CHAPTER XVIII

The Room at Blanchard’s Hotel

Outside the library Anthony ran into Charles Stewart. “With your permission, Mr. Stewart,” he said, “I should like to run up to town this evening on an urgent matter. I’ve just telephoned Goodall and made arrangements to see him this side of nine o’clock to-night.” Stewart lifted his eyebrows.

“Any startling discoveries, Mr. Bathurst?”

“Not exactly startling—but I want to look into one or two things that have suggested themselves to me, at the London end of the tangle—I’m sure you understand.”

Stewart bowed. “I presume you are accompanying Mr. Bathurst, Mr. Daventry—I had hoped that we could have——”

Before Peter could frame an affirmative reply, Anthony had spoken for him. “Mr. Daventry will be remaining here until I return,” he intervened.

Stewart’s face showed a certain amount of surprise, but he accepted Anthony’s statement without demur.

“I’ll get Llewellyn to look up a train for you, Bathurst, and get one of the cars ordered for you.”

Anthony thanked him and turned away. “I’m afraid he’s a trifle disappointed in your choice of me as an investigator,” he murmured to Peter, “but perhaps in a few days I shall be able to rehabilitate myself in his good graces—or perhaps not—you never know, do you, Daventry?”

“I’m rather hipped at having to stay behind,” responded the latter.

Anthony caught his arm lightly and spoke in a low-toned voice. “You’re staying behind on special service. You’re on guard—and you must watch everybody without them having the ghost of an idea that you _are_ watching them. Particularly you must see that _nobody leaves this house on a journey to London without you follow him or her_. If that does occur, let me know at once—understand?”

“Where shall I find you?”

“Telephone Goodall at the ‘Yard’—he’ll put you in touch with me.”

Peter nodded with understanding. Then an idea came to him. “You say ‘a journey to London.’ Why London? Supposing I find somebody leaving for Stow-on-the-Wold? Or Husband’s Bosworth?” He grinned in appreciation of his poser.

Anthony stood still a moment and thought. “Everybody here must be watched by _you_,” he declared. “If anyone tries to leave here you must follow him and get the news through to me at once. You’ll find the destination will be London, though, should the contingency occur. It’s what the racing fraternity describe as a ‘stone-ginger.’”

Peter indulged in a burlesque salute. “Very good, Sergeant. I’m your man!”

Anthony shook him by the hand. “I know I can rely on you implicitly, Daventry—that’s why I feel safe in leaving you here—if you weren’t here I couldn’t undertake this journey to town, I don’t mind telling you that. I want to see Goodall, I want to put in a quiet hour or two at the British Museum, and I also desire to have a look at the hotel in Clifford Street. When you see me again I have high hopes that my case will be complete—good-bye, old chap.”

“Shall I come down to the station with you?” asked Peter.

“Better not, I think, in the circumstances—I shall feel easier in my mind to think that you will be here on the spot all the time. What I’m relying on you to prevent is the one thing that might cause my plans to miscarry. I’ll tell you one more thing that will make you realize how important your job is.” He bent forward and whispered in Peter’s ear. “The key to the secret is still in Assynton Lodge—I want it to stay there—get me?”

Peter’s expression grew serious, although he felt more reconciled to staying behind now that he had a job of work to do. He whistled—the situation was a little clearer to him and more attractive of acceptance. He watched Anthony’s car purr down the drive, turn the corner and go over the crest of the hill. And he wondered when he would welcome him back.

Arrived at Paddington, Anthony entered a public telephone box and was connected with Goodall.

“Wasn’t sure that I should catch you, Inspector,” he opened. “I’m speaking from Paddington—I’ve come up myself you see—close on your heels too! What’s that? No—not exactly—what I wanted to know was this. Have you had time to go over to Blanchard’s Hotel yet? To-night? Good man—I’ll come with you—if you don’t mind—I’ll meet you in Clifford Street at nine o’clock. Right‑o—I’ll have a little light refreshment and come round.” Punctually to the time arranged he turned the corner of Clifford Street from New Bond Street, to walk into the arms almost of Detective-Inspector Goodall and a plain clothes officer. The Inspector greeted him cordially.

“Good evening, Mr. Bathurst—I’ve been engaged on following up a clue in connection with these two Stewarts from America—that’s why I’ve left this job round here till now.”

“Any luck, Inspector?”

