An Unwelcome Guest

by Emily Organ

  “Perhaps Gallo showed her the paintings,” I said, “and told her the names of them. How else could she have written them down?”

  “He was probably quite proud of his acquisitions and couldn’t resist sharing the news with her.”

  “There is certainly a motive here for Shelby having them both murdered. Mr Russell says that he abhors violence, though.”

  “Perhaps he has simply managed to avoid the need for it so far. But if he is the one behind these thefts and forgeries, he’s making good money from his victims. Mr Gallo’s carelessness was a risk, and Shelby couldn’t afford to let Miss Hamilton discover his identity.”

  “I have a copy of the Morning Express with me from the same date as the one Clara Hamilton had,” I said. “I looked through it a number of times but cannot work out what might have interested her in it. Maybe you could have a look through to see whether you are able to find something. I wonder who she was working for.”

  “Someone who was looking for confirmation that Gallo was caught up in this stolen art and forgery business, I should think. It may have been a police detective, I suppose, although you’d think he would have stepped forward by now to explain the situation. It could also have been someone from within the art world.”

  “If Shelby is behind these murders, someone who stayed at the Hotel Tempesta that night must have a connection with him.”

  “It could be Mr Bolton or Mr Goldman.”

  “Mr Goldman was discussing art with Mr Gallo over dinner.”

  “And then there’s Mrs Mirabeau.”

  “Do you think she might know Jack Shelby?”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it?” he said. “Much as Chief Inspector Fenton resents my involvement in this case, I think we need to ask him what he has discovered so far.”

  “Mr Goldman interests me the most,” said Chief Inspector Fenton as we sat with him in his Bow Street office. “But I don’t want you publishing that sentiment, Miss Green. I see you’re still determined to accompany Inspector Blakely wherever he goes.”

  “Has my presence affected your investigation in any way, Chief Inspector?” I asked.

  “No.” He gave a scowl. “But that doesn’t mean I consider it appropriate, and I have made my feelings on the matter very clear to the deputy commissioner at Scotland Yard.”

  “So I heard,’ said James. “But let’s return to Mr Goldman. What have you learned about him?”

  “He’s a Jewish gentleman, twenty-seven years of age and lives in St John’s Wood.”

  “As do I,” said James.

  “Have you seen him around those parts, Blakely?”

  James shook his head. “Quite a few people live in the area, Fenton.”

  “Goldman’s an ink-slinger,” continued Chief Inspector Fenton. “He writes for a range of periodicals on an ad hoc basis. He likes to write about hotels and restaurants, then give them a mark out of ten or something like that. I’m not sure what qualifies him to be more of an expert on these matters than anyone else, but there you have it. He’s one of these self-proclaimed experts, I suppose. They’re two a penny these days.”

  “He has an interest in art, does he?” asked James.

  “Yes. He’s one of these high-minded chaps who considers himself well-versed in the arts. It’s not just paintings, but the theatre, opera, music recitals and that sort of thing. The sort of leisurely pursuits a chap enjoys when he has time on his hands and isn’t working every hour the Lord sends investigating crimes.”

  “What motive might he have for murdering Mr Gallo and Miss Hamilton?” I asked.

  “I’ll be frank with you, Miss Green,” he replied. “I just don’t like the man. There’s something about him that doesn’t seem right. His profession sounds rather vague to me.”

  “He’s a writer,” I said.

  “You’re entitled to stick up for your own, Miss Green, but his vagueness suggests to me that he is hiding something from us.”

  “Have you spoken to his associates?” James asked. “Friends and family?”

  “Yes, the chaps have been doing that, but nothing particularly untoward has emerged so far.”

  “Is it possible that he might have known a chap named Jack Shelby?” James asked. “He calls himself Rigby Pleydell-Bouverie.”

  “That’s the fellow the Pinkerton chap’s after, isn’t it? No, I haven’t found any evidence that Goldman knew him.”

