On his way back to the hotel, his fingers were busy kneading the lump of wax into a pliable substance. He went directly to the third floor and knocked again at the door of Room 329. As there was no response, and as there was no one in the hall, he made a wax impression of the lock. Then he went downstairs again.

  As he was crossing the lobby, the clerk hailed him.

  “Oh, Mr. Ingram, your friend, Mr. Mapleleaf stopped at the desk a few moments ago. I told him you were asking for him.”

  “Yes?” Woodring dropped the wax impression gently to the bottom of his pocket so that the heat of his hand would not blur the outlines. “Was he surprised?”

  “Not very,” said the clerk. “He said he was rather expecting you.”

  “Then he was the man I know. A large man?”

  “Not large, exactly,” said the clerk. “And not small, exactly. Rather medium, I should say.”

  “But he had a florid complexion and a large—moustache?” Woodring was shooting in the dark.

  “Oh, no sir. He must have shaved off his moustache since you saw him last, sir. And I wouldn’t say he had a florid complexion exactly. Medium, rather.”

  “That’s my friend, undoubtedly,” said Woodring. “But I just knocked at his door. No answer.”

  “He’s gone out again,” the clerk said. “He just stopped by to see if there was any mail.”

  “I see.” Woodring found his tongue reluctant to ask the next question. “And was … was there any mail?”

  “Not yet, sir. The dak hasn’t been delivered yet.”

  Woodring thanked the clerk and again left the hotel. This time he made for the Mall with its European shops, looking for a locksmith.

  The locksmith, a one-eyed Punjabi, bent over the wax impression that Woodring placed on the counter.

  “Can you make me a key to fit this lock?” Woodring asked.

  The Punjabi looked up scornfully. “We are expert locksmiths,” he declared. “We can make any key. This one will cost you one rupee, eight annas.”

  “When can I get it?”

  “Day after to-morrow,” said the Punjabi.

  “I need it to-day.”

  “We are very busy. To-morrow perhaps—for one rupee, twelve.”

  “I’ll come for it in an hour.”

  There was an inspired glint in the locksmith’s one eye as he looked steadily at Woodring.

  “Why is gentleman in such haste?” he asked.

  “Because I’ve got to get into my villa, dammit! My durwan is off drunk somewhere and my wife is in Kurseong with the duplicate keys.”

  “What villa?” asked the locksmith.

  “That,” snapped Woodring, “is none of your business. I’m offering you ten rupees if you make this key in an hour.”

  “For fifteen rupees we might make key in two hours.” The Punjabi’s lone eye lifted innocently to regard the ceiling, as he added, “and no questions being asked.”

  Woodring consulted his watch. “I’ll be back at four-thirty,” he said.

  When Woodring returned to the hotel finally, the sun had been smothered by the torrent of clouds that came tumbling over the mountain wall. There was a bracing crispness in the air that Woodring felt all the more for having come in a few hours from a temperature of 100 in the shade to the coolness of the hills. As he walked into the hotel, he saw a log blazing in a great open fireplace, heard the clink of tea-cups, the subdued laughter of women and young army officers who were playing bridge.

  Woodring stopped at the desk to ask, “Has the mail come yet?”

  “Yes, Mr. Ingram, twenty minutes ago. But there’s nothing for you, sir,” the clerk said.

  “If there’s anything for Mr. Mapleleaf, I’ll take it up to him,” said Woodring.

  “There was a letter for Mr. Mapleleaf,” the clerk said. “I remember it distinctly because it was a rather large letter. Well, not large, exactly, but bulky. He must have stopped by for it, Mr. Ingram, because I don’t see it here.”

  “I see.” The clerk’s droning, servile voice struck Woodring’s ears like the whine of an approaching storm. There was thunder and lightning in the offing.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” said the clerk, running through a bundle of mail. “I was mistaken. Mr. Mapleleaf didn’t get his letter after all. Here it is, sir.”

  Woodring’s chin went up when he saw his own handwriting. As his fingers closed on the envelope, a great weight lifted from his spirit.

  “I’ll take it up to him,” he said.

