Collected works of j s f.., p.879
Collected Works of J S Fletcher, page 879
It was in the midst of these muttering curses that the two slinking figures suddenly leapt out on Hankinson as he passed the stack of timber. There was a flashing of steel in the moonlight, and the soft silks in which Hankinson was masquerading. He fell over on his back as the knives were withdrawn, and convulsively twisted up and on to his side. He knew that blood was running from him like the spurts from a suddenly pricked wine-skin, but his brain was clear enough yet, and he mechanically snatched at his revolver and fired, left and right, at the two figures which were drawing back from him. And as his own eyes began to glaze he saw the two figures sway and fall — fall in the unmistakable fashion.
“Lor’!” gasped Hankinson as his head dropped. “Got— ’em — both!”
Then Hankinson died, and the yellow dog came near and looked at him.
Where you find the bodies of three dead men lying in the moonlight on a Thames-side wharf, one of them an Englishman dressed in Chinese garb, two of them Chinese men attired in reach-me-down slop suits, the Englishman stabbed, the Chinese shot, the Englishman with a collection of paste diamonds on him, the Chinese with next to nothing, and all three watched by a miserable one-eyed yellow dog, you have all the elements of a first-class mystery. There were two Orientals in different places who could have solved that mystery, but your true Oriental knows how to keep a still tongue, and the yellow dog, unfortunately, was unable to make humans comprehend him.
Room 53
CHAPTER I. The Amsterdam Diamond Merchant
BEATRICE, CHAMBERMAID IN Corridor C. of the Grand Harbour Hotel at Wychport, found it incumbent upon her in the faithful discharge of her duties to sit up three nights out of the six which belong to the working week until one o’clock in the morning. At twenty minutes after midnight the boat came in from the Continent, and for forty minutes after that the hotel was busy. The amount of business varied; sometimes quite a lot of people came into the hotel: sometimes only a few entered; the whole thing depended very largely on the sort of crossing that had been experienced. When the waters of the North Sea were in tractable mood, travellers, instead of tarrying at Wychport for what remained of the night, preferred to go straight on to London by the express which stood ready alongside the quay; it was, after all, only a ninety minutes’ run. But when the North Sea was in one of its bad tempers — which were somewhat frequent — many folk were only too glad to stagger into the hotel and seek the comfort of a quiet room and well-aired sheets, as quickly as possible. Therefore, Beatrice in hers, and several of her sister chambermaids in theirs, were on duty in the corridors until business, big or little, was definitely settled for the night.
Corridor C. was a very quiet and retired one. It was a short annexe, running out of Corridor B; it ought really to have been Corridor B. 1. There were only six rooms in it — three on either side; they were numbered 48, 52 and 54 on the right-hand side; 49, 51 and 53 on the left-hand side. At the end of the corridor was one of those luxurious bathrooms for which the Grand Harbour Hotel is justly famous, and in the corridor itself, set between the doors of the various apartments were several very comfortable deep-backed, softly cushioned couches; Corridor C., indeed, with its old engravings of marine subjects, was quite a lounge. From half past eleven every night, by which time the regular inhabitants had retired, Beatrice used to rest herself on one of these couches, under a convenient electric light and pass the time of waiting for the incoming boat by reading novels. She borrowed these novels from the circulating library at the harbour bookstall — twopence a volume — and in spite of her occupation, she got through two in a week — and especially for a very pretty one — Beatrice’s taste in fiction was, to say the least of it, peculiar. For love stories she had no liking whatever. Problem novels she did not understand. The novel which is really an essay or a sermon made her yawn. Adventure stories she had a faint liking for, but the adventures were never strong enough. What Beatrice rejoiced in was the full-blooded, thoroughly sensational detective story, beginning with a first-class murder and ending up with the arrest of the last person in the world to be suspected. And after a somewhat lengthy course of this sort of reading she had come to be a connoisseur and an expert, and had learned a good deal more about law, and medical jurisprudence, and New Scotland Yard and coroner’s inquests, and the procedure at murder trials, than young women in her position are supposed to know.
