“He might have seen something in the papers,” speculated Steve. “They’re making an awful fuss about Mrs. Trevelyan. I suppose you saw the Evening Graphic?”
Temple nodded.
“If it hadn’t been for Crane, the papers wouldn’t have go1 hold of the story. The damn fool opened his mouth a yard wide the moment we got back.”
“But it’s true, isn’t it, Paul?” asked Steve, slightly perplexed;
“Darling, you ask a question like that—you, an ex-reporter!”
“Hasn’t Mrs. Trevelyan confessed then?”
“Oh yes,” he shrugged, “she confessed until she was practically blue in the face. But it didn’t enlighten us very much.”
“She’s a very strange person,” commented Steve thoughtfully, “and I find it hard to believe she’s Rex. But she says she’s Rex—”
“And the papers say she’s Rex,” put in Temple lightly.
“And after all, she was caught red-handed.” Steve hesitated, then added quietly: “But you don’t think she’s Rex, do you, Paul?”
“I’m always open to conviction,” he temporised. “However, let’s see what our Welsh friend has to say for himself. Has he been here very long?”
“About half an hour I should think.”
Temple went into the lounge and found Davis deep in his book.
“Hello, Mr. Davis – what can I do for you?” he asked.
The Welshman looked up quickly.
“Well, I don’t know that you can do anything, Mr. Temple,” he replied with his air of faint bewilderment. “I suppose it is sheer impertinence on my part to trouble you like this.”
“Not at all,” replied Temple politely. “Let’s hear all about it.”
Davis shifted uncomfortably in his seat, hesitated, and finally blurted out: “It’s about that night I saw you at the Royal Falcon, Mr. Temple. You remember that?”
“Of course. Nothing wrong that night, was there?”
Davis leaned forward and spoke in a confidential tone.
“Something very peculiar happened that night, Mr. Temple. I do not like to make a mountain out of a molehill, as they say, but I could not help noticing what went on.”
“This is very interesting,” said Temple, offering him a cigarette. “What happened exactly?”
Davis wrinkled his forehead thoughtfully, then began: “Well, you remember after I left your table I went upstairs to my room.”
“I didn’t know that – but go on.”
“My room was number twenty-six, and that was next door to the one you and Mrs. Temple were to have occupied. When I turned into the corridor I saw someone trying the door of your room. I had barely turned the corner when he opened the door and went in. He didn’t see me.”
“Of course, he might have been going in to see that our cases were ready to be taken down,” Temple pointed out.
“That is true, Mr. Temple. But he was acting in such a furtive way that my suspicions were aroused and I tiptoed up to the door. It was shut. Now if he had been there just to take a look at your cases, he would hardly have troubled to close the door after him.”
At this point, the little Welshman showed signs of visible embarrassment, but eventually added somewhat awkwardly: “I could not resist the temptation, Mr. Temple. I stooped and looked through the keyhole.”
With difficulty, Temple repressed a smile.
“I suppose it was rather wicked of me,” went on Davis deprecatingly, “but I had a feeling that something was wrong.”
“I appreciate that, Mr. Davis,” said Temple seriously. “Did you manage to see anything through the keyhole?”
“Yes, indeed, Mr. Temple!” cried Davis. “I saw this man opening your suitcase. He took out a silver flask – then he turned his back on me, but I thought I heard something poured out – I could not be sure. Then he put the flask back in the suitcase.”
“Did you recognise this man?”
“Well, to be quite truthful, Mr. Temple, I think it was Mr. Chester, the man who runs the hotel – I have always thought he was a nasty piece of work ever since he took over the place.”
“Did he see you, d’you think?” asked Temple.
“Oh no, indeed. As soon as he moved towards the door I was inside my own room like a shot.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me this at the time?”
“I tried to, Mr. Temple,” Davis earnestly assured him. “But I waited until the coast was clear, and when I came downstairs again you had left.”
“Oh well,” said Temple. I’m afraid we can’t do very much about it now, except perhaps keep an eye on Mr. Chester. Was that all you wanted to tell me, Mr. Davis?”