  He walked rapidly out of sight, ripped open the envelope. He held his breath as he thumbed through the document, exhaled with relief when he saw the little rectangle of celluloid which was his ticket to victory. Putting them both quickly into his pocket, he crumpled the empty envelope into a ball which he dropped. Then he sauntered back to the desk.

  “I’ve just remembered I have some valuables I’d like to leave in the hotel safe,” he said.

  The clerk handed him an envelope into which Woodring sealed the old concession and the photographic negative. He took a receipt from the clerk, and waited until he saw the steel door close upon the invitation to murder. He was ready, now, to face the man who called himself John Mapleleaf.

  A moment later he was knocking on the door of Room 329. There was no sound from within. Quickly he took out the key the locksmith had made from his wax impression, jabbed it into the keyhole, tried to turn it. The key grated, stuck fast.

  Woodring swore to himself. Damn that one-eyed Punjabi! He had made a key that wouldn’t fit. Crouching, Woodring worked the key loose. He saw instantly what the trouble was. There was another key in the other side of the lock! John Mapleleaf was at home!

  Pocketing the key, Woodring drummed again on the door panel, with loud determination. Still there was no response. He twisted the knob, pushed. The door swung slowly inward. His pulses pounding, Woodring stepped quickly across the threshold, closed the door behind him.

  For an instant he leaned back, braced his shoulders against the door. The fingers of his right hand curled about the butt of the automatic in his pocket.

  The window shades were pulled down, and the room was in semi-darkness. When his eyes became accustomed to the half-light, Woodring walked stealthily forward, a step at a time. The only signs that the room was occupied were an open suitcase on the floor, just beyond the usual hotel writing-table, and a man’s coat hung over the back of a chair. At Woodring’s left, an unlighted fire was laid in an open grate. Just beyond the fireplace the wall was deeply recessed for a sleeping alcove. From where he stood, Woodring could see only the foot of the bed, and, on the floor nearby, a pair of man’s shoes, and a rumpled blanket.

  The shoes were of a heavy design, with square toes, and Woodring had a feeling that they should mean something to him, although he could not for the moment tell what. He approached, staring at them intently. He was still frowning at the shoes when he became aware of a faint sound in the room.

  The sound was almost imperceptible, but it was repeated with such regular, ominous insistence, that it wore its way into Woodring’s consciousness, like dripping water, wearing away stone, drop by drop. The realisation of its import struck him like a chill breath of horror. His scalp crawled. With dread in his heart he moved toward the bed in the alcove.

  The upper part of the bedding was crimson, and the sheet, where it had been turned back, so saturated that one corner was dripping blood. The man on the bed had his coat and shoes off, as though he had just lain down for a nap. He had been shot through the abdomen, evidently at close range, for the bullet had done frightful damage.

  The man’s mouth was open, as though he had died snoring. Woodring stared at his face for several seconds before he recognized Dr. Adolf Feurmann.

  Inspector prike and Deputy-Inspector Robbins were walking, briskly along the third-floor corridor of the Himalayan Grand Hotel, when a door burst open in front of them. Stanley Hubertson came hurtling into the astonished embrace of the deputy-inspector.

  The white-haired engineer raised his hand quickly to keep his eyeglasses from falling off, mumbled a brief apology, and tried to brush past.

  “What’s the hurry, Hubertson?” asked Prike, grasping his arm. “We were just coming to call.”

  Hubertson’s well-lined face was of a ghastly pallor. Great drops of perspiration oozed from his high, white forehead, and his small, buttonhole mouth quivered.

  “I—I didn’t recognise you, inspector,” he stammered. “I’m so terribly upset! I was rushing off to get help! I’ve just been witness to a tragedy.”

  “What happened?

  “A man’s been shot, inspector. I—”

  “Where?” Prike’s voice was sharp, brittle.

  “I—I can’t tell you exactly, inspector. I only saw it from my window.”

  “Show me!” Prike ordered. He pushed the excited Hubertson back towards the room he had just left.

  Hubertson, his shoulders more stooped than ever, led the way to the window.

