“Then you’ll be leaving soon for America?” Hayley inquired.
“I may. We’ll decide tomorrow. But good lord - what a job that looks.”
“I know,” Hayley nodded. “But it seems to me the wise course. If the murderer did have a duplicate key, he has long since thrown it away.”
Duff shook his head. “Not at all,” he objected. “I don’t believe he has. To do so would be to arrive back at his bank and report the loss of both keys. That would be inviting a dangerous amount of attention to an affair he no doubt wants kept very dark. No, I am certain - if he is the man I think he is - that he will hold on to the duplicate through thick and thin. But he will hide it, Hayley. It’s a small object and can be cleverly concealed. So cleverly, perhaps, that a search for it on our part would be hopeless. The chief is right - the American journey is clearly indicated - though I dread the whole idea. However, I’ve reached the end of my string here, and I’m damned if I’ll give up.”
“It wouldn’t be like you if you did,” Hayley replied. “Take heart, old man. I never knew a case to get on your nerves before. Why worry - you’re certain to win out in the end. What was it Inspector Chan said? Success will always walk smiling at your side. He sensed it, and according to him, the Chinese are psychic people.”
A slow smile spread over Duff’s face. “Good old Charlie. I wish I had him with me on this case.” He stopped. “I noticed Honolulu on the itinerary of the tour,” he added thoughtfully. “However, that’s a long time yet. And much may happen before Doctor Lofton’s none too select group comes into Honolulu harbor.” He rose with a sudden air of determination.
“Going already?” Hayley asked.
“Yes. Much as I enjoy your society, old chap, it just flashed into my mind that I’m getting nowhere sitting here. Perseverance - that was Chan’s method. Patience, hard work and perseverance. I’m going to make one more stab at Broome’s Hotel. There may be something there - something I haven’t got - and if there is, I’m going to get it or die in the attempt.”
“Spoken like your old self,” his friend answered. “Go to it, and the best of luck.”
Once again Inspector Duff was walking down Piccadilly. The cold drizzle of the afternoon had turned into a fitful snowfall. Just enough to make his footing on the pavement uncertain, to penetrate down his collar and annoy him. Under his breath he cursed the English climate.
The night porter was on duty at the desk just inside the Half Moon Street entrance of Broome’s Hotel. He put aside his evening paper and regarded the inspector benevolently over his spectacles.
“Good evening, sir,” he said. “My word - is it snowing?”
“It’s trying to,” Duff answered. “Look here, you and I haven’t seen much of each other. You recall the night when the American was killed in room 28?”
“I am not likely to forget it, sir. A most disturbing occurrence. In all my years at Broome’s -“
“Yes, yes, of course. Have you thought much about that night lately? Have you recalled any incident about which you haven’t told me?”
“There was one thing, sir. I meant to speak to you about it if I saw you again. I’m afraid that so far there has been no mention of the cablegram.”
“What cablegram?”
“The one that came in about ten o’clock, sir. Addressed to Mr. Hugh Morris Drake.”
“There was a cablegram addressed to Mr. Drake? Who received it?”
“I did, sir.”
“And who took it up to his room?”
“Martin, the floor waiter. He was just going off for the night, and none of the bellboys was available. So I asked Martin if he would kindly take it up to Mr. Drake -“
“Where is Martin now?”
“I don’t know, sir. Perhaps he is still at supper in the servants’ dining-room. I can send a messenger, if you wish -“
But Duff had already beckoned to a venerable bellboy who was resting comfortably on a bench farther down the hall. “Quick,” he cried. He handed the old man a shilling. “Get Martin, the floor waiter, for me before he leaves the hotel. Try the servants’ dining-room.”
The old man disappeared with surprising speed, and Duff again addressed the night porter. “I should have heard of this before,” he said sternly.
“Do you really think it’s important, sir?” inquired the porter blandly.
“Everything is important in a matter of this sort.”
“Ah, sir, you’ve had so much more experience with such matters than we have. I was naturally a bit upset and -“
The detective turned away, for Martin had arrived. His jaws were still moving, so suddenly had he left the table. “You want -” He swallowed. “You want me, sir?”