  “We think Shelby may be behind the murders of Mr Gallo and Miss Hamilton,” said James. “He most likely wouldn’t have committed the deed himself, but he might have somehow persuaded one of the guests to do his bidding that fateful night.”

  “That’s rather a hasty assumption, isn’t it?” replied Chief Inspector Fenton.

  “Are you aware that Miss Hamilton was a spy?” I said.

  The inspector gave a laugh. “That’s one word for her, I suppose!”

  “You’re not taking this seriously, Fenton,” snapped James. “She was in possession of quite a complicated cypher that detailed the forged paintings Mr Gallo had bought. He may have bought them from Shelby.”

  “May have. But there’s no evidence that he did, is there?”

  “Not yet. But if you could find a connection between Goldman and Shelby that would strengthen your case. Similarly, if you could prove a connection between Shelby and one of the other guests the puzzle might be solved.”

  “And this loose woman, Miss Hamilton, may have been some sort of spy?”

  “Someone certainly wished to silence her. Maybe she knew Shelby.”

  “But there is no evidence,” said Chief Inspector Fenton. “And I don’t see where this conversation is getting us, Blakely.”

  “You need to find out whether any of the people who stayed in the hotel that night were acquainted with Shelby.”

  “But we don’t know for sure whether he orchestrated the murders, do we? All this is merely conjecture, Blakely, and I must get on with the job rather than entertaining any more of your wild theories.”

  “Have you considered Mrs Mirabeau as a suspect?”

  “Mrs Mirabeau has been exceptionally helpful.”

  “Some culprits prefer to stay close to the investigation.”

  “Are you suggesting that she is the murderer now? I thought you said it was Shelby.”

  “She may have been working for Shelby.”

  Inspector Fenton gave a loud snort. “What nonsense.”

  “You will ask her about him, won’t you?”

  “I shall add that task to my ever-growing list, but I cannot promise to make it a priority.”

  “How deeply dissatisfying,” said James as we stepped out of the police station. “I think we should go and speak to Mrs Mirabeau ourselves. Have you the time to accompany me?” He consulted his pocket watch. “It’s almost one o’clock now.”

  “Yes, I have three hours before I need to meet Miss Davies,” I replied. “The Hotel Tempesta is only a short walk from the office, so I have plenty of time yet.”

  We walked along the Strand and had almost reached the Hotel Tempesta when I saw the familiar large frame of a man walking toward us. He wore a deep blue cape over a burgundy velvet jacket along with a tall top hat.

  “Mr Somers!” I called out. He was initially startled but smiled when he saw me.

  “Miss Green! What a pleasure it is to see you again.”

  I introduced James, then said, “We’re on our way to visit Mrs Mirabeau. Have you just come from the hotel yourself?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have.” His expression grew sombre. “It sounds foolish, I know, but I cannot keep away from the place. My thoughts are consumed by that dreadful night, and I have been unable to escape them. Have you been feeling the same way, Miss Green?”

  “Yes, my feelings have been quite similar.”

  “Poor Mrs Mirabeau has remained there to help the police with their investigation,” continued Mr Somers, “and all she has now are two maids for company and that poor little dog. She misses Nathanie
l terribly. We all do. She wants to get away to France, but she’s stuck here while the investigation is ongoing. It doesn’t seem fair.”

  “I suppose each one of us is considered a suspect,” I said.

  “But that’s ridiculous! How can we all be suspects? It’s been almost two weeks since the dreadful event and the police are no closer to catching the culprit!”

  “We’re doing what we can, Mr Somers,” said James. “We’ve been trying to establish whether Mr Gallo had any criminal connections—”

  “Of course he didn’t!”

  “My statement was not intended as a slur on Mr Gallo’s character, but the fact remains that he bought several artworks which he believed to have been stolen.”

  “And that was why someone killed him?”

  “We don’t know yet. His companion that night, Miss Hamilton, has become increasingly interesting to us as well.”

  “I just don’t understand why it’s taking so long.”

