An Unwelcome Guest

by Emily Organ

  “It was certainly difficult to find. It will be interesting to discover whether Miss Hamilton placed any messages in the newspaper. I suppose the constables working in the office today will find out.”

  “Mrs O’Riley, you mean?”

  “Oh yes, of course. It’s difficult to accustom myself to calling her by that name.”

  “I was up working on it most of the night,” said Mr Hobhouse, “but I think I’ve managed to solve it for you.”

  “Thank you!” said James. “What does it say?”

  Mr Hobhouse handed us the piece of paper.

  Nemesis: American received new delivery. Find out what he has. RDV Thursday Charing X, platform three, eleven am.

  “Does it make any sense to you, young Blakely?”

  “It makes a lot of sense. I cannot thank you enough, Mr Hobhouse. What was the keyword?”

  “Hypnos. The Greek god of sleep. When you told me the message was likely to be linked with the previous one I made an assumption that the keyword could be a Greek god or goddess. Fortunately I was correct, which meant that I was able to solve it a little more quickly than on the previous occasion.”

  “This is perfect. Thank you again, Mr Hobhouse,” said James. “Now we can go and ask Mr Cooke what this is all about.”

  “Who might he be?”

  “We believe him to be the sender of the message,” I said.

  “Is that so? Then why didn’t you simply ask him what it said?”

  “We wanted to be well informed beforehand.”

  “I see.”

  “We may have a few other messages that will need to be decyphered,” said James. “I have some men looking for them as we speak.”

  Mr Hobhouse frowned. “I haven’t a huge amount of time on my hands, and I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

  “I’m sure Scotland Yard will reimburse you—”

  “I won’t hear of it!” Mr Hobhouse held up a hand. “I refuse to accept any form of payment. I’m doing this because you’re Roger’s boy.”

  “Well, thank you, Mr Hobhouse. If the other messages have been written by Mr Cooke, he may have used the same keyword each time. That would make the work a little quicker, would it not?”

  “Possibly. But you should never be too hopeful, Blakely. Just let me know what else you find.”

  “So Mrs O’Riley was known as Nemesis and Mr Cooke called himself Hypnos,” I said as we walked up from Westminster toward Whitehall.

  “It’s possible, isn’t it? I’m making the assumption that the message was an instruction from Cooke for her to investigate the paintings Mr Gallo had just bought. And then it requested a meeting with him at Charing Cross station on Thursday, which Miss Hamilton sadly never made.”

  “What does RDV mean?”

  “Rendezvous, perhaps?”

  “Oh yes, of course,” I said. “Presumably Mr Cooke would have been waiting for her on platform three at eleven o’clock on the Thursday after she died. I don’t suppose he realised what had happened to her, given that only Mr Gallo’s death was reported in the newspapers.”

  “Let’s go and discuss the matter with Mr Cooke, and hopefully we can get to the bottom of it. Is that snow?” James held out a gloved hand and a tiny snowflake landed on his palm.

  I had walked past Craig’s Court a number of times without realising it was there. The narrow alleyway led from the main thoroughfare of Whitehall and opened out into a dingy little courtyard. Mr Cooke’s small yet immaculate office was on the third floor of a red-brick building.

  “Inspector Blakely, isn’t it? Yes I recall you joining Scotland Yard a few years ago.”

  Mr Cooke was a broad, square-faced man with narrow eyes, thick grey whiskers and a crooked nose, which looked as though it had been broken at some point in the past.

  James introduced me. “And now you have a confidential inquiry office, Mr Cooke,” he added. “Is business booming?”

  “It is indeed.” He gestured for us both to sit. “And I hope to keep a few people from having to bother the Yard.”

  “For a fee, of course.”

  “Yes, for a fee. I can’t do it all out of charity, can I?” He rested his thick-fingered hands on his desk. “Why have you brought a news reporter with you?”

  “Miss Green has worked with me on a number of cases. Don’t worry, she can be trusted. She was staying at the Hotel Tempesta on the night of the recent murders. You’ve heard about the murder of Mr Gallo, I presume?”

  “I have indeed. Has there been any progress in the case?”

  “Some, though our work would be far easier to carry out if people came forward with any information at the first possible opportunity.”

  “Isn’t that always the way?”

  “You’re familiar with the difficulty, I’m sure. Did you not feel prompted to contact the Yard yourself when you learned of Mr Gallo’s death?”

  “Why should I have?”

  “Because you knew the identity of the lady who had been murdered alongside him.”

  “What are you talking about, Blakely?”

  “I’m talking about Nemesis.”

  Mr Cooke gave a sniff and sat back in his chair. “What on earth do you mean?”

  “You know full well what I mean. She was Nemesis and you are Hypnos, and if you deny it you will only be embarrassed by the further proof I have of your involvement.”

  Mr Cooke shook his head. “Inspector Blakely, I’d like to help if I could, but I am bound by client confidentiality.”

  “Even when failing to come forward delayed the identification of a lady whose body lay unclaimed in the mortuary for two weeks?”

  Mr Cooke said nothing.

  James sighed and pulled the message Mr Cooke had placed in the Morning Express out of his notebook. He laid it on the desk.