The Welshman leapt to his feet.
“Lordy, no!” he exclaimed excitedly. “Not by a long chalk! Later on that night, I went into the bar for a glass of ale, and put my hand in my pocket to pay for the drink. I took out what I thought at first was a pound note, but it turned out to be this—”
He produced his wallet and extracted a folded piece of paper which he passed over to Temple.
On it was scrawled in pencil:
No matter what happens, Mrs. Trevelyan is not Rex. Rex is the girl in brown.
Chapter XI
DOCTOR KOHIMA INTERVENES
Opening the door of the lounge just as Temple had finished reading the note, Steve was amazed to hear him burst into prolonged laughter.
“Paul!” she cried in astonishment, noting the Welshman’s bewildered expression. “Paul, what on earth is the joke?”
“Oh dear!” gasped Temple, “there are some aspects of this case which remind me of the Marx Brothers!”
Wilfred Davis looked even more surprised.
“Have I said something very funny?” he asked in rather a pathetic tone.
“No, no!” Temple assured him. “Please forgive me, Mr. Davis. I don’t know what made me go off like that.”
“Do you mind if I have a look at that note?” asked Steve.
Temple passed it over and Steve took it gingerly by the top left-hand corner.
“This one isn’t typed, Paul,” she exclaimed, slightly surprised.
“No, it’s just a pencil scrawl,” he nodded. “So unlike the other artistic efforts from Rex.”
“It may have been that he was in a hurry,” pointed out Davis earnestly.
“There is always that possibility,” conceded Temple gravely. “He may not have had the time to open his portable typewriter and dash off a little note.” Steve looked up and caught a twinkle in his eye. But Mr. Davis was not to be denied.
“I was wondering if we could have the handwriting tested at all,” he speculated. “Isn’t there some sort of system, rather like the fingerprint method?”
“Only as a means of comparison,” Temple informed him. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t get us very far.”
Davis eyed him shrewdly and then said:
“You don’t think this note was written by Rex?”
Temple shrugged.
“Since you ask me point-blank, Mr. Davis,” he replied, “I’m afraid I don’t. We can test it for fingerprints if you like, but that would involve taking yours and those of anyone else who had handled it. Quite frankly, I don’t think it’s worth the trouble.”
“But why don’t you think it was written by Rex?” asked Davis eagerly.
“Well, in the first place the other notes were typewritten, and secondly, well, I just don’t think it’s Rex’s handiwork.”
Davis sighed.
“I am sure it’s all very confusing,” he murmured. “Not at all like such affairs happen in books.” He was unconsciously turning the broad gold signet ring on the little finger of his left hand. Steve could not help feeling sorry for the little man, who had the appearance of someone in a very strange land with no knowledge of the language.
“If the note wasn’t written by Rex, darling, then who did it?” she asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” replied Temple.
“But how di
d it come to be in my pocket?” persisted Davis. “That’s what I want to know.”
“It was obviously put there by the person who wrote it,” said Temple urbanely. “But in my humble opinion that wasn’t Rex.”
“I see,” mused Davis, patently more puzzled than ever. “At least, I think I see, though I cannot think why this person should pick on me. I’m not a detective; I’m just a commercial traveller.”
“The person who slipped it in your pocket may have seen you talking to me,” Temple reminded him, “and concluded that you were implicated in this Rex case. After all, you were present when Norma Rice’s body was discovered.”
Davis looked a little frightened.
“Mr. Temple, you do not think that note was meant as some sort of warning to me not to interfere?” His sing-song accent was more pronounced than ever now.
Temple smiled.
“I think it was put in your pocket because the writer thought you would pass it on to me or to the police,” he said calmly.
“Oh well,” murmured Davis, obviously reassured, “I had better be getting along. I am sorry to have made such a nuisance of myself.”
“On the contrary,” replied Temple courteously, “you have been most helpful.”
