With her heart pounding, Ellen started another chapter.
CHAPTER TEN
In any murder investigation, it was the evidence gathered in the initial twenty-four hours that was vital. At the end of their first long, intensive, exhausting day, Marmion and Keedy were worried. They felt as if they had little to show for their efforts. They were left with far too many unanswered questions and almost no potential suspects. No matter how much they speculated, neither of them could suggest a convincing motive for the murder of one woman – who had not even been a guest at the hotel – and the mysterious disappearance of another, who’d been staying there under a false name. As they reviewed the case in Marmion’s office, they were frankly bewildered.
When they reached the head-scratching stage, they lapsed into a sullen silence. Minutes passed before Marmion sat up abruptly and looked across at his companion.
‘A penny for them, Joe.’
‘I’m not sure my thoughts are worth that much,’ said Keedy. ‘To be honest, I wasn’t thinking about the case. I was worrying about Alice.’
‘Why?’
‘I’d promised to take her out for a meal this evening.’
‘Disappointing the woman you love is part of being a policeman, I’m afraid. We have no control over our lives. I’ve had to let Ellen down hundreds of times.’
‘I hated having to break the bad news to Alice.’
‘You’ll soon come through the guilty phase and she, in turn, will learn to accept that your life together will be … well, let’s call it “irregular”. Oddly enough,’ Marmion went on, ‘I was thinking about my daughter as well. It was in connection with this investigation.’
‘But Alice has nothing to do with it.’
‘Yes, and that’s a pity.’
‘Pity?’
‘We’re dealing with a case involving two women in a hotel with an entirely female clientele. One was murdered there and the other vanished into thin air after using a third woman’s name as an alias. On top of all that, the Lotus is actually owned by a woman.’
‘Don’t remind me.’
‘Yes, I know you found Mrs Fleetwood a bit overwhelming, but do you take my point?’
‘To be honest, Harv, I don’t.’
‘We’re male detectives trying to get into the minds of women. In other words, we’re severely handicapped. What we need are the insights that only another woman can bring.’
Keedy gaped. ‘You’re surely not suggesting that we ask Alice to join us?’ he said. ‘Chat would go berserk at the very idea, and so would the commissioner.’
‘I’m not saying that we co-opt Alice. She’s had no training as a detective but she – or someone like her – could be an asset in a case with so many females involved. As you may have noticed,’ he added with a smile, ‘my daughter is an intelligent young woman. When the brains were divided between her and Paul, she got more than her fair share. Our son has his own virtues, mind you, but he can’t compete with Alice.’
Keedy shook his head. ‘Women will never become detectives.’
‘I disagree.’
‘Think of the danger involved.’
‘Allan Pinkerton took that into account, yet he still employed women agents. With their help, he built up the largest private detective agency in the world. During the American Civil War, his female operatives were very effective as spies for the secret service.’
‘What’s that got to do with the Lotus Hotel?’
‘It shows that, given the chance, women can do our job just as well as we can.’
‘But they won’t get that chance.’
‘Then there’s only one option left.’
‘Is there?’
‘Yes – in order to crack this case, we must learn to think the way that a woman would. Why, for instance,’ asked Marmion, ‘did so many of them choose to stay at a place like the Lotus Hotel?’
‘Perhaps they’re all enchanted by the manager.’
‘I’m serious, Joe. We need to find out the answer.’
Details of the murder crept onto the front pages of most of the morning newspapers, albeit occupying much less space than the latest bulletin from the war. Reaction was immediate. When she called at the hotel that morning, Griselda Fleetwood heard the bad tidings in the privacy of the manager’s office. Rex Chell was apologetic.
‘Two guests who’d each booked in to stay for a week have already left,’ he said, ‘and we’ve had three telegrams cancelling reservations.’
‘Don’t they realise it’s perfectly safe here now?’
‘It’s a natural response, Mrs Fleetwood. We can’t really blame them.’
‘I can,’ she said, angrily. ‘It’s so disloyal of them. I’ve a good mind to cross the deserters off our list.’
‘That would be a big mistake,’ he argued. ‘It’s only by wooing them back that we’ll get the stigma removed from the Lotus.’
‘There’s no hope of doing that until the murder is solved.’
‘We simply have to remain calm under fire.’
‘Don’t tell me to remain calm,’ she growled, ‘because I’m seething. We both know who’s behind all this. The police promised to confront him but I’m not sure if they actually did so. I intended to go to Scotland Yard first thing, but my husband felt that he should go instead. In some ways, he can be more persuasive than me.’
‘I’m glad to hear that Mr Fleetwood is helping us.’
‘It’s a crisis, man. We need all hands to the pumps.’
‘Did you mention Maitland?’
‘Of course, I did,’ she retorted. ‘I want the police to have every scrap of evidence we can find. Thanks to you, we’ve found a clear link between Maitland and Fraser Buchanan. My husband will pass on that information.’
‘It may just be a coincidence, of course.’
‘I don’t believe in coincidences.’
‘And Maitland is hardly the type to murder someone.’
‘He knows the Lotus well and could advise the killer how to get in here at night. He’s tied up in this somehow.’