Beatrice was in the middle of a particularly exciting novel, one midnight in March, when certain familiar sounds in the lower regions warned her that the Continental boat was in, and that some of its passengers had come across to the hotel. She laid aside her book (for she was a dutiful girl, who never neglected her obligations) and walked into Corridor B. There was a lift entrance there, and presently its ironwork lattice swung open with a clatter, and one of the hotel porters emerged carrying suit cases and bags and followed by two men. After her usual fashion Beatrice made a quick but thorough inspection of both. One was a little somewhat stout gentleman, very much wrapped up in a fur-lined overcoat and a shawl, and decidedly foreign in appearance; the other was a tall, loose-limbed, good-looking man, just as English in manner and style as the other was un-English. Beatrice, out of her great experience, set him down as a military man. He gave her a glance as the three approached and she thought that he had a humorous and meaning eye.
“Fifty-three and fifty-four,” said the porter.
Beatrice turned, and preceding the little procession along Corridor C. threw open the doors of opposite rooms and switched on the electric light. The porter hesitated, looking at the two men.
“Well,” said the tall man, with a laughing glance at his companion, “which will you have? Both look alike, no doubt.”
The foreign-looking person spread his gloved hands.
“Oh, it is no matter,” he said, in good English, badly pronounced. “As you say — alike. It is all the same — yes. You that — I this. But — you come see me presently?”
“All right!” laughed the big man. “I’ll see to it.”
He turned into 54; the little man went into 53. And Beatrice went off to fetch hot water for both.
When she returned a few minutes later both men were in 53. They had taken off their coats and wraps. The tall man revealed himself in a smart, grey tweed travelling suit, of unmistakable English cut; the little man was in a frock-coat with silk lapels. He had a big cigar case in his hand and was inspecting its contents; the tall man had an unopened bottle of whisky on the dressing table, and was just about to extract its cork with a pocket corkscrew. He turned to Beatrice with a whimsical, illuminating smile.
“Now, I’m sure you’re the sort of girl that would do anything for anybody,” he said. “So I’m sure you’ll be able to find a couple of tumblers, some sugar, a lemon, and a jug of boiling water — and it’ll be all the better if you find ’em quick.”
“Yes, sir,” responded Beatrice. “At once, sir.”
But outside Beatrice found interruption. The porter was up again with another gentleman — to be put in 51. He, too, appeared to be a foreigner, a dark-eyed, swarthy-skinned man of thirty or so. Fortunately, he wanted nothing whatever, and was quickly bestowed in his room, and Beatrice went after the matters required in 53. That did not take long; within a few minutes she was back with her tray. The two men were smoking cigars; the big one nodded at her with approval.
“Good girl!” he said. “I’ll remember you in the morning. And, speaking of that, shall you be on duty in the morning, and at what time, if you are?”
“Yes, sir,” answered Beatrice. “Six-thirty, sir.”
“Bring me some tea and two or three biscuits as soon as ever you rise,” commanded the tall man. “I want to catch a train at seven-twenty. Don’t forget me. And this gentleman—” He turned to the foreigner. “Any liking for the early cup?” he asked with a laugh. “If so, tell her.”
But the little man shook his head, with emphatic decision.
“No!” he declared. “Me — I stay in bed to-morrow morning till I feel inclined to get myself out of bed. No hurry! I ring my bell when I want something. Just now, I want that punch you promise to make me.”
“Nothing more, then, gentlemen?” asked Beatrice.
“Not a thing!” answered the tall man. “Except to wish you a good night.”
“Good-night, gentlemen,” replied Beatrice, politely.
She went away down the corridor and picked up the exciting novel. Could she have done just what she liked she would have read a few more chapters, for the hero was in deadly peril in his attempts to track down a peculiarly clever criminal. But it was now nearly one o’clock, and she had to be up again at six. Beatrice accordingly went to bed. And at twenty minutes to seven she knocked at the door of 54, laden with tea and dry biscuits.
The tall man was dressed and evidently ready for departure. He favoured Beatrice with another of his semi-whimsical looks.
“Good girl!” he said, as she set down the tray. “Nothing like punctuality! See how punctual I am! I shall catch my train in comfort. And there’s the little remembrance I spoke of.”