“I do.” Duff was all action now; his words crisp and clear. “About ten o’clock on the night Mr. Hugh Morris Drake was murdered in room 28, you delivered a cablegram to his room?”
He stopped, surprised. For the usually ruddy Martin had gone white and seemed about to collapse on the spot.
“I did, sir,” he managed to say.
“You took it up, I presume, and knocked at Mr. Drake’s door? Then what happened?”
“Why, why, Mr. Drake, sir, he came to the door and took the envelope. He thanked me, and gave me a tip. A generous one. Then I came away.”
“That is all?”
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Quite all.”
Duff seized the young man rather roughly by the arm. He meant it to be rough - all the authority of Scotland Yard behind it. The waiter cringed.
“Come with me,” Duff said. He pushed the servant along to the manager’s office, deserted and in semidarkness. Thrusting Martin into a chair, he fumbled for the switch of the lamp on the manager’s desk, and turned it on. Moving the lamp so that the full glare of it fell on the servant, he slammed shut the door and sat down in a chair facing the young man.
“You’re lying, Martin,” he began. “And by heaven, I’m in no mood to stand it. I’ve dilly-dallied over this case as long as I mean to. You’re lying - a blind man would know it. But you’ve finished now. The truth from you, my boy, or by gad -“
“Yes, sir,” muttered the waiter. He whimpered a little. “I’m sorry, sir. My wife has been telling me I ought to give you - the whole story. She’s been nagging me. ‘Tell him,’ she says. But I - I didn’t know what to do. You see, I’d taken the hundred pounds.”
“What hundred pounds?”
“The hundred pounds Mr. Honywood gave me, sir.”
“Honywood gave you money? What for?”
“You won’t send me to prison, Inspector -“
“I’ll lock you up in a minute if you don’t talk, and talk fast.”
“I know I’ve done wrong, sir - but a hundred pounds is a lot of money. And when I accepted it, I didn’t know anything about the murder.”
“Why did Honywood give you a hundred pounds? Stop a bit. Take it from the beginning. The truth, or I’ll arrest you at once. You went upstairs with that cablegram for Mr. Drake. You knocked on the door of room 28. Then what?”
“The door opened, sir.”
“Yes, of course. Who opened it? Drake?”
“No, sir.”
“What! Who, then?”
“Mr. Honywood opened it, sir. The gentleman who had room 29.”
“So Honywood opened Drake’s door? What did he say?”
“I gave him the envelope. ‘It’s for Mr. Drake,’ I told him. He looked at it. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, and handed it back. ‘You will find Mr. Drake in room 29, Martin. We have changed rooms for the night.’ “
Duff’s heart leaped at the words. A feeling of exultation, so long in coming, swept over him. “Yes,” he remarked. “Then what?”
“I knocked on the door of room 29 - Mr. Honywood’s room - and after a time Mr. Drake came to the door. He was wearing his pajamas, sir. He took the cablegram, thanked me, and gave me a tip. So I came away.”
“And the hundred pounds?”
“At seven in the morning whe
n I went on duty, Mr. Honywood rang for me. He was back in room 29 again, sir. He asked me not to say anything about the change of rooms the night before. And he handed me two fifty-pound notes. Fair took my breath away, he did. So I promised - gave him my word. At a quarter before eight, I found Mr. Drake murdered in room 28. I was frightened, and no mistake. I - it seemed I couldn’t think, sir - I was that frightened. I met Mr. Honywood in the hall. ‘I have your word,’ he reminded me. ‘I swear I had nothing to do with the murder. You stick to your promise, Martin, and you won’t regret it.’ “
“So you stuck to your promise,” said Duff accusingly.
“I’m - I’m sorry, sir. No one asked me about the cablegram. If they had, things might have been different. I was afraid, sir - it seemed best just to keep mum. When I got home, my wife said I’d done wrong. She’s been begging me to tell.”