“Not up to the moment, Mr. Bathurst. They seem to have walked out of this hotel and been swallowed up—but I’ll get ’em—you can rest assured on that. When I got back to the ‘Yard’ this afternoon, I was sent hot-foot to a house in Wimbledon where they were supposed to be—not a doubt about it, I was informed! That’s the worst of our game, Mr. Bathurst—we have to listen to all sorts of information that can’t be tested till _we_ test it. And it often means the waste of valuable time.” He clicked his tongue in emphasis of his dissatisfaction. “But I’ll comb ’em out—if it takes me six months—the teeth of my comb will pick ’em up somewhere—Scotland Yard may be slow but it’s sure—and remarkably patient. Here we are, Mr. Bathurst—they’re expecting me here.”

The reception clerk telephoned news of their arrival.

“Mr. Blanchard says will you please go up to his private room. Atkins! Show these gentlemen up to the governor’s room, will you?”

Atkins, a uniformed attendant, quickly piloted them to the proper quarters.

“Come in, Inspector! Good evening, gentlemen. I’ve been expecting you ever since your telephone inquiry of this morning.”

Blanchard was a fair, stout man, somewhere, at a glance, in the early fifties. His eyelashes and eyebrows were so fair as to be almost invisible—giving his eyes a strange protruding tendency. He had a nervous habit of throwing his eyes down to the floor, immediately after he addressed a remark to anybody, which gave him a bird-like appearance.

“Sit down, gentlemen.” He waved a pudgy hand—much be-ringed—towards an arm-chair and a comfortable looking settee. Anthony selected the former.

“This gentleman is Mr. Bathurst—he is acting for Mr. Charles Stewart, of Assynton Lodge, Berkshire. Doubtless you have heard of the tragedy that has taken place down there?” The Inspector made the introduction.

“I read of it in this evening’s paper, Inspector,” replied Blanchard. He looked at Anthony. “Good evening, sir. I’m sorry that we haven’t met under more pleasant circumstances. Now, Inspector, what is it you want of me?”

Inspector Goodall leaned forward in his chair and fixed his eyes intently on Blanchard. The latter fluttered his lids and became more ornithological than ever.

“You will remember, I think,” commenced Goodall, “that my inquiries this morning elicited the fact that a lady and gentleman stopping here, under the names of Mr. and Mrs. Laurence Charles Stewart, received a telephone call late on Wednesday evening. The call was answered in all probability by the man.” Blanchard intervened. “Quite correct, Inspector! I was downstairs at the time when the ’phone rang. Mr. Stewart went into the smoke-room to answer it.”

“Good,” rapped Goodall. “What happened after that?”

“Directly afterwards, Mr. Stewart came to me and asked for his bill. He said that he had just received bad news concerning a near relation. Serious illness of some kind—they would have to leave at once. They paid the bill and went off at once.”

“H’m,” said Goodall. “Now a few questions, Mr. Blanchard. I may as well tell you that this pair that we’ve been discussing are strongly suspected in connection with the Hanover Galleries murder, so I’ll trouble you to be as careful and explicit in answering as possible.”

Blanchard’s fat face paled. Such things were not good advertisements for his hotel!

“Count on me, Inspector,” he fluttered. “Ask me your questions!”

“How long had they been stopping here?”

Blanchard picked up the receiver and pressed a button. “That you, Miss Fortescue? Bring me up the reception register, at once, please. Ask Atkins to stand by till you get back!” Blanchard opened the register; ran his finger down two or three pages—then looked up. “Here you are, Inspector——came in on the 28th May—the last Saturday of the month.” He pushed the book across to Goodall.

“From New York, I see,” said the Inspector. “Did they strike you as being American?”

Blanchard nodded. “Yes, I should have put them down as American anywhere had I been asked—not knowing!”

“How did he pay you when he left that night?”

“Let me think—the bill was a little over fourteen pounds, I remember—he gave me the exact money in Treasury notes and silver!”

“A man between thirty and forty, you say—and wife about the same—anything distinctive about either of them?”

Blanchard hesitated. “Possibly some of my chaps here could answer that more satisfactorily than I can. I can’t say that I noticed anything.”

“How many rooms did they have?”

“Only one—their bedroom—they took all the meals that they had here in the hotel dining-room.”

“Can you remember any letters coming here for them?”

“I couldn’t answer that either—my clerk downstairs might be able to remember.”