He dropped two half-crowns into Beatrice’s palm, and laughed as he did so. Beatrice thanked him with her usual politeness, and went off. Ten minutes later she saw him going off, too, carrying his suit case. She saw so many gentlemen in the course of her duties that they were all as so many nine-pins to her, but for some reason or other she wondered if she would ever see this particular one again; certainly he was a very pleasant-mannered gentleman.
The early morning wore on in its usual fashion. People got up, breakfasted, and went away or lounged about the hotel. Of such as were within Beatrice’s jurisdiction, the lady and gentleman in 49 went downstairs at 8 o’clock; they had been in the place a week, and their habits were regular. The young lady in 50 departed for good at half-past eight; the foreign-looking man in 51 kept about the same time. But No. 53 had not shown himself when 10 o’clock came, and Beatrice wished he would get up, for she wanted to do his room.
It was not until 11 o’clock, however, that she heard anything of 53. Then, all in a sudden minute, she heard plenty. First came a ringing of 53’s bell; then as she went down the corridor with hot water, 53’s door was violently thrown open, and 53 himself, a wildly excited figure in a vividly coloured dressing gown, appeared on the threshold waving both arms.
“The manager!” he shouted. “Fetch the manager! The police! Fetch the police! But stop. That fellow you saw in my chamber last night — him that was in there, 54 — where is he?”
“Gone, sir!” replied Beatrice, but in amazement. “He left at seven o’clock. Is something the matter, sir?”
The little man groaned.
“I am robbed!” he said, in a deep voice. “Robbed! It is him — that man, there! He must have drugged me with his punch! Oh, I am a fool! But fetch the manager. I am robbed!”
He folded his arms dramatically, and turned into his room, and Beatrice, setting down her hot water can, fled for the office. She was palpitating, mentally as well as physically, by the time she reached it, but she palpitated much more — in the mentally excited way — when, following the manager back to 53, she heard the foreign gentleman’s dismal story. For here, for the first time in her experience, she was face to face with actual crime.
The manager wanted to know what it was all about; the foreign gentleman, making a praiseworthy effort to calm himself, endeavoured to explain.
“It is like this,” he said, waving his hands. “I come over from Amsterdam; I am a merchant in diamonds. I bring with me some valuable, very valuable, diamonds for a client in London. Well, I am very poorly on the boat; it is a bad crossing. I make friends with that gentleman who comes in here with me last night; very pleasant, kindly fellow. He says stay at this hotel, get a good sleep, go on to London next day. He says, too, he will make me some good, old-fashioned punch; he have the real, proper stuff in his portmanteau. Very well, I come — this girl, she see him and me in my room here — she gets in the hot water and the other little things. He makes the punch — very good, very nice; we smoke our cigars, my cigars. We spend a pleasant hour — then good-night. And I wake — it is much later than I think. I get up, I ring. And then I feel beneath my pillow for the small case in which I have my diamonds, and behold, it is gone! I am robbed! It is that so very pleasant man — he drugs me and robs me! You will fetch the police; they must arrest him!”
The manager looked at Beatrice.
“Does he mean the tall gentleman who was in 54?” he asked. “Yes? Well, he’s gone, hasn’t he?”
“He went at seven o’clock this morning, sir,” replied Beatrice. “He said he was going to catch the seven-twenty.”
The Amsterdam man stamped his slippered feet and raised his eyes to the ceiling.
“Gone?” he cried. “Ah, the renegade, the evil one! But you know him; you will help to catch him? Is it not so?”
The manager rubbed his chin. Those were the days before compulsory registration came in; chance comers, staying for one night at an hotel, could please themselves whether they registered their names and addresses or not; so long as they were respectable, had luggage, or paid in advance, nobody cared who they were; they were numbers, not personalities, in the eyes of the hotel folk.
“Haven’t the least notion who the gentleman was,” he said. “I just caught a glimpse of him when you and he came in last night, sir, but I don’t know him. We get hundreds of people who just come in for a night, or even for a few hours in the night, in the course of a month. But he seemed a highly respectable gentleman. Military-looking person, I thought.”