  “You see,” he explained, “this window is in the arm of an ‘L’ so that I can see all the rooms along that side of the hotel. I happened to be looking out, and saw a man standing in that window there.” He pointed a trembling finger. “The far one, just before the angle in the wall. The window was open. A few seconds later the man turned suddenly, as though startled by some one coming into the room behind him. At the same instant I heard a report. I’m certain it was the report of a pistol, although it was not very loud. It was muffled, in fact, as if something had been wrapped about the pistol to deaden the explosion. The man gave a little cry, and ran forward, away from the window. He seemed to stagger a little, as he disappeared from my line of vision….”

  “To the right or left?” Prike demanded, looking out the window.

  “To my right,” said Hubertson. “Then, a moment later, a woman came to the window, closed it, and pulled down the shade. That’s all I saw, inspector.”

  “And this just happened?”

  “Well, no inspector. Perhaps five minutes ago.”

  “Five minutes? And you waited all this time to—”

  “But I was stark naked, inspector!” Hubertson apologised. “I’d been taking my bath. I dressed as quickly as I could. After all, one can’t go running through the hallway with nothing on….”

  Prike’s teeth clicked. He strode from the room.

  “You come along,” said Robbins to Hubertson.

  Prike paced down the corridor with precise, military stride. At a jog in the hall, he stopped.

  “This must be the room,” he said to Hubertson. His knuckles beat a brisk tattoo on the door. When he got no answer, he took a silk handkerchief from his pocket, tried to turn the knob. The door was locked.

  “Robbins, run down to the office and get a duplicate key to 329,” Prike said. “And bring the desk clerk or some one from the management who can tell us about the occupant of this room. Hurry, Robbins.”

  When the deputy-inspector had gone, Prike turned to Hubertson. The bespectacled black eyes were staring at the door, as though they dreaded to behold what lay behind it.

  “Did you recognise this man at the window?” Prike demanded suddenly.

  Hubertson jumped as though he had been immodestly prodded from the rear.

  “Well, no,” he said. “Hardly, without my glasses.”

  “Where were your glasses?”

  “I broke them just after I came to the hotel,” Hubertson said. “They slipped off as I was bending over to unpack my bags.”

  “They seem to have slipped back in perfect repair,” said Prike coldly.

  “I sent out to have them repaired,” said Hubertson. “Luckily the Himalayan Optometrists, Ltd., had lenses to fit my prescription. I’ve been sitting in my room waiting for them, all afternoon. The chaprassi came with them only two or three minutes before you came, inspector.”

  “Then how,” Prike demanded, “could you tell it was a man in the window—if you didn’t have your glasses?”

  “I’m far-sighted, inspector,” Hubertson explained. “At that distance, my vision is fairly good. Not perfect, of course; outlines are blurred, so that I couldn’t make out features; however, I could swear it was a man. He seemed to have his coat off.”

  “And the woman?” Prike was still a trifle incredulous.

  “She was wearing a purple dress,” Hubertson said. “A vivid purple. There was no mistaking that.”

  “But you didn’t actually see the woman fire a shot. You didn’t see the flash of the gun?”

  “No, inspector. I merely heard the shot—a muffled report—and saw the man walk away unsteadily, as though he were badly hurt.”

  Deputy-Inspector Robbins came bustling down the hall with the reception clerk in tow. Prike took a bunch of keys from the clerk, opened the door to 329. Lying on the floor, just inside the threshold, was another key with a hotel tag attached.

  “Look at that, Robbins,” Prike said. “Door evidently locked from the inside. Keep these men outside for a moment, Robbins.”

  Both hands in his coat pockets, Inspector Prike advanced rapidly into the half-darkened room. For a long moment he stared at the gruesome object on the bed, but his face remained expressionless. At length his head gestured curtly.

  “Bring them here, Robbins,” he said. “And don’t let them touch anything.”

  As Robbins, Hubertson and the clerk approached, Prike at last took his eyes from the corpse to study the reactions of the three men.

  The clerk made a strangled, gurgling sound in his throat. “My God! It’s him!” he exclaimed. “It’s Mr. Mapleleaf! And he’s dead!’

  “Mapleleaf!” Stanley Hubertson took three timid steps forward, peered over the foot of the bed, then shrank back. “How horrible!” he said, turning his head away. “Horrible!”

