pint of draught beer to wash it down.

  Whilst he consumed it he glanced through one of the reports which he had put aside earlier that morning. It was to the effect that the spool of fishing-line had been smeared in blood ; or, more exactly, the last foot or so of the line seemed to have been smeared in it, and so to have glued it to the rest when it was wound up. And, once more to be exact, it was not a reel or a spool : the line was wound upon a thin piece of wood, as is usual with fishing-lines when one buys them. The blood on the line was human blood.

  Guest could not see where this fitted into the puzzle, though he had a feeling that somewhere it did so, and that it was not a mere irrelevant accident. But it would have to wait its turn with the other pieces.

  The sandwiches did not take long to dispose of, and Guest had time, before he set off to interview the manager of the Grand Hotel once more, to give instructions about three independent investigations which it seemed prudent to make.

  First, it seemed as well to check Mr. Quirk’s account of his movements of the previous afternoon, before potential witnesses had forgotten the appearance of the little American strolling along the cliffs.

  Secondly, it would do no harm similarly to enquire into the veracity of Mr. Julian Paley’s account of his doings.

  The third job was a more difficult and delicate one. It seemed to the Superintendent that the spool of thread had probably reached the hall via someone’s pocket—or bag. This admittedly was a mere guess, but one which was worth testing, if it was possible to test it. At any rate, a quiet look round the house by a plain-clothes man would do no harm ; and at the same time he could keep his eye open for sleeping-draughts. This story of the bearded, bandaged, and spectacled stranger was all very well ; for his part, Guest felt convinced that some member of the household at Cliff’s End must have been responsible for adding the stupefying syrup to the soothing lemonade.

  Then he set off for the Grand Hotel, where the porter received him quite impressively, and immediately conducted him to the manager’s sanctum.

  “Mr. Judson will be here in a moment, sir,” he said, and stood, the picture of hesitation, with his hand on the door-knob. Guest waited curiously to hear what his trouble was.

  “You’ll excuse me, sir,” the man said finally, returning to the middle of the room, “I—er—wanted just to say as how, if I’d had my way, I’d have spoken to you last night, sir. But in a manner of speaking, as Mr. Judson said to me, you yourself said discretion was the game.”

  The Superintendent laughed.

  “Sorry,” he said, “I don’t know what you’re driving at. Cough it out, man.”

  But before the porter could metaphorically follow the advice, the door opened briskly, and the manager entered.

  “Ah, there you are, Superintendent,” he said. “The boy’s only just told me. Hope you’ve not been waiting.”

  The porter seized the opportunity to attempt to withdraw, but Guest stopped him.

  “Here, don’t go away,” he said ; and to the manager, “That’s all right. I’ve only just got here. And your porter here has just been lecturing me about discretion.”

  The manager looked puzzled, then smiled.

  “I think I can guess, Superintendent. His conscience is uneasy. Is that it, Hammond ?”

  The porter grinned sheepishly. Guest looked at the manager enquiringly.

  “Fact is, Superintendent, that Hammond here wanted to tell you last night about this man you’ve been having enquiries made about. And I shut him up, because there was nothing to show that it would interest the police, and, as you may guess, we don’t like the police to overdo their interest in our hotel.”

  “Tell me all about it, Mr. Judson,” Guest suggested, “and then I can judge for myself who was really the discreet one—you or Hammond.”

  “Right,” the other responded, “and Hammond had better stay here. Though, strictly speaking, it’s Bowman you want. The night porter, that is.”

  Adjured by the impatient policeman, Mr. Judson finally told his story, which was certainly not without its interest to the Superintendent.

  On the night before last—or rather the evening—a Mr. Cummings had telephoned to the hotel to ask if there was a room to spare for a week, or possibly longer. Price was no object, but quiet was essential.

  The clerk said there were two or three rooms, one of them on the first floor overlooking the sea-front. This would not suit, said Mr. Cummings. There was too much noise at night. He would prefer a room at the back, on a higher floor, and accordingly he was offered and accepted No. 312. He then said he would not arrive till about ten o’clock.

  In fact, he did not arrive until nealy half-past ten, by which time there was no clerk in the reception-office.

  “We don’t keep very late hours, you know,” said Mr. Judson parenthetically, with an apologetic smile.

  According to the night porter (whom, of course, the Superintendent would doubtless want to interview personally ? Of course, Mr. Judson would be delighted to arrange it), at about 10.30 a gentleman came in, gave his name as Cummings, and said a room had been reserved for him. He had a large felt hat on and a light overcoat ; he was wearing dark glasses and had a full and bristling beard ; one hand—his right—he carried in a sling.

  This, Mr. Judson observed and Guest agreed, seemed to tally with the description of the man about whom the police were enquiring.