“I am robbed!” said the Amsterdam merchant, more dramatically than ever. “Fetch to me your police!”
“Certainly, sir!” assented the manager. “But one question; have you left your room at all since you went to bed?”
“Oh, well, yes!” he admitted. “I leave him for, perhaps, ten minutes about eight o’clock this morning to fetch something up from a bag that I put in your stock room last night. But I lock him and put the key in my pocket.”
The manager looked grave. He was well aware, though he took care not to say so, that there was nothing very difficult about entering any of his bedrooms.
“Um!” he said. “But you didn’t put your little case containing the diamonds in your pocket?”
“What for?” demanded the Amsterdam man. “No; I leave him under the pillow, as I think. I lock my door, go away down the corridor, come back after ten — perhaps fifteen minutes — get into my bed again, go to sleep once more, till just now. And then my case is not there at all! No, I see it! This man drug me and enter my room in the night. Fetch me your police!”
“Um!” repeated the manager. “Certainly, I’ll telephone for a detective, sir. But there were several strangers in the hotel last night who came by your boat. It may be that you were followed from Amsterdam by someone who knew you had these valuable things on you.”
“No, it is that man!” asserted the despoiled, with acerbity. “He drug me with his very nice, hot punch. You see, while we talk, friendly and pleasant, I make myself such a fool as to show him my diamonds.
“Oh!” exclaimed the manager. “Ah! well, that’s quite another matter. I’ll telephone to the police immediately. No other loss, sir; your purse, pocketbook, for instance?”
“He neither steal my purse nor my pocket-book, nor nothing. I have all my moneys, rings, watch; it is only my diamonds he have run off with, the bad one!” answered the Amsterdam merchant. “But he shall be found. Bring me a posse of police, detectives, fine clever fellows; we go to work!”
“I’ll get one who’s a smart hand, anyway,” said the manager.
The smart hand arrived by the time the Amsterdam merchant was dressed, and the proceedings began. Beatrice heard news of them now and again during the morning. She herself was subjected to a long examination by the detective, who she thought was a singularly dull, tedious, unimaginative person, totally unlike the detectives whom she met so regularly in fiction. She learned from him that the tall, good-humoured gentleman had taken a first-class ticket for London on the seven-twenty; he would arrive in London at nine o’clock, or thereabouts.
“So, he’d be safely lost in that sparsely populated little village a good two hours before this Dutchy found out he’d been robbed!” grumbled the detective. “And he expects me to find him in five minutes! I don’t think! However, Dutchy’s game to fork out five hundred quid to get his shiners back, so it’s worth putting in for.”
“Five hundred pounds reward!” gasped Beatrice.
“That’s so,” assented the detective. “And little enough. He’s just told me and the manager that there was thirty thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds in that little case — a case no bigger than my tobacco pouch. Lor! Well, my dear, you don’t know anything more?”
“I don’t know anything more,” said Beatrice.
And herein Beatrice, dutiful girl though she was, departed sadly from the truth. For in doing up 54 that morning, after the tall gentleman’s departure she had found upon his dressing table a visiting card. It was covered with pencilled figures on its blank side, but on the other was a beautifully engraved name and address:
“Captain H. A. Mervyn, 221st Lancers, Army and Navy Club, Pall Mall, S.W.”
CHAPTER II. The Wicked Captain
THAT WAS BEATRICE’S afternoon out; her time of liberty began at one o’clock. Half an hour later those of her sister chambermaids who saw her at all in their quarters were surprised to see her go forth in her best attire, a neat tailor-made walking costume of black habit cloth, on which Beatrice had laid out more of her last year’s wages than she would have cared to admit. This, finished off by a pair of neat shoes, equally neat gloves, and a picture hat, made Beatrice look very quietly smart, and many men on the platform of the harbour station regarded her neat figure and demure air with admiration. But Beatrice regarded no one, she had other things in mind. She carried money in her purse and a third-class return ticket to London, and at ten minutes to two she stepped into an express, and at a few minutes after three found herself set down amidst the bustle of the Metropolis.