  “We know what you’ve been doing, Mr Cooke. You employed a lady who called herself Miss Hamilton to find out about the forged paintings Mr Gallo bought. On the night of Tuesday the eleventh of November she managed to write down the names of those paintings. And she did so after you had placed this message, written in a cypher, in the Morning Express. You had asked her to meet you at Charing Cross station the following Thursday morning, but unfortunately she was unable to keep the appointment because she had been brutally murdered that night.”

  “I didn’t know she was with Gallo that night.”

  “But you did know Miss Hamilton.”

  “She was a colleague.”

  “And you asked her to find out which paintings Gallo had bought. Your message states that ‘The American received a new delivery’.”

  “I will admit that much.”

  “Then you admit that you placed this message in the paper?”

  “It has my name and address attached, so I can hardly deny it, can I? When I heard about his death I had no idea that she had died alongside him. It wasn’t reported anywhere.”

  “That information was withheld to save the deceased man’s reputation and protect his family. Presumably you grew increasingly concerned for Miss Hamilton’s well-being when she failed to keep the appointment at Charing Cross station.”

  “I guessed that something had happened, but I couldn’t have imagined what. I had no idea the woman was dead.”

  “What else do you know about her?”

  “I know her name – Miss Clara Hamilton – and that is all.”

  “When did you first meet her?”

  “I only met her once.”

  “Did you learn anything at all about her?”

  “Only that she had been doing this sort of work for a year or two.”

  “What sort of work?”

  “Investigative work.”

  “Was she a spy?”

  “You could call her that, I suppose. She obtained information for people, and being a woman she was able to use her feminine charms to do so. That’s an indispensable skill that a chap hasn’t a chance in hell of acquiring.”

  “And how did you come to be intro
duced to her?”

  “The introduction came from another member of my team.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “I’m sorry, but it would be impossible for me to disclose that information.”

  “Even to a former colleague?”

  “I cannot possibly identify the people who work for me. It would place them in great danger.”

  “You don’t have to give me a name. You could simply arrange a meeting between me and this mysterious colleague.”

  “That would be quite impossible.”

  “It is not impossible!” James slammed his hand down on the desk. “We need to discover more about Miss Hamilton, as in doing so we will learn more about her killer. For a long time we believed we were searching for the killer of Mr Gallo, but I’m beginning to think that Miss Hamilton was the intended victim that night. Tell me who else was acquainted with her!”

  Mr Cooke leaned forward and cracked his knuckles before resting his fists on his desk. “It’s not that straightforward, Blakely. You’re an intelligent man, and you must fully appreciate the sensitivities involved in my line of work. Let me speak to a few people. I want to help, really I do. And I am desperately saddened by the news of her death. I just need some time—”

  “Whom are you working for?” James demanded. “And who wanted to know about the paintings Mr Gallo bought?”

  “You know that I can’t answer those questions.”

  “You do realise you can be subpoenaed if needs be? We shall obtain this information from you one way or another.”

  “I’m sure that it won’t come to that.” Cooke’s manner appeared calm but there was an angry glint in his eyes. “Neither of us wishes to take this to court, do we, Blakely? Just give me a chance to speak to my connections. You have my word that I will help you in whatever way I can.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “Give me two days.”

  Chapter 43

  “Everything was going rather well until the pair of you turned up at the Hotel Tempesta and upset Mrs Mirabeau,” said Chief Inspector Fenton. “Now she’s refusing to speak to any of us, and we have to put up with that dreadful solicitor of hers, Mr Tennant.”

  “Arrest her, then,” said James. “You do know she has been burning evidence in the basement, don’t you?”

  “How do you know that it’s evidence she has been burning? It could have been anything.”

  “If it was nothing suspicious she would have thrown it straight into the fire in her office,” said James, “but she evidently didn’t want anyone to see what she was doing. And now we have no idea what has been lost.”

  “My men removed all the relevant papers from the hotel some time ago,” said the chief inspector.

  “How could they have decided so early on what was relevant and what wasn’t?” retorted James. “All of it must be considered relevant until we have an idea of what has really happened!”

  “Arguing about this won’t get us anywhere, Blakely. The fact of the matter remains that Mrs Mirabeau has become most uncooperative.”

  “She wasn’t your main suspect in any case, was she?”

  “No. We’ve had Mr Goldman in custody for a few days now.”

  “And what might his motive have been?”

  “He has a keen interest in art. I believe he wanted to take possession of the paintings we discovered in Mr Gallo’s room.”

  “Then why didn’t he take them?”

  “Because his plan went wrong. He hadn’t expected Gallo to escape. By the time he had finally committed the dreadful deed he was terrified someone would discover Mr Gallo at the foot of the stairs, so he ran back to his room and hid for a while before disposing of the coat, gloves and knife.”

  “What is Goldman’s history? Is there any evidence that he has stolen artworks before?”

  “Not that we know of.”

  “Is there any connection between him and the master criminal Jack Shelby? Or Rigby Pleydell-Bouverie, as he calls himself?”

  “None.”

  “Has he shown any previous propensity for violence?”

  “We are still conducting our enquiries, Blakely. You’re beginning to sound like the chap’s defence counsel.”