  Deputy-Inspector Robbins was beaming with pleased professional interest. “Mapleleaf, my left tibia!” he exclaimed. “That’s Doc Feurmann, the German plant-catcher!”

  “He registered as John Mapleleaf, sir,” said the clerk.

  “Under what name did you know him, Hubertson?” Prike was concentrating on the engineer.

  “I never saw the poor fellow before.”

  “Then why did you give such a start when you heard the name Mapleleaf?” Prike insisted.

  “Well, I—the name seemed familiar,” said Hubertson. “I once knew a man named Mapleleaf. But this isn’t he.”

  “But it is, sir,” protested the clerk.

  “Step over here, please, Hubertson,” said Prike, moving towards the window. “Show me where the dead man was standing when you saw him.”

  “Right here,” said Hubertson. “He turned, and staggered off in this direction.” Hubertson illustrated.

  “Then how would you explain, Hubertson,” Prike demanded, “that there is no trace of blood between the window and the bed?”

  Hubertson’s thin hands made a bewildered gesture. “I should not try to explain, inspector,” he said. “I’m not a physician. But I have heard that there is sometimes a few seconds’ interval before a wound begins to bleed. Isn’t it possible for the poor chap to have collapsed on the bed before the blood came?”

  “It is possible,” Prike admitted. “Now, where was this woman in purple when the shot was fired?”

  “I didn’t see the woman in purple, inspector, until several seconds after I heard the pistol shot. Therefore she must have been out of my line of vision—perhaps slightly to the rear of where you are standing, inspector.”

  Prike walked a few steps to the rear until he felt something soft under one heel. He turned, stooped, and examined a blanket which had been dropped carelessly to the floor. He laid back the loose folds, straightened up suddenly.

  “Apparently your story holds water, Hubertson,” he said. “This blanket was probably used to muffle the sound of the shot. There are powder burns…. Robbins, notify the Darjeeling police commissioner. Tell him to bring the civil surgeon.”

  When Robbins left, Inspector Prike took another look at the corpse on the bed. He studied its position, noted that one arm dangled off the side of the mattress, that one leg was drawn up slightly. Yes, it was possible that Feurmann had collapsed on the bed before life gushed from his bullet wound….

  Prike next turned his attention to the suitcase, open on the floor. Finding nothing of interest in Feurmann’s personal belongings, he moved to the writing-table. The muscles along his hard, aggressive jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, as he saw a sheet of paper lying on the blotter. The paper bore the letterhead of the hotel, and a paragraph of peculiarly cramped handwriting. Without touching the paper with his fingers, Prike leaned closer to read:

  “Mr. John Mapleleaf. Sir: I am commanded by His Highness the Nawab to enter into negotiations with you at once. I shall come to your room at 4.30 o’clock this afternoon. Please leave your door unlocked.

  .. Q., DIWAN.”

  Prike beckoned to the reception clerk.

  “Did you send any messages to Dr. Feurmann’s room—to Mr. Mapleleaf’s room, if you’d rather—since his arrival to-day?” the inspector asked.

  “No, sir,” said the clerk.

  “Have a look at this chit,” Prike insisted. “Are you sure this wasn’t sent up through your desk?”

  The clerk looked. “Quite sure, sir,” he said. “That couldn’t have been it, sir.”

  “Then there was a chit sent up?” the crisp intonation of Prike’s question warned that no negative answer was expected.

  “Well, not a chit exactly, sir,” the clerk apologised. “It was a letter, rather. A bulky envelope that came in with the dak from Calcutta. Mr. Ingram took it up to Mr. Mapleleaf.”

  “Mister Ingram?” Prike echoed.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. R. Ingram. The gentleman in 342 at the end of the hallway, sir.”

  The puzzled flicker in Prike’s eyes gave way instantly to a faint gleam of amused comprehension. He even smiled when Robbins came in.

  “The Deputy Commissioner of Police is on his way over,” said Robbins.

  Prike nodded curtly to the clerk. “That’s all,” he said. “You may go, too, Hubertson. Don’t touch the door as you go out.” He was lost in thought for a moment before he resumed: “Robbins, here’s another specimen for our collection of handwriting samples. Let the Darjeeling police have it for latent prints, of course, but make certain that we get a photostatic copy.”

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17