  “Our job would be far easier if everyone we spoke to was completely honest about what they know.”

  “I’ve told Chief Inspector Fenton everything I know countless times! I have nothing to hide, Inspector.”

  “I’m sure you don’t, Mr Somers, and thank you for being so obliging to date.”

  “What do you intend to ask Mrs Mirabeau about?”

  “There are a few things we need her to elaborate on.”

  “Such as?”

  “Let’s leave that between us and Mrs Mirabeau for now, shall we?”

  “Well, you must be gentle with her. She has suffered terribly.”

  “I’m aware that this has been a very difficult time for her.”

  “Have you seen any of the other guests since that night?” I asked Mr Somers.

  “Only Mr Bolton and Mr Blackstone. Oh, and I saw Mrs Mortimer in one of the tea rooms just off Oxford Street. We are all desperately impatient for this case to be resolved.”

  “In which case we need to be getting on,” said James. “It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Somers.”

  Chapter 35

  Mrs Mirabeau appeared weary as she admitted us to the Hotel Tempesta.

  “I have never liked British winters,” she said as we followed her into her office. “I prefer to be in the south of France at this time of year.”

  I felt my skin prickle as I glanced around me. The hotel felt even more sinister now that the fountain in the foyer no longer trickled and the blooms of lilies had vanished. The mirrors remained covered with black crepe, and the windows admitted pallid rays of daylight that were too weak to chase away the shadows.

  Despite the emptiness of the place, Mrs Mirabeau had clearly taken considerable care over her appearance. Her bright auburn hair was neatly pinned and embellished with black bows. Her black silk dress rustled as she walked.

  “You’re not staying here at night, are you?” I asked.

  “Oh yes,” she replied. “I have a room here on the fourth floor.”

  “All by yourself?”

  I shuddered, and her scarlet lips formed a bemused smile.

  “Why ever not?” she replied. “It’s the same room I’ve been using these past few months.”

  “But when you consider what has happened here of late…” My voice trailed off and I glanced over at the grand staircase, which ascended up into the heavy gloom.

  “Two maids have remained with me here,” she said. “We keep each other company.”

  The only light and warmth in the building appeared to be coming from Mrs Mirabeau’s office. We sat in comfortable chairs beside a cheerful fire, and Captain nuzzled his nose into my hand.

  “I should add that Chief Inspector Fenton and his men are regular visitors to the hotel these days,” she added. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  We shook our heads and she lit a small cigarette.

  “So how can I help you, Inspector?” she asked James. “I’ve answered so many of Inspector Fenton’s questions that I don’t think there can be anything left to tell.”

  “Have you heard of a man called Jack Shelby?” asked James. “He also uses the name Rigby Pleydell-Bouverie.”

  “No. Who is he?”

  “An American gentleman criminal,” said James. “Although I use the word ‘gentleman’ in its loosest sense. Did Mr Gallo ever mention his name?”

  “Not that I remember.”

  “Do you recall the paintings we discovered rolled up in his chambers?”

  “Yes. They’re forgeries, aren’t they? The man who I had assumed to be Mr Hardy turned up to take a look at them. Then I discovered he’s a Pinkerton man! It was completely brazen of him. To think that he spent the night here pretending to be someone else! I would say that he is the most suspicious of the lot.”

  “What do you mean by that, Mrs Mirabeau?” asked James.

  “Well, no one’s going to consider him a suspect if he claims to be an American detective. Do we know for sure that he is?”

  “My colleague, Inspector Raynes, has been working with him for some time now. I don’t think there can be any doubt that he is who he says he is.”

  She parted her lips and puffed out a plume of smoke. “But you don’t know for certain, Inspector.”

  “The problem with this case is that we don’t know anything for certain,” replied James with a sigh. “Can you tell us anything more about Miss Hamilton?”

  “I have already told you everything I know.”

  “We suspect that she may have been a spy.”

  Mrs Mirabeau raised an eyebrow. “Are you sure? For whom?”