Chell was beginning to harbour doubts but it was no time to voice them. When she was in such a hostile mood, it was better to agree with her. She picked up the newspaper on the desk and scowled.
‘Look at that headline,’ she said, jabbing a finger at it. ‘HOTEL IN CHAOS. What kind of an advertisement is that for us? Before the day is out, I’ll be speaking to the editor about it.’
‘Don’t antagonise the press, Mrs Fleetwood.’
‘They deserve it.’
‘Journalists always have more ink,’ he warned.
‘I’m simply demanding the right of reply,’ she said, discarding the newspaper. ‘Misleading headlines can cause us real and lasting damage.’ She remembered something. ‘You said that two of our guests checked out. Who were they?’
‘Mrs Prior-Pitt was the first to go.’
‘What was the name of the other?’
‘Lady Carvington,’ he replied.
‘That’s deplorable!’ she cried. ‘I play bridge with Phyllis Carvington. I hoped I could rely on her.’
‘I daresay that Lady Carvington will return in due course, when things settle down. But there is some good news,’ he went on, trying to cheer her up. ‘After one horrendous night at the hotel, we had a very quiet and restful one.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I took the trouble of spending the night here.’
She was impressed. ‘That was very good of you, Mr Chell.’
‘I did it for two reasons. One was to reassure the guests and the other was to see exactly what goes on here after midnight. It enabled me to check on the night porter, for instance.’
‘Did he do his job properly?’
‘I couldn’t fault Rogan. He was vigilant.’
‘It’s a shame he wasn’t more vigilant on the previous night.’
‘He has to be careful, Mrs Fleetwood,’ he explained, ‘and exercise due discretion. The last thing our guests wa
nt is a man padding endlessly around the corridors. As a rule, he does a circuit of the hotel every three hours. Last night, I made him do the rounds every hour.’
‘Was there anything to report?’
‘Nothing at all – it was eerily silent.’
She pulled a face. ‘That’s because so many guests have fled.’
Before she could bewail their misfortune again, there was a knock on the door and it opened to allow Millie Jenks to enter with a huge bouquet of flowers. She curtsied before handing them over.
‘These came for you, Mrs Fleetwood.’
‘They’re lovely!’ said the other, inspecting them before inhaling their scent. ‘At least someone is offering me sympathy.’ When she read the card, her voice became a snarl of rage. ‘The flowers are from him! Buchanan is rubbing salt into the wound that he inflicted on me in the first place.’ She thrust the bouquet back into Millie’s arms. ‘Take them out of my sight, girl, and throw them in the dustbin.’
Experience had taught Ellen Marmion that there were times when her husband didn’t want to indulge in idle chatter. His mind was elsewhere, struggling to make sense of the latest investigation. Marmion was polite and even attentive for fleeting moments, but she could see that he was in no mood to discuss the latest book she’d been reading. Though it had had a profound effect on her, he would dismiss it out of hand as an irrelevance and chide her for taking its message so seriously. Ellen, therefore, had to keep her troubling thoughts to herself.
Sections of the book had been so distressing that she had skipped whole paragraphs. By the same token, there were passages so startling that she read them again and again. A slow reader, she’d spent most of the day with The Invasion of 1910 and had still not reached the halfway point. That was mainly because she needed frequent stops to make herself a cup of tea and to reflect on what the author was claiming. As soon as her husband left the house that morning, she was drawn back inescapably to the doom-laden novel.
When she broke off after another harrowing chapter, Ellen looked at the handbill she was using as a bookmark. Quentin Dacey’s face intrigued her. Above all else, he looked like a man who could be trusted. William Le Queux had chosen to send his message in a work of fiction. Dacey, by contrast, preached the same sermon but he did so from a public platform. In doing that, he would have to offer evidence in support of his claims. He could be questioned. Ellen noticed that the next time he was due to speak was on the following day in central London. She was at once tempted and timorous, eager to hear more about German penetration of Britain yet apprehensive about what she might find out.
With the handbill in place, she closed the book and set it aside. Then she went into the hall and looked at herself in the mirror. Two men had set out to open the eyes of the British public. Did Ellen have the courage to listen to them or would it be more sensible to return the book to the library with the handbill still in it?
She stood there dithering.
Orders from the superintendent had to be obeyed but Chatfield’s advice was a different matter. It could, theoretically, be ignored and that was often Marmion’s way of dealing with it. Keedy, however, had liked the suggestion that he should interview the night porter at his home rather than at his place of work. It was wise counsel. Caught unawares, Rogan might not be quite so well defended. There was another advantage for Keedy. He’d be able to ask him questions that he could never have put to the man in front of Chell and Millie Jenks.
The house was in the seedier part of Paddington, a small, end-of-terrace dwelling in need of repair. Keedy noticed the perished brickwork and the missing slates. Leonard Rogan clearly moved between two disparate worlds. By day, he lived in a working-class community with all the deprivation that that implied; by night, he was under the same roof as titled ladies who’d left their country mansions to spend leisure time in the capital. In the course of twenty-four hours, the night porter moved between squalor and luxury.
