“I never heard her speak of any relatives, sir. Nor Mr. Honywood, either. They seemed quite alone.”
“Really? Later, you must give me a list of those to whom you are cabling. Now you had better go down to the parlor on the first floor. Tell the manager who you are. They will no doubt bring your mistress back here presently. I will stop in the rooms a moment.”
“You are Inspector Duff?”
“I am.”
“My poor mistress spoke of you. Many times in the past few hours.”
The maid disappeared, and Duff passed through a small entrance hall into a pleasant sitting-room. The letter Sybil Conway had given him burned in his pocket, demanding to be read, but first he wanted to search these rooms. In a moment the Italian police would arrive and he would be too late. He went to work with speed and system. Letters from American friends - not many - telling nothing. Drawer after drawer - the open trunks - he hurried on. At last he was conscious, as he bent over a bag in Sybil Conway’s bedroom, that some one was watching from the doorway. He swung about. A major of the City Guards was standing there, an expression of surprise and displeasure on his dark face.
“You search the rooms, Signore?” he inquired.
“Let me introduce myself,” said Duff hastily. “I am Inspector Duff, of Scotland Yard. The British consul will vouch for me.”
“From Scotland Yard?” The policeman was impressed. “I begin to understand. It was you who was with the lady when she was killed?”
“Yes,” nodded Duff uncomfortably. “I did find myself in that unpleasant position. If you’ll sit down -“
“I prefer to stand.”
Naturally, in that uniform, Duff thought. “As you please,” he went on. “I want to tell you something of this affair.” As briefly as he could, he outlined the case on which he was engaged, and explained Sybil Conway’s role in it. Not sure as yet just how much he wanted the Italian police to know, he was none too explicit. Especially was he careful to say nothing of Lofton’s Round the World Tour.
The Italian listened with unruffled calm. When Duff had finished, he nodded slowly. “Thank you very much. I assume you will not leave San Remo without communicating with me?”
“Well, hardly.” Duff smiled grimly, thinking of the innumerable times he had made a similar remark to other men.
“What did you find in your search of these rooms, Inspector?”
“Nothing,” said the Scotland Yard man quickly. “Not a thing.” His heart beat a little faster. Suppose this policeman, annoyed at his interference, ordered him searched, found Honywood’s letter?
For a moment they stared at each other. It was an international crisis. But Duff’s appearance of stolid respectability won out.
The Italian bowed. “I shall have the honor of meeting you later,” he said. It was a dismissal.
Much relieved, Duff hastened to his room. Without delay he meant to read the letter Sybil Conway had handed him a few moments before her death. He locked his door, drew a chair up beneath a feeble light, and took out the already opened envelope. It bore in the upper left corner the crest of Broome’s Hotel, London, and it was postmarked February fifteenth. Eight days after the murder of Hugh Drake, the detective reflected, and only a short time before the Lofton party started for the Continent.
He removed the bulky contents of the envelope. Walter Honywood wrote an unusually small hand, but even so this message to his wife covered many pages. With eager anticipation, Duff began to read:
“Dearest Sybil:
“You will see from the letter-head that I have now reached London on that tour around the world which, as I wrote you from New York, the doctors advised. It was to have been a rest for me, a release, a period of relaxation. Instead it has turned into the most terrible nightmare imaginable. Jim Everhard is also with the tour!
“I found this out on the morning of February seventh, a little more than a week ago. Found it out under the most frightful circumstances. Under circumstances so bizarre, so horrible - but wait.
“When I went aboard the boat in New York, even the names of the other members of the party were unknown to me. I had not so much as met the conductor. We were called together on the deck for a moment before sailing, and I shook hands with all of them. I did not recognize Jim Everhard. Why should I? I saw him, you will remember, only the once and the light was poor - a dim oil lamp in that little parlor of yours. So many years ago. Yes, I shook hands with them all - with Jim Everhard - the man who had sworn to kill me - and to kill you, too. And I never suspected - never dreamed -
“Well, we sailed. It proved a rough passage, and I did not leave my cabin, except for a few brief strolls on the deck after dark, until the morning we reached Southampton. We came on here to London, and still I had no inkling. There was much sightseeing during the first few days, but I kept out of it. That was not what I had come abroad for - and London was an old story, anyhow.