  Continuing his story, the manager said that the night porter found that a room had indeed been booked. He showed the gentleman up in the lift, taking his suitcase with him, and ushered him into his room. Mr. Cummings gave strict orders that he was to be called at 9.15 punctually the next morning—not a minute sooner or later.

  “And that,” said Mr. Judson dramatically,” was the last time anyone in the hotel ever set eyes on him.”

  “What ?” said Guest, considerably startled.

  “That is so.” Mr. Jud
son sounded gratified by the other’s surprise. “At 9.15 the chambermaid knocked on the door of No. 312. She got no reply, and a minute or two later went in. There was no one there. And, what’s more, the suit case had gone too. And the bed hadn’t been touched.”

  Naturally, he went on to explain, when this was reported to him he made a thorough investigation, but could discover no way in which the mysterious stranger could have left, “unless,” he said, “he walked out of the room, down the stairs, and out of the hotel, about five minutes after the porter left him.” It so happened that, very soon after the porter had returned to his place in the hall, another resident ordered a whiskey and soda, and the porter took it up to his room—as a matter of fact, on the same floor. So that for those few minutes the porter was not in the hall, and it was possible that the mysterious visitor had left during that interval ; and by luck had been seen by no one as he did so. Mr. Judson assured Guest that he had made careful enquiry ; no one, staff or visitor, had seen him leave.

  Guest was inclined to be sceptical of the whole story. To begin with, he asked to see the visitor’s signature in the hotel book.

  Mr. Judson shook his head.

  “Not much use, I’m afraid. I told you, he had his arm in a sling. He dictated his name and address to the porter, and then scrawled a kind of signature with his left hand.”

  The book was produced and the account seemed confirmed. The initials and address were the same as in the chemist’s register, though written in a very different hand. The signature was a worse scrawl than the chemist’s specimen. One thing was clear, the entry had been made before the police began enquiring for the stranger : not only the ink but the subsequent entries showed that. It was not, therefore, a case of the night porter hoping for a tip or the hotel for an advertisement.

  But Guest was still dissatisfied. Where had the man rung up from ? The manager could not say—except that it was a local call. Could not the porter give a more exact description of the man’s clothes—or his baggage ?

  Mr. Judson rather ostentatiously produced a typewritten note and handed it to the Superintendent. “Dark felt hat of a brownish-grey colour, and dark grey overcoat. Small brown leather suitcase.”

  “The porter’s own statement,” Mr. Johnson observed.

  “I think I’ll have to see him,” Guest said. “The luggage for example : labels, now, or initials.”

  “All down there,” the manager replied laconically.

  The Superintendent, reading on, found that the porter was unable to recollect any initials, or labels, or other distinguishing marks. It was just an “ordinary leather suitcase.” His only observation was, that it seemed pretty heavy.

  “Expect it was, if it was to last him a week,” said Guest.

  “Ah, but he told Bowman—the night porter, you know—that his heavy luggage would be coming next morning.”

  There was a silence. Guest rubbed his chin, in a mixture of perplexity and annoyance.

  “So your story’s this, Mr. Judson. That this Mr.—or Dr.—Cummings came here the night before last, simply for five or ten minutes, in order to disappear into the blue. And that no one can say how or when he left.”

  And when Mr. Judson agreed, the Superintendent observed :

  “All I can say is, it’s a pity we’ve only got the word of this porter chap—Bowman, yes—that he ever arrived here.”

  The manager flushed. “There’s the entry in the book,” he said sharply, “and, as a matter of fact, one of the visitors did see him arrive. And as it happens, it was the gentleman you asked me about yesterday—Mr. Paley.”

  “Indeed !” .said Guest, not a little interested. “And is Mr. Paley in the hotel at the moment, do you know ?”

  The manager rang and directed that enquiry should be made.

  “Would you like me to ask him to come here, if he will, Superintendent ?”

  Guest nodded, and after the manager had framed the invitation in suitably respectful words, his messenger departed.

  “Matter of fact,” Mr. Judson continued, “it was this Mr. Paley who wanted the whiskey and soda. And, what’s more, it was that very whiskey and soda which he said next day must have had something in it.”

  “Why on earth didn’t you tell me this before ?” Guest demanded.

  In the background the day porter nodded his head sagaciously.

  “Why should I ?” the manager asked in reply, once more reddening. “I don’t see even now that there’s any connection. Mr. Paley happens to see this fellow Cummings come in ; and he happens not long after to order a drink—as he might any other night ; and next day he complains of the whiskey. That’s all.”

  “Yes, I quite see that,” said Guest, rather to the porter’s disappointment, “but——”

  He was interrupted by the return of the page-boy with a message to the effect that Mr. Paley was taking coffee in the lounge, and would be delighted to come to the manager’s room in five or ten minutes’ time.