Blanchard’s fat fingers stroked his cheek as he answered. Then he continued quickly. “There’s one thing I am in a position to tell you—they were out of the hotel a good deal during the day—I do know that.”

The Inspector nodded. “Sight-seeing, I suppose—eh?”

“That’s what I thought myself,” responded Blanchard.

“Pardon me,” interposed Anthony, “when Mr. and Mrs. Stewart, to grant them temporarily the name they gave themselves, left here in a hurry—do you happen to remember if they went by taxi?”

“Atkins might know—would you care to ask him?”

“Thank you,” replied Anthony.

Blanchard repeated his previous business with the telephone and in ready response the porter arrived.

“You remember Mr. and Mrs. Stewart, Atkins, the lady and gentleman that left in such an almighty hurry on Wednesday night?”

“Yes, sir—very well, sir—I was on duty down below, sir, when they went out.”

“Very well, then—you’ll be able to answer what this gentleman wishes to know—did you call a taxi for them?”

Atkins shook his head. “No, sir! They went on foot—each of ’em carrying a suitcase.”

“Another piece of bad luck,” muttered Goodall to Anthony. “We always seem to run up against a brick wall!”

Anthony plied the porter with another question. “Any special points about either of them, Atkins, during their stay here?”

The porter’s shrewd face wrinkled in thought. “Well, sir,” he said, after a few seconds’ consideration, “you mightn’t call it a _special_ point—and there again, you _might_, but I did spot something you might call peculiar on the part of the lady—Mrs. Stewart as we called her.”

“Let’s hear it,” exclaimed Anthony—“little things count in cases of this description. Try to remember carefully.”

Atkins rubbed his fingers across his nose. “Well, sir—it was like this ’ere. I happened to be on duty in the ‘foyer’ when Mr. and Mrs. Stewart first arrived. And I noticed that Mrs. Stewart was able to tell the time from the clock that hangs right at the other end of the vestibule. I remember ’er saying to ’im—‘Look—we’re late—it’s nearly half-past six.’ Now, you can take it from me, sir, a woman’s got to ’ave blinkin’ good sight to see the time that distance—you ’ave a look yourself, sir, when you go out.”

“I will,” said Anthony encouragingly. “Go on, Atkins.”

“Well, sir, two days after that little incident and almost what you might call regular ever since—Mrs. Stewart went about wearing black glasses—in fact, she was wearing ’em when ’er husband was in the smoke-room answering that telephone call that caused ’em to skip out so quick.”

“How do you know that?” rapped Goodall.

Atkins turned to him and answered him—unperturbed and unabashed. “I was in there, sir, when Mr. Stewart came in and his wife followed on be’ind. They ’ad the call put through from downstairs. A gent sent for me to ’ave a word with me about getting his luggage orf—that’s ’ow I came to be in there.”

“This gets better and better,” declared Anthony. “Did you happen by any chance to overhear any of the Stewarts’ conversation?”

Atkins rubbed his nose again—possibly as an incentive to remembrance. “Nothing to speak of, sir—but I heard the lady say something about her father.”

Anthony interrupted him promptly. “What do you mean, Atkins—did she say ‘my father’ or ‘her father’—you appreciate the difference, don’t you?”

Atkins regarded him with an air of pained surprise. “The words she used, sir, were ‘my father’! I took it as ’ow she was alludin’ to ’er own male parent.”

“Thank you, Atkins.” He discovered the exact position of the palm of the porter’s right hand. “You’ve been a great help to me.”

“Thank you, sir. It’s been a real pleasure.”

Inspector Goodall chewed the end of his cigarette. “Some relation of the murdered man, Mr. Bathurst, without a doubt. Fits in with my own theory, too—born the wrong side of the blanket perhaps over in the States somewhere—used the black glasses as a disguise. Worked the two jobs I shouldn’t wonder, in a way that we can’t quite fathom at the moment—there’s a missing link somewhere. Also—where does Mr. _Charles_ Stewart come in?”—he leaned right across in Anthony’s direction—“supposing it affects his inheritance—eh?”

Anthony waved his hand and harked back to the proprietor of Blanchard’s hotel. “Mr. Blanchard—would you be good enough to turn up Mr. and Mrs. Stewart’s account—the one they settled when they went?”

“I’ll go down and get it for you,” said Blanchard. “A matter of a few moments only.”

“After he’s brought you that,” interjected the Inspector, “we’ll go and have a look at the room they occupied.”