Keedy saw a crack in one of the dust-covered glass panels on the front door. He used the knocker, then stood back. Voices could be heard from inside, then footsteps scurried along the passageway. The door was opened by a short, stooping, scrawny woman in a pinafore and a turban. At the sight of a well-dressed man on her doorstep, she almost cowered. While Keedy was raising his hat and introducing himself, Rogan came into view wearing a vest above a pair of pyjama trousers. He was startled to see the detective.
‘I’ll handle this, Win,’ he said, dismissing his wife with a flick of the hand. She vanished immediately. Rogan narrowed his lids. ‘What are you doing here, Sergeant?’
‘I wanted another chat with you, sir.’
‘You could have come to the hotel.’
‘That’s exactly what I did – to get your home address.’
‘The place is in a bit of a state,’ said Rogan, embarrassed. ‘My wife hasn’t had time to clean it yet.’
‘I’m not here to inspect the property. I just need to ask a few questions. If you’d rather talk out here in the street, that’s fine with me.’
‘No, no, you’d better come in.’
He stood back so that Keedy could go into the house, then pointed to the living room. Rogan excused himself and went off to put something else on. His visitor found himself standing in the middle of a cluttered room with the lingering smell of fried food. A mottled three-piece suite competed for space with a dining table, four chairs, a smaller table covered in old newspapers and an empty coal scuttle. Faded with time, the wallpaper had a floral pattern. The only thing on display was a framed sampler with HOME SWEET HOME sewn neatly into it.
There was a loud bang on the front door and Mrs Rogan reacted immediately, darting out of the kitchen to open the door. When he glanced into the passageway, Keedy saw her helping an old man into the house. Supporting himself on two walking sticks, he struggled towards the kitchen. Aware that Keedy was watching, Rogan’s wife offered an explanation.
‘It’s my father-in-law. He lives with us.’
Aided by her, the old man hobbled out of view.
When Rogan reappeared, he was wearing an old dressing gown and had put some slippers on his bare feet. He seemed to have recovered from the earlier shock of seeing Keedy and even managed a smile.
‘Sit down,’ he said.
Keedy lowered himself onto a chair but Rogan stayed on his feet.
‘What did you want to ask me, Sergeant?’
‘Well, first of all, I wondered if you had any trouble last night?’
‘None at all,’ replied the other. ‘It was as quiet as a tomb. We didn’t hear a peep from the guests.’
‘We?’
‘The manager stayed the night.’
‘That was kind of him.’
‘He felt that it was his duty.’
‘Mr Chell is an interesting man. How did he come to get the job in the first place?’
‘It was the same way that I did,’ said Rogan. ‘We were both spotted by Mrs Fleetwood. Before she opened the Lotus, she went scouting for staff. She picked me up at the Vanbrugh and was impressed by Mr Chell when she saw him working as deputy manager at the Savoy.’
‘What sort of man is he?’
‘You’ve met him.’
‘Yes, but I only saw what was on the surface.’
‘Mr Chell is the best hotel manager I’ve ever worked with.’
‘I’m not talking about his fitness for his job,’ said Keedy. ‘What’s he like as a person? Is he friendly, caring, kind to his staff, or is he bossy, demanding and overbearing? How would you describe his character?’
‘He’s … good to us,’ said Rogan without any real conviction. ‘And he’s always honest.’
‘Do you like him?’
‘It’s not my place to like or dislike him, Sergeant.’
‘Is he married?’
‘People like Mr Chell don’t get married.’
‘Yet he obviously likes women.’
‘He prefers his job,’ said Rogan, perching on the arm of the sofa. �
��Nothing gets in the way of that.’
Keedy took out his notepad and flicked through the pages until he came to the ones he wanted. They contained details of Rogan’s original statement. When he took Rogan through it line by line, the night porter made a few changes, growing peevish when Keedy asked him why he hadn’t mentioned the new facts at the time of the interview.
‘I was shaken up, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t you have been in the circumstances? I was as accurate as I could be.’
‘You’ve just made some important corrections. Why was that?’
‘Certain things came back to me.’
‘And are there any more “certain things” you forgot to tell when we spoke yesterday morning?’
Rogan bridled. ‘Why are you hounding me?’ he asked. ‘I didn’t kill that woman. I’d never set eyes on her before. Shouldn’t you be out trying to find the killer instead of bothering me?’
‘No,’ said Keedy. ‘Without realising it, you may have information that could lead us to the killer. I’m just trying to tease it out.’
‘I’ve told you all I know – I swear it.’
Keedy studied him carefully. He looked hunted and resentful. Without his uniform, he’d lost his protective shell and didn’t seem at all like the helpful hotel employee interviewed the previous day. Keedy had clearly scared him and wondered why. He tried a new tack.
‘How do you get on with Mrs Fleetwood?’
‘I see very little of her.’
‘She struck me as the sort of woman who keeps a beady eye on everybody she employs. Correct?’ Rogan nodded. ‘What do you think of her as a hotel owner?’
‘I’m glad to work for Mrs Fleetwood.’
‘Don’t you find her domineering?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘She’s very formidable.’
‘You have to be in the hotel trade.’
The Unseen Hand Page 7