“On the night of February sixth I was sitting in the parlor of Broome’s Hotel when another member of the party came in. A fine old fellow from Detroit, named Hugh Morris Drake, the kindest man alive, and very deaf. We got into conversation. I told him about my illness, and added that I had got very little sleep for the past few nights, owing to the fact that some one was reading aloud in the room on one side of me until a late hour. I said I was reluctant to go upstairs to bed, because I knew I could not rest.
“At that the dear old chap had an idea. He pointed out that, owing to his deafness, the sort of thing that was troubling me would mean nothing to him, and he offered to change rooms with me for the night. It developed that he had the room on the other side of me, so it seemed a simple matter to arrange. I accepted Mr. Drake’s offer gratefully. We went upstairs. It was agreed we would leave all our possessions just as they were, unlock the door between the rooms, and merely change beds. I closed the connecting door between us and retired - in Mr. Drake’s bed.
“The doctor had given me a package of sleeping powders to use as a last resort, and as an added guarantee of sleep, I had taken one of those. In the unaccustomed silence, and with the aid of the powder, I slept as I hadn’t slept in months. But I was awake at six-thirty, and inasmuch as Mr. Drake had told me he wanted to rise early - we were expecting to leave for Paris that morning - I went into the other room.
“I entered and looked about me. His clothes were on a chair, his earphone on a table; all the doors and windows were closed. I went over to the bed to wake him. He had been strangled with a luggage strap. He was dead.
“At first I didn’t understand - early morning, only half-awake - you see how it was. Then, on the bed, I saw a little wash leather bag. You remember, my dear? One of those bags we gave Jim Everhard - there were two, weren’t there? Am I wrong, or were there two wash leather bags, with the pebbles inside?
“I sat down and thought the matter out. It was simple enough. Jim Everhard was somewhere in Broome’s Hotel. He had located me with the tour - he had made up his mind to carry out his old threat at last - he had stolen into my room to strangle me in the night and return the bag of stones. Into my room! But it wasn’t my room that night. Hugh Morris Drake was in my bed in that dark corner where the light of the street lamps never penetrated. And Hugh Morris Drake had died; died because of his kindness to me; died - if you like irony - because he was deaf.
“It was horrible. But I knew I must pull myself together. There was nothing I could do for Drake. I would gladly have given my life to prevent what had happened - too late now. I must get through the thing somehow - I wanted to see you again - to hear your voice - I love you, my dear. I loved you from the moment I saw you. If I hadn’t, all this would never have been. But I don’t regret it. I never shall.
“I decided that I couldn’t leave poor Drake there in my bed, among my things. How explain that? So I carried him to his own room and put him in his bed. There was the bag of stones. I didn’t want that. I didn’t know what to do with it. It would mean nothing to any one - save to Jim Everhard - and to us. I tosse
d it down on the bed beside Mr. Drake. I almost smiled as I did so - smiled at the thought of Everhard carrying it all those years, and leaving it at last in the wrong place, wreaking his vengeance on the wrong man. Of course, he still has that other bag.
“I unlocked my door into the hall, then slipped back into Drake’s bedroom and locked the door between the rooms on his side. The earphone caught my attention; I had been forced to move it, so I wiped it clean of fingerprints. Lucky I thought of that. Then I went from his room into the hall, springing his lock behind me, and so to my own room again. No one saw me. But I remembered a waiter who had brought up a cable for Drake the night before, and who knew about the change of rooms. As soon as he came on duty, I rang for him and bribed him. It was easy. Then I sat down to wait for the breakfast hour - another day. My meeting with Jim Everhard.
“I saw him. I knew him this time - the eyes - there is something about a man’s eyes that never changes through the years. I was sitting in a parlor of the hotel waiting for the Scotland Yard inspector, and I looked up. He was standing there. Jim Everhard, with another name now. And traveling with the party, too.