“Thank you, Mr. Temple,” he answered gratefully. “As a matter of fact, I have to go down to Canterbury again in two or three days time to investigate a complaint from one of our biggest customers there. Now, if you would like me to keep an eye on Mr. Chester—”
He broke off abruptly as the door opened and Ricky came in.
“Why, Ricky, I thought you were out,” said Steve.
Ricky said: “Only for a little while, madam. So sorry if you were inconvenienced.”
“Well, I must be off,” said Davis, getting to his feet.
“Did you bring a hat or coat, Mr. Cortwright?” demanded Ricky politely.
Temple looked up quickly.
“You’ve met Ricky before, Mr. Davis?” he asked.
The little Welshman shook his head.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
It was Ricky’s turn to appear surprised.
“You do not remember me, sir?” he asked. “You do not remember Ricky? Hotel Nevada—Twenty-third Street—New York—I was lift boy.”
Davis shook his head in a definite negative.
“I’m afraid you are making a mistake. I have never been to New York, though I have always wanted to visit that wonderful city.”
“But, Mr. Cortwright—” Ricky began to protest.
“My name is Davis, Wilfred Davis,” asserted the Welshman, a trifle irritated. “You must be confusing me with someone else. They say we all have a double.”
Ricky inclined his head, his face now inscrutable.
“So sorry,” he murmured. “I see many people in the hotel. I ask pardon.”
Davis patted him on the shoulder.
“Oh lordy, that’s all right,” he exclaimed heartily. “We all make mistakes.”
Ricky bowed slightly again, and conducted Davis to the front door, after he had taken a hearty farewell of Temple and Steve, who were both a little intrigued by the meeting with Ricky. Presently, the Siamese returned and addressed himself to Steve.
“Would you like me to start the silver before lunch, madam?” he asked politely.
Temple went over to him and asked: “Ricky, why did you call Mr. Davis, Cortwright?”
Ricky smiled as blandly as ever and murmured:
“Why did you call Mr. Cortwright, Davis?” He folded his hands and looked innocently into Temple’s eyes.
“But we know him as Mr. Davis,” replied Steve,
“I knew him as Mr. Cortwright,” said Ricky indifferently.
“You heard him say he couldn’t possibly be Mr. Cortwright,” said Steve patiently.
Ricky looked from Temple to Steve and back again, his almond eyes narrowing the merest trifle. Then he said:
“I made a mistake. I am so sorry.”
He was about to turn away, but Temple detained him.
“No!” he exclaimed softly. “You did not make a mistake, Ricky, and you know you didn’t! You still believe it was Davis that you met at the Hotel Nevada, and that he was calling himself Cortwright then.”
“My memory is always very good,” replied the servant evasively. “I notice Cortwright—er—Davis—still wear same ring.”
“I see,” nodded Temple. “I must congratulate you on such a remarkable memory, Ricky.”
Ricky beamed at him but did not speak.
“Well now,” went on Temple, “perhaps you can tell us when all this happened?”
“Last year,” replied Ricky promptly. “January—February—March I work in the hotel. Mr. Cortwright—he has an apartment on the second floor—goes up and down in the lift a good deal. Mr. Cortwright—Mr. Davis—same face—must be the same person. I don’t make mistake. When I was in America, I took course of memory training—”
“Quite so, Ricky,” interposed Temple, smiling inwardly. “It must have been a very excellent course.”
“Cost me thirty dollars,” replied Ricky laconically. “Would there be anything else, sir?”
“That’s all, Ricky,” said Steve. “You can leave the silver until after lunch.”
Ricky had only just gone when the telephone rang, and Crane came through to ask if Temple could go down to the Yard that evening, when Forbes proposed to interrogate Mrs. Trevelyan further. After some hesitation, Temple agreed and rang off. He experienced a vaguely disturbed feeling whenever his mind switched back to Mrs. Trevelyan. Things looked very black against her; indeed Forbes appeared to have compiled a cast-iron case, she was even willing to sign a confession which would send her to the gallows, and yet ... Mrs. Trevelyan was an enigmatical type capable of strange deeds. If she was so willing to confess to being Rex, why should she not be anxious to tell the full story? But Temple found it difficult to believe that Mrs. Trevelyan could be guilty of this long series of callous crimes, each planned to the last detail and executed without a trace of mercy.