  “And you do not think that Mrs Mirabeau’s conduct is at all suspicious? Despite the fact that she has been burning evidence and has hired a solicitor?”

  “I have been keeping a close eye on her, but thanks to you my work has become rather more difficult.”

  “I’m beginning to think that Miss Hamilton was the murderer’s intended target,” said James. “She was carrying out some investigative work for a private detective named Mr Cooke. Do you recall Chief Inspector Cooke of Scotland Yard?”

  “I do, as a matter of fact. He hired Miss Hamilton, did he?”

  “Mrs O’Riley was her real name. She was a widow, and she decided to pursue this line of work following the death of her husband and son.”

  “So she was more than just a fallen woman?”

  “Much more. She had several colleagues, who I’m hoping will be able to tell me more about her. I’m waiting on Cooke to arrange an introduction with them.”

  “So your theory, then, is that one of the guests murdered Miss Hamilton, or whatever her real name was, that night because she was a spy?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Gallo?”

  “He was a witness to the murder. Perhaps Mr Goldman wished to put a stop to Mrs O’Riley’s work.”

  Inspector Fenton leaned back in his chair to consider this. “Well, it’s possible I suppose, but we would need to understand why.”

  “Of course. I shall let you know of anything else we learn about her.”

  “I see you are still accompanied by the ink-slinger.”

  “I must ask you not to speak about Miss Green in derogatory terms,” snapped James. “She has been closely involved in this case from the beginning, and continues to be of great assistance to me.”

  I tried to ignore Chief Inspector Fenton’s sceptical expression.

  “You seem to have a close acquaintance with Mr Blackstone of The Times,” I ventured. “I cannot see how that is any different.”

  Chief Inspector Fenton gave a loud, unpleasant laugh. “But it’s completely different! And besides, I should be worried indeed if my acquaintance with Mr Blackstone bore any resemblance to the relationship between you and Blakely.” He shook his head incredulously. “What a ridiculous thing to say.”

  “Perhaps the comparison between myself and Mr Blackstone wasn’t so wise after all,” I said quietly as we left Bow Street station.

  “It was amusing to witness his reaction, though. He’ll be out of sorts for some time now.” James laughed. “The shoeshine boy, Kit, visited me first thing this morning. Apparently, Mrs Mirabeau has been coming and going from the hotel, often in the company of a man. I assume the man is her glum solicitor, Mr Tennant. Kit also followed her to Mayfair on Tuesday, but it seems she was undertaking little more than a shopping expedition on that occasion.”

  “It sounds like he has been doing good work.”

  “Yes, he has. He’s a good lad. I’ve paid him a little more and asked him to keep at it. I was also told this morning that Inspector Raynes has an update for me. Shall we walk down to the Yard and find out what it is? Perhaps he has news on Shelby.”

  “I have good news and bad news,” said Inspector Raynes in his familiar nasal tone. “We’ve arrested one of Jack Shelby’s associates, and he seems willing to talk in exchange for leniency. He claims to have evidence that Shelby forged paintings in America, which means that Shelby can be arrested and extradited to his home country.”

  “That is good news indeed,” said James. “And the bad news?”

  “Shelby has escaped to Paris.”

  “Oh dear! So there is still no knowing whether he had anything to do with the forged paintings that were sold to Mr Gallo?”

  “Not yet. The Pinkerton chap, Mr Russell, has followed him there.”
/>
  “He may have an interesting tour of Europe on his hands!” said James. “Perhaps you can encourage this associate to tell you everything he knows of Shelby’s dealings with Gallo. After all, Shelby was seen visiting the Hotel Tempesta.”

  “We’ll keep working on it, and I shall let you know how we get on.”

  “Thank you, Raynes. It’s interesting to hear that Shelby fled just after Fenton arrested Mr Goldman. Perhaps Shelby is concerned that Goldman will incriminate him.”

  “It certainly is a coincidence,” I said. “Mr Russell seemed to think that Shelby would be staying in London for a while longer yet.”

  “There is also some other complicated news,” said Inspector Raynes.

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

  “I visited the Hotel Tempesta to take possession of the forged paintings and they have mysteriously vanished.”

  “When was this?”

  “Yesterday.”

  James muttered a curse under his breath. “Did no one think to recover the paintings from the hotel before then?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you where they are, Raynes. They’re in a pile of ashes down in the basement.”

  “Ah.”

  “Yes, that must have been what Mrs Mirabeau was burning. Those paintings must incriminate someone, and she has removed the evidence. Oh, how I wish I had picked them up and taken them with me! You’ll need to speak to Fenton down at Bow Street about this.”

  “I shall do so.”

  “Immediately!”

  “Good idea.”

  James gave a sigh as Inspector Raynes left the room. “I cannot help but think that the guilty parties are a step ahead of us all the time. Do you have that same feeling?”

  “It certainly feels as though there is a lot to keep up with,” I replied.

  “I have some good news, at least,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to show you these.” He scooped a large envelope up from his desk. “In here are the twenty-seven coded messages Mr Cooke has placed in your newspaper over the past six months. I shall take them down to Mr Hobhouse now.”