"Humph! Well?"
"I got nothing more out of him, sir. I think his rage choked him too much to let him speak. As to an alibi—he said that his word was a sufficient alibi. He had gone early to town last Saturday, by the eleven o'clock, in order to buy his wife a present, had gone the rounds of the silversmith's windows, had seen nothing he liked; hadn't gone in to any shops, and had wound up the day with a theatre, after luncheon at Frascati's at one o'clock, and returned to Brighton by the five o'clock. Asked if he had seen anyone he knew, he went off the rails again, and shouted that he had made his money in business, and not in gadding about town making acquaintances with idlers. So that's that, sir."
"You verified his trains, of course?"
"Oh, yes, sir. They were all O.K. He was well known at the station."
"So that's that," echoed Pointer as Watts filed his report.
"Nothing connected with the manager seems to be quite straightforward. However—..." He told Watts of the shape the case had assumed since his absence.
"Maggie thinks she heard the room door—the corridor door—open. Whew!"
"It's lucky there was someone in number twelve Saturday afternoon. But for that, there would be no question of time. That medicine-bottle could have been tampered with as soon as Eames had taken his morning dose. Whoever did it poured out the medicine, poured in the morphia solution, which they doubtless flavored with a little peppermint and eucalyptus like the medicine, and left it for Eames to help himself to, at a time when they might have been chatting with the Archbishop by way of an alibi. Then, when Eames was unconscious, someone enters, locks the door, takes out the back panels of the wardrobe, and fixes on the little brass bolt; shoves Eames in, dead or unconscious, screwed the panels into place again, emptied the bottle on to the balcony—it was pouring at the time—put back the last dose of medicine which they had taken out earlier in the day, goes through the dead man's papers and effects, and gets away with whatever the murder was committed for in the bag, down the service-stairs, and out into the street that way."
"Clever scheme!" Watts breathed, who was following his Superior's account with breathless interest.
"A simple one, for if it hadn't succeeded—if Eames hadn't drunk the medicine, but had disliked the taste and thrown it away—the poisoner could try again. As for Mr. Beale, we have had word from the American Embassy not to bring him in in any way."
"Do you think there's any chance of the affair turning out to be political, sir?" asked Watts. "The manager, you know, is Irish—Hughes—and Eames is an Irish name, and so is Beale."
"Let's hope for all our sakes it won't be that! If there's one thing that's calculated to break a policeman's heart first, and his career afterwards, it's a political case." The mere suggestion covered the Chief Inspector's face with gloom. "Tails all over the place you mustn't step on," he added, after a long pull at his pipe.
"Seen the picture of Eames in the late editions, sir?" asked Watts, laying one before him. "I don't call it a good likeness myself."
"As unlike him as they could make it," agreed Pointer. "We've asked the Colonial papers to copy the picture, but much good a smudge like that will do."
"Something unforeseen may turn up from it, though," suggested Watts.
"Not in this case," corrected Pointer with conviction. "Everything unforeseen will have to be looked for with a searchlight, in my opinion;" and Watts was too much impressed by the medicine-bottle clue which Pointer had picked out to answer.
"Now, then, Watts"—the Chief Inspector turned to business again—"I want you to find out whether Beale, or the manager, or anyone corresponding to the description of Cox, has been buying any morphium in London. Take Eames' snapshot, too, though that's hardly likely to be needed." He went into careful details of the men and taxis he could have to help him.
For two days Watts searched London, but found nothing to prove that any of the three men had ever been near a chemist save Cox, that one time when he had bought the fatal bottle. Meantime nothing transpired at the Yard about Eames. Letters flowed in by the score purporting to recognize the printed likeness, but all the patient investigations of the police only proved that the recognition was mistaken. In Canada a terrific forest fire was raging, and under the circumstances the Yard could hardly press for larger space to be given to the picture of an unknown Englishman. At the Enterprise there had been practically no changes—at least from the first floor, and nothing had as yet transpired which could give the casting hither and thither police any definite trail.
"How's the manager developing?" O'Connor asked the night of Watts' return. "Been getting any deeper into your black books?"
"I've had a man look up his record—"
"Ah, well, that would be about the same thing with a policeman. Heaven help us all!"
"The report came in this afternoon. About a year ago he bought rather heavily of securities which are today a mere fraction of what he gave for them. He's slightly in the hands of money-lenders, and is altogether by no means as happily placed as might have been expected; for though the hotel is full, the running expenses are higher under him than were allowed for, and as his salary is only paid on net profits he must be pretty badly put to it sometimes. However, we've not been able to trace any previous acquaintance between him and Mr. Beale—not as yet.
"That scrap of green and white paper"—Pointer seemed to see it before him—"the manager isn't particularly quick-witted, but he certainly was quick-footed, for he was standing on it before you could say Jack Robinson—on the one and only piece of evidence the room contained. By the way, a jeweler to whom I showed Eames' studs says they're unusually fine pearls—for their size. Question is shall we ever learn what other things of value he may have had with him?" There was a pause. "Our analyst reports that there were the ashes of two cigars and twelve cigarettes in the little lot I took him. That amount couldn't have been smoked in five minutes."
O'Connor had risen and laid an old copy of the Era before him. "I thought I vaguely remembered something of the kind, so I hunted these up. What d'ye think of them?" he asked in would-be careless tones.
Pointer examined them. They were pictures of Miss Leslie taken four years back, in the character of an old man.
CHAPTER V
IT was late on the afternoon of Thursday that the Chief Inspector again went meticulously over every article of Eames' which he had in his safe. The watch he lingered over longest. His advertisement had brought in no helpful replies. He had taken the watch to a neighboring goldsmith, who had only been able to tell him that the maker, a very poor one, had long ago given up work and life itself. Pointer laid it on one side for a moment and took up the waistcoat. It was a well-worn garment, with very small pockets, one of which—the watch-pocket—had a permanent bulge. He fitted the watch into it. As he looked at it attentively it struck him that the watch did not conform at all to the outline supposed to have been made by it. An idea came to the police officer. He put on a pair of magnifying glasses and scrutinized the inside of the back of the case long and minutely. Finally he rose, with a faint flush in his cheek, and took a taxi to the largest watchmakers and goldsmiths in London.
"Sorry," the manager said patronizingly when Pointer, after asking for a private room, had shown him the watch; "it's not the kind of article we ever deal in. Not our class at all." He handed back the watch contemptuously, and endeavored to look over the other's head.
Pointer, unruffled as ever, opened the case again.
"Then