“You follow her advice in the future,” Duff advised. “You’ve disgraced Broome’s Hotel.”
Martin’s face paled again. “Don’t say that, sir. What are you going to do to me?”
Duff rose. In spite of all the delay this weak young man had caused him, he found it difficult to view the matter as sternly as he should. This was the sort of news he had been waiting for, praying for, and now that it had come, his heart was light and he was extremely happy.
“I have no time for you,” he said. “What you have told me here you are not to repeat unless I ask you do so. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly, sir.”
“You are not to leave your present position or home without advising me of your whereabouts. With these restrictions, things go on as usual. Tell your wife she was right, and give her my compliments.”
He left the waiter wilted and perspiring in the manager’s office, and walked with jaunty air to the street. Pleasant, a bit of snow after so much rain. Just what London needed. Pretty good climate, the English. The very sort to keep a man on his toes, full of vim and energy. Martin’s story, it will be seen, had completely altered Inspector Duff’s outlook on life.
He walked along, considering what the waiter had told him. “Mr. Drake is in room 29, Martin. We have changed rooms for the night.” In that case, Drake must have been murdered in room 29. But in the morning, he was back in his own bed in room 28. Well, it all fitted in with what Duff had thought at the time. “Something tells me that Hugh Morris Drake was murdered elsewhere,” he had said. That something had been right. Duff had been right. Not such a fool, if you came right down to it. The inspector’s spirits soared.
Back in his own bed in the morning. Who had put him there? Honywood, of course. Who had murdered him? Who but Honywood?
But stop a bit. If Honywood intended murder, why the change in rooms? A ruse, perhaps, to get the door open between them and free access to the person of Hugh Morris Drake. Yet he had already stolen the housekeeper’s key. Such a ruse was hardly necessary. And if he was intending murder, would he have calmly involved himself by telling Martin of the change of rooms?
No, he wouldn’t. Duff came down a bit from the clouds. The matter didn’t work out quite so neatly as he had thought it would. Puzzles still. But one thing was certain, Honywood was mixed up in it somehow. Martin’s story would bring the New York millionaire back from the Continent in a hurry. And once they had him again at the Yard, the skein would begin to unravel.
Duff went back and tried again. It didn’t appear likely that Honywood had intended murder when he changed rooms with Hugh Morris Drake, and then told Martin what had been done. No - the resolution must have come later. Perhaps that cablegram -
Going to the near-by cable office, the detective found it about to close for the night. After a show of authority he was handed a copy of the message Drake had received on the evening of February sixth. It was merely a business communication. “Directors voted price increase in effect July first hope you approve.” The cablegram was not the answer, evidently. But Duff blessed that cablegram none the less.
Taking a taxi to the Yard, he called the home of his superior. That gentleman, torn away from a game of bridge was inclined at first to be short and crisp. But as Duff’s story unrolled, he began to share the excitement of his subordinate.
“Where is the travel party now?” he inquired.
“According to the schedule, sir, they are leaving Paris for Nice tonight. They will be in Nice for three days.”
“Good. You will take the regular Riviera Express from Victoria in the morning. Nothing to be gained by starting sooner. That will bring you into Nice early on Saturday. I shall see you tomorrow before you leave. Congratulations, my boy. We appear to be getting somewhere at last.”
And the superintendent went back to play four hearts, doubled.
After a happy chat with Hayley over the telephone, Duff went to his rooms and packed a bag. At eight in the morning he was in the superintendent’s office. His superior took a package of bank-notes from the safe, where money was kept for just such occasions, and handed it over.
“You have your ticket booked, I presume?”
“Yes, sir. I’ll pick it up on my way to the station.”
“Have the French police hold Honywood for us in Nice until I can get the necessary papers. I’m taking the matter up with the Home Office at once. Good-by, Mr. Duff, and the best of luck.”
Action was what Duff had wanted, and he rode down to Dover in high spirits. The channel crossing was rough, but that meant nothing to him. By evening they were on the outskirts of Paris, and the train began its slow journey round the ceinture, with many interminable stops. Duff was relieved when they finally reached the Gare de Lyon, and the road to the Riviera stretched straight before them.