As Steve was going out to see about lunch, he called to her.
“Darling, I’ve arranged to meet an old friend of mine at Luigi’s in the Haymarket at nine-fifteen. A man named Leo Brent.”
“I seem to remember your mentioning him,” said Steve.
“That’s right – he was a friend of Maisie’s[2] in the old days in Chicago,” explained Temple hastily. “Knows his way around, and was very good to me out there. So I want you to entertain him.”
“Me?” queried Steve in some surprise.
“That’s right, darling. I may be detained round at the Yard, so if you could contrive to keep Brent amused till I turn up—”
“But couldn’t you telephone and put him off?” she suggested.
“No, no, I particularly want to see him. And now I come to think of it, darling, you have met him. He was at Juan when we were there seven years ago.”
“Oh, that American,” mused Steve. “The tall, fair man – rather good-looking?”
“That’s the fellow.”
“He was rather good fun,” she recalled. “D’you remember how he took us right into the Casino as if he was one of the directors of the place? And then we had to lend him the taxi fare back?”
“I remember,” he grinned. “Maybe he’s sobered down since the war. Anyhow, you’ll be able to find out.”
“I don’t think finding out about Americans could be described as my favourite hobby,” she smiled, “but as you seem so anxious to see him again, I’ll try to oblige.”
He patted her shoulder. “That’s fine. Now have we got time for sherry before lunch?”
“I should think so,” said Steve, “though you always drink too much when you’re on a case.”
“No, darling, it’s when I’m writing a book. And as I’m trying to do both at the moment—”
He turned to get the sherry decanter.
As she sipped the wine, she said thoughtfully: “
I can’t make out that business of the note Davis found in his pocket. D’you still think it didn’t come from Rex?”
“I think it came from Mr. Wilfred Davis,” replied Temple calmly. “And what’s more, I think he wrote it and slipped it into his own pocket.”
“Then don’t you think he was telling the truth about seeing Chester take the flask out of your case?”
“I’m quite positive he wasn’t.”
“What makes you so certain?”
“It’s quite simple. If you just take your mind back to the key they gave us to our room in the hotel at Canterbury.
“But I never saw the key, darling. You had it.”
“So I did,” he nodded. “Well, there was nothing very remarkable about it. It was pretty much the same as any other Yale key.”
“A Yale key!” she repeated thoughtfully. “That means it was impossible to see through the keyhole. Why didn’t you mention that when he was telling you?”
“I just wanted to hear the end of the story, darling. You know how I always like to do that.”
“There is one point you’ve forgotten,” she said.
“Well?”
“There was a Yale lock on the door, of course. But I seem to remember that the old lock was still there, too, lower down. So it’s just possible—”
“I believe you’ve got a soft spot for that little Welshman!” grinned Temple.
“Well, after all, he is one of your most devoted admirers,” she parried.
“Anyhow, I don’t think it’s worth another journey to Canterbury just yet, simply to discover whether he was telling the truth,” said Temple, draining his glass. “Shall we go and see what Ricky has managed to contrive for lunch?”
At the door, he added lightly: “And you’ll be nice to Brent this evening, won’t you, darling? Not too nice, of course!”
Temple spent the whole of the afternoon wrestling with his new novel, but he found that his mental picture of the heroine was continually getting confused with the pale, drawn features of Mrs. Trevelyan, the tense, shapely mouth, the rather deep-set eyes, the broad forehead . . .
Resolutely, he shut the image from his mind and tried to concentrate upon the chapter he was writing. Temple always smoked a pipe while he was working, though as often as not it was out. But he seemed to gain some measure of inspiration from biting hard upon the stem. Twice, Steve brought him a cup of tea which he thankfully accepted.
Send for Paul Temple Again! Page 16