“While the Scotland Yard man was asking questions, I tried to think what I had better do. I couldn’t very well drop out of the party - I was already in a bad position. My nerves - I hadn’t stood the questioning very well. If I dropped out, they might arrest me at once. The whole unhappy story might be revealed. No, for the present I must go on, travel side by side with a man who was no doubt now more determined than ever to kill me - who had, in fact, already killed me, after a manner of speaking.
“I decided that it must be done. For a week I slept every night with a bureau against my door - or tried to sleep. Gradually I evolved a scheme for my protection. I would go to Everhard, tell him I had left in a safe place a sealed envelope, to be opened in case anything happened to me. In that envelope, I would give him to understand was written his name - the name of my murderer, if murder had occurred. That, I thought, would stay his hand, for a time at least.
“I prepared such an envelope. But in the brief note inside I did not mention Everhard’s name. Even if it happens - even if he gets me in the end - the old story must not come out. The old scandal. It would ruin your fine career, my dear. I couldn’t have that. I have been so proud of you.
“I left the envelope only this afternoon with a member of the party I am certain no one would ever suspect of having it. A few moments ago I saw Jim Everhard in the lobby. I went and sat beside him, and in the most casual way, as though I were discussing the weather, I told him what I had done. He didn’t speak. He just sat there looking at me. I told him of the envelope, with his name inside. The last part wasn’t true, of course, but I think my plan will serve its purpose.
“So I am coming on with the party, as far as Nice. I am sure he will do nothing before we reach there. The whole affair appears to have shaken him badly - as well it might. The first night our party is in Nice, I propose to slip away in a car in the dark, to come to San Remo and get you. Scotland Yard has given up the chase for the moment, and I doubt if they could stop me in any case. We shall hide until the threat has passed. I am taking it for granted that in the face of this unexpected danger, our differences are buried.
“No, my dear - I am not going to tell you the name under which Jim Everhard travels with our party. You were always so impulsive, so quick to act. I am afraid if you knew it, and something happened to me, you could not remain silent. You would throw away your splendid career with one grand gesture, expose the whole situation - and no doubt live to regret bitterly what you had done. If something should happen to me, for God’s sake get out of the path of the Lofton party at once. Disappear from San Remo - your own safety must be your first thought. Motor to Genoa and take the first boat for New York. For my sake - I beseech you. Don’t spoil the remaining years of your life - what good would it do? Let the dead past bury its dead.
“But nothing will happen to me. You have only to keep calm, as I am doing. My hand is quite steady as I write this. Everything will come right in the end, I am sure. I shall wire you the date; for a second honeymoon. Everhard and the events of the long ago will fade back into the shadows where they have remained so many years.
“With all my love, forever,
“Walter.”
Gravely Inspector Duff folded the letter and put it back into its envelope. An acute feeling of helplessness stole over him. Again he had been so close to knowing, again the hotly desired knowledge had been snatched away at the last moment. The news that the murder of Hugh Morris Drake had been pure accident did not greatly surprise him. He had suspected as much these past few days. But accident or not, its perpetrator must be seized and brought to justice. And all through this letter the name of that perpetrator - now a triple murderer - had seemed on the very point of Honywood’s pen. Then - nothing. What name? Tait - Kennaway - Vivian? Lofton or Ross? Minchin, Benbow or Keane? Or perhaps even Fenwick. But no, Fenwick was no longer with the party. He could hardly have been concerned in this murder tonight.
Well, he would know in the end, Duff thought. Know, or after that scene in the elevator feel eternally disgraced. With his lips set in a firm line that betokened determination, he locked the letter securely away in his bag, and went downstairs.
Doctor Lofton was the only person in the lobby at the moment. He came to Duff at once, and the inspector was struck by his appearance. His face was white beneath his beard, his eyes staring.
“My God, what’s this?” he demanded.
“Honywood’s wife,” answered Duff calmly. “Murdered by my side in the lift. Just as she was about to point out to me the killer of Drake and of Honywood. Point him out to me - in your party.”