As he sat enjoying an excellent dinner, and watching the last walls of Paris disappear into the dusk, he thought deeply about Mr. Walter Honywood. No wonder the man had been in such a funk the morning after the murder. If only, Duff reflected, he might have arrested him then, saved himself this long journey. But things were going to come out all right in the end. Silly to worry - they usually did. Soon he would be coming back along this same route, and Honywood would be with him. Perhaps the man’s confession would be in the detective’s pocket. Not a strong character, Honywood. Not the sort to hold out in the face of all Duff knew now.
The next morning, at a little before ten, Duff’s taxi drew up before the gateway leading to the Hotel Excelsior Grand in Nice. This was the name of the hostelry he had found on the detailed itinerary left with him by Lofton. The Excelsior Grand was an enormous rambling affair, set high on a hill overlooking the city and the aquamarine sea, in the midst of extensive grounds. Duff noted orange and olive trees, with here and there a tall cypress, gloomy even under the gracious Riviera sun. The taxi man sounded his asthmatic horn, and after some delay a bellboy appeared and took the detective’s bag. Duff followed the servant up the gravel walk that led to the hotel’s side entrance. Giant palms were overhead, and bordering the walk were beds of fragrant Parma violets.
The first person the inspector saw when he entered the hotel lobby was the bearded Doctor Lofton. The second person he noted gave him a distinct shock. This was a Frenchman, also bearded, and as resplendent in gold lace and gorgeous uniform as the doorman of the Ritz hotel. The two men were in close converse, their beards almost touching, and Lofton looked worried. He glanced up and saw Duff.
“Ah, Inspector,” he remarked, and a shadow crossed his face. “You made quick time. I scarcely expected you so soon.”
“You expected me?” Duff returned, puzzled.
“Naturally. If you please, Monsieur le Commissaire. May I present Inspector Duff, of Scotland Yard, Monsieur Henrique?” He turned to Duff. “This gentleman, as you have no doubt gathered from his uniform, is the local commissary of police.”
The Frenchman rushed over to Duff and grasped his hand. “I am so happy for this meeting. Me, I am a fond admirer of Scotland Yard. I beg of you that you will not judge harshly in this case, Monsieur Duff. Consider if you will the stupidi
ty with which we have been faced. Is the body left as it fell? No. Is the pistol permitted to lie in peace where it was? Not for a moment. All - all have touched it - the concierge, two bellboys, a clerk - five or six people. With what result? In the matter of fingerprints we are helpless. Is it possible that you can picture such stupidity -“
“One moment, please,” Duff broke in. “A body? A pistol?” He turned to Lofton. “Tell me what happened.”
“You don’t know?” Lofton asked.
“Of course not.”
“But I thought - however, it is too soon. I understand now. You were already on your way. Well, Inspector, you arrive most opportunely. Poor Walter Honywood killed himself in the grounds of this hotel last night.”
For a moment Duff said nothing. Walter Honywood had killed himself - while Scotland Yard moved forward to take him. A guilty conscience, no doubt. Killed Drake, and then himself. The case was over. But Duff felt no elation; he felt instead an unpleasant sensation of being let down. This was too easy. Too easy altogether.
“But did Monsieur Honywood finish himself?” the commissary was saying. “Alas, Inspector Duff, we can not be certain. The fingerprints on the pistol - destroyed by the stupidity of the hotel employees, as I have related to you. True - it lay by his side, as though fallen from a dying hand. No one was seen near that vicinity. But even so, I welcome eagerly the opinion of a man from Scotland Yard.”
“You have found no note of farewell? No message of any sort?”
“Alas, no. Last night we searched his apartment. To-day I am here to repeat the process. I should be overjoyed if you would be kind enough to join me.”
“I’ll be with you in a moment,” Duff said, with an air of dismissal. The commissary bowed and retired.
Charlie Chan [5] Charlie Chan Carries On Page 8
