The Red Room

by William Le Queux

eccentric," Ireplied diplomatically, "and we are rather anxious to know of his doingsup in Scotland. Nearly all great men of genius," I added, "are slightlyeccentric, you know."

  "Well, he went to the North British," replied the conductor. "They'llbe certain to recollect him there."

  "Do you know the porter who took his bag?"

  "Yes, it was Walter Macdonald. I'll call him when we get to Waverley inthe morning, and you can ask what questions you like."

  And the man left me and bustled away, while soon afterwards, as thegreat express began to gather speed towards Hatfield, I turned into thenarrow little bed, while we roared along through the dark night.

  When I drew aside the blind next morning we were skirting the grey mistysea, within sight of the Bass Rock. Therefore I leisurely dressed, and,punctual to time, stepped out upon the long platform at Edinburgh athalf-past seven.

  At a whistle from the conductor, a smartly-uniformed hotel porterstepped up, and I explained, in a few brief words, the object of myvisit to Edinburgh.

  "I remember the gentleman quite well, sir," replied Macdonald, after Ihad exhibited the photograph. "I took his suit-case and kit-bag andgave them over to the hall-porter. The gentleman did not engage a room,I think. But his first inquiry was for the telegraph-office, and Idirected him to the General Post Office, which is almost next door here.That's about all I know of his movements."

  I gave the man a tip, and, ascending in the hotel lift, passed throughthe lounge and entered the big coffee-room which overlooks PrincesStreet, where I breakfasted.

  Afterwards I lounged about the main hall which opens upon PrincesStreet--the entrance from the station being from deep below at the backof the premises.

  I saw that outside the reception office, upon a green baize-coveredboard and placed beneath tapes, telegrams for visitors were exhibited,and the addressees took them themselves. It would, therefore, be quiteeasy for anyone not staying in the hotel to have a telegram addressedthere, and to receive it in secret. It would also be just as easy for aperson to take anybody else's telegram that happened to be there.

  Two young lady clerks were behind the brass grille, and presently Iaddressed the elder of the pair, and showed her the photograph.Neither, however, recognised it.

  I turned up the visitors'-book, and saw that on Monday the fourteenth noperson of the name of Greer had registered.

  "He was a chance customer, evidently," remarked the elder of the girlsin neat black. "He arrived, you say, by the morning East Coast express,therefore he may just have had breakfast and gone on. Many people dothat, and catch their connections for the North. In such a case wenever see them. Both myself and my friend here were on duty all day onMonday."

  "I certainly have never seen the gentleman to my knowledge!" declaredthe other.

  "But he must, I think, have received two telegrams."

  "I remember one telegram, but I do not recollect the other. We have somany wires here in the course of the day, you know," the girl replied."But what I do recollect is being rung up on the telephone from Londonon the following day, with an inquiry whether the gentleman was stayinghere."

  "You don't know who rang you up?" I asked.

  "I haven't any idea!" she laughed. "It may have been the police.They've done so before now."

  "Of course he might have stayed here in another name and taken telegramsaddressed to him as Greer," I suggested.

  "I scarcely think so," replied the elder of the pair, a tall, smart,business-like woman. "If he had, one of us would, no doubt, haveremembered him. I'd have a chat to the hall-porter at thestation-entrance if I were you," she added.

  I therefore sought out the tall, liveried man she had indicated, andagain to him exhibited the portrait.

  He remembered the Professor quite distinctly, he told me. The visitordeposited in his charge a kit-bag and suit-case, remarking that he wasnot quite certain if he would remain the night, and passed on into thehotel. "That was about 7:35 in the morning."

  "When did you see him again?"

  "About noon, when he passed through to the lift, and descended into thestation. I noticed that he was then wearing a different hat from theone he had on when he arrived from London," the hall-porter replied.

  "When did he take his luggage?"

  "About half-past three. A porter took it below, and it was placed inthe cloak-room."

  "You didn't see him again?"

  "No, sir. He probably left by a later train that day."

  That was all the information I could gather in that quarter. Theremainder of the morning I spent idling about Princes Street, thatsplendid thoroughfare which has few equals in the world, trying todecide upon my next course of action. I had exhausted Edinburgh, itseemed, and clearly my way lay south again.

  Suddenly, on re-entering the hotel to get lunch, a thought occurred tome, and I sought out the hair-dressing department, making inquiry of theman in charge, a fair-haired, well-spoken German.

  As soon as I showed him the portrait, he exclaimed:

  "Ja! I recollect him--quite well."

  "Tell me what you know of his movements," I urged.

  I saw that the man regarded me with considerable suspicion.

  "I presume, sir," he said, "that you are an agent of police?"

  "No, I'm not," I assured him, rather surprised at his remark. "I'msimply making inquiry because--well, because my friend is now missing."

  "Then I'll tell you what occurred, sir," answered the German, with aslight accent. "The gentleman came in about four o'clock and asked meto shave him. When I began to put on the soap I realised, however, thathe had himself been cutting off his beard closely. But I shaved him,and made no comment. We hairdressers are used to such things, yet theysometimes cause us a little wonder."

  "Ah!" I cried. "Then he left here with his beard shaven clean! Heintended to disguise himself!"

  "No doubt, sir," replied the man, who seemed a particularly intelligentfellow. "Because, earlier in the day, while crossing the corridor, Ihad noticed him standing near the lift. He then had a full beard. Irecollected the clothes he was wearing."

  "Did he talk to you?"

  "Very little, sir. He seemed a gloomy, rather silent man."

  That was all he could tell me, though he declared that the gentleman hadseemed very agitated and upset while he was being shaved. His hair wasalso cut, and his moustache trimmed.

  "Did it alter his appearance much?" I inquired. "Very greatly, sir. Ishould scarcely have known him when he left here."

  "And you told nobody?"

  "It is not my business to pry into customers' affairs," responded theman, and very justly; "but I took good note of his countenance."

  What he told me was certainly remarkable. The whole of the facts were,indeed, astounding.

  While the unfortunate Professor lay dead in his laboratory in London hewas, at the same time, here, in Edinburgh, making an attempt atdisguise, and sending a reassuring telegram to his daughter!

  That Professor Greer had been killed there was not the slightest doubt--killed, too, behind locked doors, in circumstances which themselvesformed a complete and inscrutable mystery. Then, if so, who was thisman who had left London with the Professor's luggage, had arrived inEdinburgh, and whom the hotel-servants and others had identified by hisportrait?

  If he were not the Professor, then who could he have been? One thingwas certain, he could not have been the actual assassin. Yet if not,why had he taken such pains to disguise his appearance?

  The theory of Greer having a double I put aside at once. Doubles onlyexist in the realms of fiction. Here, however, I was dealing with hard,solid facts.

  Each phase of the intricate problem became more and more complicated asI endeavoured to analyse it. That grey, wintry afternoon I wanderedabout the damp streets of Edinburgh, gazing aimlessly in the shopwindows, and afterwards sat for a full hour upon a seat in the desertedpublic gardens below the Castle, thinking and wondering until the gloomytw
ilight began to creep on, and the lights along Princes Streetcommenced to glimmer.

  Then, rising, I set off again across the North Bridge, and through HighStreet and Johnstone Terrace to the Caledonian Station, and by GeorgeStreet and St. Andrew's Street back to the Waverley, a tour of thecentre of the city. I was merely killing time, for I had decided totake the night express back to King's Cross.

  When I re-entered the hotel it was nearly seven o'clock, and, as I didso, the porter at the revolving door in Princes Street touched his capand informed me that the hairdresser desired to see me again.

  I ascended to the first floor, and entered the saloon, where I found theGerman with whom before