“In my party,” Lofton repeated. “Yes, I believe it now. All along I’ve been telling myself - it couldn’t be true.” He shrugged his shoulders despairingly. “Why go on?” he added. “This is the end.”
Duff gripped him firmly by the arm. People were coming out of the dining-room, and the detective led the way to a far corner.
“Of course you’re going on,” he insisted. “My word - you won’t be the one to fail me, I hope. Listen to me - it wasn’t a member of your party who was killed this time - you need tell your crowd little or nothing about the affair. I’m keeping you entirely out of the local investigation. Your people will perhaps be questioned - but along with all the other guests in the house. There isn’t a chance these Italian police will get anywhere. Better men than they would be stumped. In a day or two you’ll go on - go on as though nothing had happened. Do you hear me?”
“I hear you. But so much has happened.”
“Only a few of us know how much. You will go on, and the murderer in your party will begin to think himself safe. He has finished his work now. Resume your tour, and leave the rest to me - and the Yard. Do you understand that?”
Lofton nodded. “I understand. I’ll go, if you say so. But this last affair seemed almost too much. I was badly shaken for a moment.”
“Naturally you were,” answered Duff, and left him. As he sat down to dinner at a table just inside the dining-room door, the detective was thinking hard. For the first time, Lofton spoke of giving up the tour. At this moment - when the killer’s work was finished.
The inspector was busy with an excellent soup, when Pamela Potter came in. She stopped beside his table.
“By the way,” she said. “I’ve news for you. Mr. Kennaway and I went for a stroll soon after we got here - Mr. Tait was taking a nap. Just as we were leaving the hotel, a car drew up and waited. Something told me to stop a minute - just to see who it was waiting for.”
“Ah, yes,” smiled Duff. “And whom was it waiting for?”
“I get you,” she nodded. “But there are finer things in life than who and whom - don’t you think so, too? The car was waiting for some old friends of ours. They came hurriedly out of this very hotel, with all their baggage. The Fenwicks, I mean.”
Duff’s bushy
eyebrows rose. “The Fenwicks?”
“None other. They seemed surprised to see Mr. Kennaway and me. Said they thought we weren’t due here until tomorrow. I explained that the schedule had undergone one of its usual changes.”
“What time was this?” the inspector inquired.
“A few minutes past seven. I know, because it was just seven when Mr. Kennaway and I met in the lobby.”
“A few minutes past seven,” Duff repeated thoughtfully.
The girl went on to join Mrs. Luce at a distant table, and Duff sat down again to his soup. It had been just six-forty-five, he reflected, when that shot was fired into the lift.
Chapter XI
THE GENOA EXPRESS
All through the entree - and it was really a pity, for a mind divided can not truly appreciate a chef’s masterpiece of the evening - Duff debated with himself over the Fenwicks. Should he look up that Italian policeman and suggest that the pair be apprehended and brought back to San Remo? The matter could be easily accomplished - but what then? There was absolutely no evidence against Norman Fenwick. To call attention to him would be to involve the Lofton travel party - a thing which Duff certainly didn’t want to do. No, he determined over the inevitable roast chicken, he would make no mention to the Italian police of that somewhat precipitate departure.
When he saw the major of the City Guards again, Duff was glad he had decided not to complicate that gentleman’s troubled existence with Fenwicks. Though the Italian had seemed serene enough during the interview in Miss Conway’s suite, such a state of mind had evidently not long endured. As he got farther along with the case, the poor man had begun to realize the true nature of the situation which faced him, and now he was temperamental and Latin in the extreme. A murder without a clue, without a fingerprint or a footprint, with no weapon to be examined, no witness save Duff, who was from Scotland Yard and so, obviously, above suspicion. A hundred and twenty guests and thirty-nine servants in the house when the shot was fired. It was no wonder that the distracted policeman raged about, asking useless questions, and gradually drifted into a state of nervous excitement that led him into a long passionate argument about the case, in which his opponent was a small and emotional bellboy who knew nothing whatever about it.
Charlie Chan [5] Charlie Chan Carries On Page 12