  As the page-boy departed, Mr. Judson enquired whether the presence of the day porter was, still essential.

  “If not,” he observed, a little acidly, “he might be allowed to do the job he’s paid for.”

  Guest accorded permission for him to retire, and the manager was not slow to dismiss him. Hammond’s expression as he departed was “I told you so” written in capital letters.

  “As I was saying, Mr. Judson,” Guest resumed, when they were alone, “I quite admit that there was no obvious connection between Mr. Paley and this other man. That is, from the point of view of the enquiry I was making of you yesterday. But surely you might have taken the opportunity to mention the matter to me ? It’s unusual, isn’t it, to have your visitors vanish like that ?”

  The manager shrugged his shoulders.

  “Of course it is,” he said rather angrily. “But, after all, I’d got nothing really to go to the police about. I mean, I didn’t want to make the hotel ridiculous. If a practical joker likes to behave like that, well, let him. Only we’ll keep a sharp look-out to see it doesn’t happen again, and put up our prices to anyone who tries to repeat the joke.”

  “In here, sir,” the clerk’s voice was heard outside. And the door opened and Mr. Paley was announced.

  “You want to see me. . . . Hullo, why, isn’t this the Superintendent ? Is it—something to do with my—my uncle ? Have you found out about it ?”

  Both his hearers were struck by the change in his manner and tone as he caught sight of the Superintendent; it was, of course, a very natural change.

  “No, sir,” Guest answered him, cordially enough. “We’re still investigating the affair, and though in a way it’s about that I want to see you now, I’ve only come to you in a roundabout sort of way.”

  “Oh, I see,” said the young man rather blankly, and apparently little reassured. The Superintendent watched him rather curiously.

  “Won’t you sit down, sir ?” Mr. Judson put in, anxious not to offend a visitor needlessly. “It’s—well, it’s about the gentleman whom you saw come into the hotel the night before last— you remember ?”

  “Oh, that,” said Julian Paley, his brow clearing. “Want me to tell the Superintendent, is that it ?”

  “If you please, sir.”

  He recounted how he had come from the writing-room into the hall, intending to ask the night porter to fetch him a drink. But the night porter was engaged with a stranger—yes, dark spectacles, beard, arm in a sling, talked in a rather high-pitched voice.

  That was a new point, Guest thought ; he made an entry in his notebook. “And his clothes ?” he asked.

  Mr. Paley agreed with the porter, except that in his opinion the man was wearing a light, not a dark, grey coat. “About the shade of the manager’s trousers,” he suggested, when pressed to express this more precisely. Mr. Judson seemed slightly embarrassed by the thought that one of his patrons could ever notice the shade or pattern of his trousers.

  Mr. Paley resumed his story, though it was brief enough. The
porter and the new arrival disappeared in the lift—no, he did not notice the suitcase particularly, and certainly could not describe it. He went back to the writing-room, and presently, when he thought the porter would be back again, went and ordered his drink. He then went upstairs, and in due course to bed. His drink was brought up to his room whilst he was undressing.

  “And that’s all there is to say,” he concluded, “unless the manager here would like me to repeat my opinion of his whiskey.”

  “I’ve already told you, sir,” began Mr. Judson half apologetically and half truculently.

  “That’s all right.” The other waved him to silence.

  The Superintendent pondered for a minute or two. Then :

  “May I see the room which this Mr. Cummings occupied or was supposed to occupy ?” he said.

  “Certainly,” said the manager. “Now ?”

  Guest nodded.

  “That’s all you want with me, then ?” asked Julian Paley, and Guest hastened to thank him for his help.

  “Then I’ll accompany you to the lift,” he said. “I’m going to my room to rest—this business at Cliff’sEnd is a shock, you know.”

  Guest murmured some sympathetic platitude, and the three men entered the lift together, the manager having collected the key of No. 312 on the way.

  “Third floor,” he told the lift-man.

  “Hullo ! Was the fellow on my floor ?” asked Paley. And when the floor was reached, instead of going to his room, he walked with the other two to No. 312.

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing to be-seen here, Superintendent,” said Mr. Judson, as Guest opened a cupboard and then glanced into the fireplace. “We really do make a point of keeping our rooms clean here.”

  And indeed the statement appeared to be correct. There was nothing in the room to suggest recent occupancy. Guest walked across to the window and looked out.

  “Almost a corner, I see,” he said. Just to the left of the window was a balcony which ran round the actual corner of the hotel. Guest thought that it would not be very difficult for an active man to reach that balcony from the window of 312, though the return journey might perhaps be another matter. “I’d like to have a look at this window from that balcony,” he continued. “Can you let me on to it through one of the rooms at the front ?”