"Did the 'phone message you got later sound at all like his voice?"
But that the clerk couldn't remember. "Now I come to think of it, it didn't sound like Cox speaking. Cox talked like a Colonial,—the few words he spoke asking about his room, and saying that he had 'phoned for one on July 30th and sent a letter with a deposit—"
"You didn't tell me that before, Gay: that's an important point. I want to get hold of Cox if I cam. I want to ask him a few questions."
"Well, Mr. Chief Inspector, a chap can't think of everything at once," responded the clerk good-humoredly; with which view of the limitations of the human intellect Pointer agreed.
He arranged that a call should be sent through at once if the young man returned to the hotel, and left feeling that he had found out quite sufficient to pay him for his early Sunday morning. Eames had been in to prospect for his friend—or his enemy, whichever Cox was—not long after he had taken a room at the Enterprise for himself. The letter signed "Cox" was very unlike that man's signature in the register, but very like the letter left in Eames' pocket for the manager; and whatever Pointer's doubts about it, he did not attempt to deny to himself that the writing in that letter exactly resembled Eames' entry on the hotel book, though perhaps, to his keen eyes, a trifle labored-looking. It would be a nice little problem for the handwriting expert, but, to his thinking, there was an ease and a freedom about this last letter—the one sent in Cox's name—which suggested a genuine document. Had he been able to get a fair description of the man, he would have sent Cox's description to every station in England, for he did not share the hotel's belief in his return, but, bar his size and the limp, which were the easiest of disguises, he had no definite idea as to the man's appearance.
He glanced at his watch. Nine o'clock. Time to see if the manager and Mr. Beale had remembered any fresh details. The manager was at his breakfast, and Pointer thought that his manner had changed in some subtle way from what it had been last night. Mr. Beale was apparently not up yet. As Pointer particularly wished to question him, he sent the hotel's one and only page to the room which had been assigned to the American for the rest of the night—it happened to be the manager's sitting-room—with a polite message as to the pleasure it would give the Chief Inspector to be allowed a few minutes' conversation in room No. 14.
The boy came back with bulging eyes.
"I believe the gentleman's killed hisself too, sir," he hissed melodramatically in Pointer's ear. Evidently the news about No. 14 had leaked out among the staff.
For once the Scotland Yard man acted like any mere mortal, and bounded from his chair. "What?"
"Well, there ain't no sound, and I can't make him answer, though I've hammered and banged like anything on his door." The boy was evidently thoroughly enjoying himself.
"Idiot! Keep your mouth shut! Ask the manager to come here a moment," was the somewhat contradictory directions he received in a tone which made Pointer's meaning clear.
The manager arrived, a trifle breathless, and the two men entered the lobby into which both his bedroom and his sitting-room opened. They tried the sitting-room door. It was locked, and no reply came from within to voice or knock.
"There's a door into it from my bedroom. I have the key, and the bolt's on the bedroom side." The manager, who was very white, led the way, and after a second's wait unlocked the door and flung it open. A burst of fresh air met them. The window stood ajar. The room was empty. The other door locked and bolted. A bag, half-open, stood at the foot of the bed which had been made up on the couch, and which had evidently not been slept in. A half-burnt cigar lay on the carpet by the armchair, together with a novel. The electric lamp was still on. Pointer felt the end of the cigar.
"Been out some time. Excuse me, sir, you're standing on a piece of paper."
The manager jumped away as though his companion had spoken of a live coal. Pointer carelessly ran the little wisp of green and white striped paper through his fingers as he looked at the sill, and out on the pavement, which was on a level with the floor. Provided there was the will, there certainly was an easy enough way. But why the will? Why should the editor of an important newspaper leave by the window rather than by the door, even though he were an American?
He looked Mr. Beale's bag over. Nothing had been taken. He saw in it no paper to match the little end he had "absentmindedly" stuffed into his pocket.
"I thought I saw a piece of striped paper lying around"—he glanced about him—"did it belong to anything of yours?"
The manager shook his head. He was even paler than he had been.
"Was it anything of yours, sir?" persisted the officer, peering under the table.
"No." The manager's voice was harsh.
"Odd sort of paper, too. Oh, here it is"—Pointer fished it out—"Did you see anything like it in Mr. Beale's hands last night?"
"I suppose on a modest estimate I had near a dozen people in this room yesterday." The manager's voice was studiously level. "I should say that the probabilities are that any one of them dropped that little tag."
"Shouldn't wonder," agreed Pointer amicably. "Did you and Mr. Beale sit up long together last night?"
The manager hesitated for the fraction of a second. "N—no, not beyond saying good-night, after his refusing to let me give him my bedroom."
"You didn't discuss Mr. Eames?"
"Not at all. Not at all."
"Kindly look carefully around the room and see if anything is missing."
The manager obeyed, and Pointer with one deft swoop, while he back was turned, emptied the contents of an ash-tray, which stood on a little table between two easy chairs, into an envelope. Then he sauntered casually into the bedroom, and watched the manager in a mirror, as he aimlessly took up trifle after trifle, stopping now and then to stare out of the window with a puzzled, worried look. Suddenly he seemed to leave the world of speculations.
"I say, Inspector, this is all rot! Mr. Beale isn't a thief. You saw his passport, and I saw a letter of credit and various other letters of his."
"Have you any idea, sir, as to when he left this room?"
"I dozed off about three o'clock. Last night's affair doesn't help a manager to sleep any better than usual, you know. So I suppose Mr. Beale must have left some time after that?"
"You had no idea why he left by the window?"
"I? Certainly not! I know no more than you do about the whole affair. Probably not so much," he added with a rather forced smile.
Pointer went carefully all over the little suite of three rooms, with its lobby opening into the lounge and on to the landing of the service-stairs with a door into the street. He found nothing to detain him, and rapidly drafted a notice to be sent out to all taxi-drivers describing Mr. Beale, and asking for news of any fare resembling him picked up on Sunday morning or late Saturday night. Watts was off duty, with his family at the Zoo, but the Chief Inspector had no time for relaxation.
He sent Miller to find out which maid was responsible for the manager's rooms and to send her up at once. Miller, who had made himself quite popular in the staff breakfast-room, slipped away, and within ten minutes ushered in a very fluttered young woman.
"Now, my dear, did you make up a bed in the manager's sitting-room late last night?"
"Oh, no, sir. I was in bed when it all happened. Oh, dear no, sir." And she edged towards the door.
"Come, come, I don't bite, you know. Then did you do up his room this morning?"
That was better. Kate twitteringly acknowledged that she had.
"Did you see anything of a letter I left on the bedroom table? The window was open at the top, it may have blown on to the floor; anyway, I haven't been able to find it."
The maid had seen