Blanchard was as good as his word. “I have what you asked for, sir! What was it in particular you wanted?”

“Refer to the last day of their stay here, will you, Mr. Blanchard—did they lunch here?”

Blanchard’s eyes traveled down the columns of the account. Then he shook his head. “No, sir, apparently they did not—it must have been one of the days when they were out—one of the days I mentioned!”

Anthony looked across at Goodall. The latter smiled. “Testing Mr. Daventry’s theory, aren’t you—and it holds good—eh?”

“What about that bedroom, Goodall?”

“Just what I was thinking,” said the latter, rising from his seat. “Mr. Blanchard, we should like to have a look at the bedroom that Mr. and Mrs. Stewart occupied while they were staying here—I hope no newcomer is in it.”

Blanchard was all attention. “Nobody at all, Inspector. The room is as they left it—except that the chambermaid may have tidied it up.”

“That’s what I was afraid of,” groaned Goodall. “That gentle little operation known as ‘tidying up’—however, we’ll hope for the best.”

Blanchard referred to a book. “Number fifty-four,” he announced. “I’ll take you up.”

Goodall turned to his assistant. “Stay here, Waring—I don’t expect to be very long”—then followed the other two upstairs. It was a large room, furnished with wardrobe, dressing-table, wash-hand stand, double bed—half a dozen chairs, one wicker arm-chair and a box-divan. Every piece of furniture was subjected by Goodall to a thorough investigation. But they yielded nothing. He then went to the various ornaments of the china trinket-set that stood on the dressing-table. They were all empty—as was the grate. Anthony went to the wardrobe.

“Nothing here, either, Inspector,” he declared. The Inspector came and tried the lower drawers. They also were all empty.

“Drawn a proper blank—as I thought,” muttered Goodall. “Everything that might have whispered the words of the chorus to us has been ‘tidied up.’ What have you got there, Mr. Bathurst?”

Anthony was standing by the fireplace examining something on the mantelpiece. “What do you make of that, Inspector?” he asked. Holding his right hand to the edge of the mantel, he very carefully swept something into it with his left.

Goodall looked at it curiously. “Looks like a few grains of dust of some kind,” he said. “Sort of dried grass—what do you think?”

Anthony put his nose to it and smelled it. “Pungent,” he exclaimed. “Not exactly aromatic.” He blew it away from the palm of his hand, Goodall watching him.

“Would you care to have a chat with the chambermaid that attends to this room?” inquired Blanchard.

“That’s an idea, certainly,” said Goodall. “Have her up, by all means.”

Blanchard went out and called down the speaking-tube.

“I don’t think we shall find anything more, Inspector,” said Anthony. “I expect——”

“_More!_” exclaimed Goodall with evident disgust. “I like the ‘_more_,’ Mr. Bathurst. It seems to me we’ve run across precious little—I don’t know what you think about it.” Anthony grinned, as they both turned to welcome Rabjohns, the chambermaid.

“I’m a Police Inspector,” announced Goodall terrifyingly, “so be careful what you say! When you ‘tidied up’ this room after Mr. and Mrs. Stewart left it—did you destroy any papers or letters that you found here?”

Rabjohns slowly wiped her hands on her apron. “No, sir—that I didn’t. There was nothing left in here, Mr. Inspector, not even a ‘bob’ on the dressing-table.”

Blanchard frowned at her—after all, he thought, it was not seemly that she should obtrude her trivial personal “grouses” at a critical time such as this.

“You’re sure of that,” barked the Inspector. “Certain you found and destroyed nothing?”

“Positive, sir. You can rely on what I’m tellin’ yer, sir—you can put your shirt—sorry, sir!” She caught Blanchard’s eye and amended her ways.

“One question I’d like to ask you before you go,” intervened Anthony. She turned and faced him. “Yes, sir?”

“When you have entered this room, first thing in the morning—during Mr. and Mrs. Stewart’s stay here I mean—have you ever detected a peculiar odor in the room?”

Rabjohns dropped her hands in astonishment. “That I have, sir! Not one morning, but _every_ morning—I even mentioned it down in the kitchen. Smelt like something burning, it did, sir—but however did you know about it, sir?”

Anthony turned to Goodall. “We all have our little secrets, haven’t we, Inspector? As I’ve reminded people before.”

The Inspector coughed. What exactly did Mr. Bathurst mean?