  “That’s what we are trying to ascertain.”

  “Why would she spy on Mr Gallo?”

  “We believe the forged paintings were of interest to her.”

  “I don’t know how she could have known about them.”

  “Someone told her, and I would like to know who. Mr Gallo may well have shared information with her himself, and that may be why they were both murdered.”

  Mrs Mirabeau sucked on her cigarette. “Your theory is beginning to sound rather far-fetched to me.”

  “Can I ask what your theory is, Mrs Mirabeau?”

  “I can’t say that I have one, Inspector. I’m as baffled by this situation as the next person.”

  “But you think the Pinkerton man is suspicious.”

  “I do, as a matter of fact. Why pretend to be someone other than who you are?”

  “He was working undercover. The Pinkertons are very good at it.”

  “Well, he certainly fooled me. Did he fool you, too, Miss Green?” she asked.

  I nodded.

  “Can you describe your relationship with Mr Gallo?” James asked.

  The only sign that this question had riled Mrs Mirabeau was an extra blink in her otherwise calm gaze.

  “Nathaniel and I got along exceptionally well. We understood each other.”

  “On a personal, as well as a professional, basis?”

  “Yes, but not in the manner you’re probably thinking, Inspector. He was a married man, after all.”

  “It didn’t prevent him from having a secret liaison with Miss Hamilton.”

  “She meant nothing to him!” she snapped. “I’m talking about a relationship founded on mutual trust and respect. That’s what Nathaniel and I had.”

  “Did you have a particular affection for him?”

  “Of course I did, but only as I would for a brother. It was nothing more than that; quite unlike the fondness you and Miss Green obviously have for one another.”

  “That has no relevance to, or bearing on, our discussion, Mrs Mirabeau.”

  “Have I spoken the truth, then?” she asked with a smile. “I must say that it was quite obvious to me when you greeted each other in the dining room that morning.”

  James scratched his chin and glanced around the room. “It is exceptionally tidy in here, Mrs Mirabeau,” he commented.

  “I’ve had a lot of time to spare. I’ve been going through all t
he papers and sorting out any unresolved matters. I do hope that I’ll be able to leave here soon.”

  “Where will you go?”

  “To the south of France, of course.”

  “Will you work over there?”

  “Yes. I know a number of hoteliers in St Tropez.”

  “That sounds very appealing. It begs the question as to why you ever bothered coming to London, with its grey skies.”

  “Because Nathaniel asked me to, Inspector.”

  “I should like to look inside Mr Gallo’s office again if I may, Mrs Mirabeau.”

  “Of course.”

  James rose to his feet. “I don’t mind if you prefer to accompany me,” he said to her.

  “I trust you to look in his office without my being present,” she replied with what struck me as an insincere smile.

  “It’s just as I said to Mr Somers,” muttered James as we walked toward Mr Gallo’s office. “My job would be far easier if everyone was willing to be honest with me. There’s something Mrs Mirabeau doesn’t want to tell us, and it is frustrating me enormously. I also found Mr Somers’ manner rather prickly when we spoke to him.”

  “He’s just annoyed that no one has been arrested yet.”

  “That’s one possible explanation, but there could be another reason entirely. Why does he keep returning to the hotel? It makes me wonder what his motives are.”

  We reached Mr Gallo’s office and stepped inside.

  “Just as I thought,” said James, glancing around. “Everything in here is remarkably tidy, too. Do you remember the mess he left it in?”

  “Mrs Mirabeau said she has had a lot of time to spare.”

  “The papers that were on the desk have disappeared,” said James. “Perhaps Fenton has taken them.” He walked over to the other side of the desk and opened the drawers. “Can he really have taken everything? Let’s find one of the maids,” he whispered.

  I followed closely behind him as he strode out of the office. We turned right, away from the direction of Mrs Mirabeau’s office, and walked along the corridor toward the dining room. James tried a few door handles along the way, but each of the doors was locked.