The Eames-Erskine Case (Musaicum Vintage Mysteries). Dorothy Fielding

talking to Miller, who had been left on duty in the room all night. Yet even so, those tracks on the balcony could not have been made many hours before the rain stopped. Someone had walked from one window to the other after he and Watts had left the place.

      He tapped on the pane, and Watts joined him outside. He had already seen the marks.

      "And look there, sir," he pointed to a sodden heap of canvas, apparently an awning, which, judging by its appearance, must have lain for months between the windows of number fourteen and number twelve of the Enterprise. There were a couple of deep indentations on it, one beside the other. Pointer took out the sheet of tracings he had made yesterday at the door leading out into the street from the service-stairs. He and Watts tried them carefully. They could have been made by the same feet.

      "Smallish feet. They just fit Miller, sir, as I was pointing out to him when you tapped," observed Watts facetiously, and the two Scotland Yard men stepped into the room where Miller was waiting to make his report. He had been dozing in the easy chair when he had heard a couple of light taps on the pane. Very carefully he had pushed the blind aside and looked out. Instantly a torch was flashed in his eyes, blinding him. When he got the window open, no one was to be seen.

      "Of course, I couldn't hear anything, sir. You know what the wind was like, though the rain had pretty fair stopped by them. It was exactly twenty minutes past three o'clock."

      "Did you get any idea of who held the torch?"

      "Only that he was a big chap, sir. Big as you."

      "Did you see anyone on the opposite side of the window?"

      "No, sir."

      "Could you have seen anyone there?"

      The detective was positive that he could and would, as he had looked up and down the balcony, which was fairly well lit by the street lights. He had not tried to investigate further, as his orders had been not to leave the room.

      On the balcony outside, the Chief Inspector stood for a second by the heap of canvas. "Just run the blind down inside there, and turn on the light."

      After a moment Pointer tapped, as a signal that the window was to be opened again. "You can see better into the room from the other side—the side nearest the Marvel."

      "You think it was someone from the Enterprise, sir, who wanted to be sure of getting back unnoticed?"

      "Looks that way."

      "You don't think that two men could have been out there together, sir?"

      Pointer did not reply as he stepped into the room again, and sent Miller off for breakfast and sleep.

      "Now, about that morphia taken. Of course we shall know for certain in the morning, but I take it that there's no doubt but that it was morphia all right. It's an odd thing that we couldn't find any cup or glass from which the stuff was drunk. From what the doctor said as to the amount, it's not likely that Eames could have washed up after his drink, nor can I see the point. Let's have another hunt."

      And they did, with no better result.

      "Could he have flung the glass over the balcony railing?" Watts measured the distance carefully. "Yes, a man could, fairly easily."

      "After a heavy drug?" Pointer's voice was skeptical. "And what about passers-by?" He picked up a bottle from the wash-stand labeled "The Cough Mixture." It bore the name of a near-by chemist.

      "I tasted that last night, sir. It's some I often take myself. It hasn't been tampered with in any way." Watts' tone was as good as a respectful hint not to waste time in a blind alley.

      Pointer scrutinized the bottle through his glass, and finally wrapped it up with special care, putting it in his black bag. He told Watts of the match which he had found in room two of the Marvel next door. Evidently Mr. Cox of Birmingham used the identical kind,—which was odd considering its foreign origin,—favored by someone in room fourteen of the Enterprise.

      "Mr. Beale spoke of having just come from France, didn't he, sir?"

      "He did."

      "He may have forgotten that he had left his matches on the mantelpiece after lighting one to see into the wardrobe. Perhaps it was he who left the match you found in the Marvel. Anyone could get over that tiny railing between the two hotels."

      "Quite possible," and Pointer wrapped the box, too, carefully up again, and locked his bag.

      His next move was to interview the clerk of the Marvel as to the appearance and general behavior of Mr. Cox. He learnt but little. Mr. Cox had arrived very late on Saturday night in a little two-seater which proclaimed itself as hired at a glance. He seemed a very quiet, unobtrusive young man, carried his own bag, and had barely attracted one glance from the booking-clerk, who only gleaned a general idea of a big young fellow with a pronounced limp, in a grey tweed suit and soft grey hat. He had driven his car away without asking any directions or making any inquiries as to a garage, and had returned shortly on foot. This would have been about one o'clock. His room had been waiting for him for nearly a week. On July 30th a 'phone call had asked whether any of the balcony rooms were free. There were two vacancies. The voice asked the numbers. They were two and seven. Number two was chosen, and the hotel was asked to keep the room for a Mr. Cox who would be there within the hour. This was about eleven o'clock in the morning. Half an hour later a messenger boy brought a letter for the manager, who passed it over to the book-keeper. In it Mr. Cox stated that he might be unable to occupy the room immediately, but wished No. 2 reserved for him. He enclosed four one-pound notes as a deposit. The Chief Inspector annexed the letter. When Mr. Cox finally arrived on Saturday, August 3rd, the room was still his, and when about four a.m. he descended, still with his bag, and walked out of the front door without saying a word, the hotel expected him to return for some sort of a belated breakfast. Up to the present hour he had not been seen again, but the day was still very young, as the clerk pointed out.

      "Did you see in what direction he went?"

      But nobody had taken sufficient interest to watch.

      Pointer pulled out a print of Eames' dead face.

      "Before July 30th—before that room was 'phoned for—did this man ask for a room here?"

      The clerk recognized the face at once. "Yes, about an hour or two before Cox's 'phone came. Seemed a nice, friendly sort of chap. Now I come to think of it, he, too, asked for a balcony room, and went up to have a look at two and seven. He didn't take either; I forget why."

      "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