Brian stared out of the window—and became very still indeed; so still that he might have been suddenly frozen to his seat. . ..
Lola was standing in the trade entrance to the Babylon-Lido talking to Nayland Smith!
Her face was in shadow, but she was dressed as he had left her at five o’clock. This time there could be no room for doubt. Nor could he be wrong about the man. It was Sir Denis. The coat, the soft-brimmed hat, his poise —all were unmistakable. He saw them go in.
In half a minute he had paid for his drink, and dashed recklessly across the street, ignoring traffic lights.
He had never been in this warren of stores-cellars and kitchens before, but somehow made his way through and at last penetrated to the vast but now familiar lobby. His heart was beating fast; for his world had turned topsy-turvy. What had Lola to do with Nayland Smith? She had told him only that afternoon that she had never met Sir Denis!
The clock over the reception desk recorded five minutes to seven.
People buzzed about in a state of perpetual motion. They all appeared to be in a hurry. Smart women in gay evening gowns who couldn’t find their men. Eager-eyed young men rushing around looking for their girl friends. Pages carrying flowers. The scene seemed to swim before Brian like a colour film out of focus. It was a ballet inspired by a mad director.
But the two figures he was looking for were not to be seen.
He debated with himself, looking again at the clock. He could endure this suspense no longer. He must know the truth, orders or no orders. To wait to be paged in his present frame of mind was out of the question. He turned and hurried off to the corridor where the express elevators were situated. The man on duty knew him and smiled a greeting as Brian stepped in.
“Sir Denis has just gone up, sir,” he reported.
Brian experienced a fluttering sensation in the pit of his stomach.
“Was he alone?”
“Yes, sir.”
The elevator began its dizzy ascent. Nayland Smith, Brian reflected, must have gone out to meet Lola. They had evidently parted on entering the hotel. But why had they come in by the trade entrance? He could only conclude that the meeting had been a clandestine one.
When he arrived at the top floor he stood for a moment to get a grip on himself.
Then, he walked along to the ‘door of Suite 420B. The “Do Not Disturb” card had gone; and he pulled up, trying further to compose his ruffled nerves.
At last he quietly slipped the key into the lock and opened the door.
Dusk had fallen now and he saw that lights were on in the living-room. There was no sound.
He walked in quietly. . . . Then gulped, and stood quite still.
Flat on his back on the floor, his knees drawn up, his fists clenched, Nayland Smith lay. His face was purple, his teeth were bare, and his eyes bulged from his head. . . .
He had been strangled!
Chapter
15
The horror of his discovery quite literally paralysed Brian. His senses were numbed. He stood speechless, incapable of movement, of thought; aghast.
A slight sound in the room roused him, bringing swift realization of his own danger. He turned to the big desk, for from there the sound had come, and . . . his brain reeled. He was gripped by the agonizing certainty that the murder of Nayland Smith had disturbed his reason—had driven him mad.
Standing beside the tall, painted screen, a finger on his lips, urgent command in his eyes, and beckoning Brian to join him, he saw
Brian clenched his fists, glancing from the dead man to this phantom of the living.
And the living Sir Denis was beside him in three strides; gripped his arm, speaking softly into his ear:
“Not a word! Behind the screen, Merrick—for your life— and for mine!”
There was nothing ghostly in the grip of those sinewy fingers, nothing but vital necessity in the whispered orders.
Brian found himself in shadow behind the screen. One spear of light shone through a hole in the parchment, and still half stupefied in this gruesome and almost incredible situation, he saw Nayland Smith jab his thumb through another panel in the screen and make a second hole.
“Look!” came a whisper in his ear. “Do nothing. Say nothing. . . .”
Silence.
Peering through the slot in the parchment, Brian’s gaze automatically became focussed on the dead man. For all that agonized expression, swollen features, protruding eyes, he was prepared to take oath and swear that it was Sir Denis who lay there.
But another Sir Denis—very much alive—stood beside him, and continued to grip his arm!
He felt suddenly sick, wondered if he was going to make a fool of himself—and then noticed something he hadn’t noticed before .... A door which communicated with the next suite, normally locked, stood partly open. The room beyond was in darkness.
Muttered words—and two men came in!
The first was a thick-set Oriental whose coarse, brutal features and abnormally long arms were simian rather than human. The second Brian recognized; a slender, elegant man wearing a blue turban—in fact the man whom a waiter had reported to be an Indian prince!
They lifted the body and carried it out. The communicating door was closed, and Brian heard the click of a lock.
“Don’t speak!” The words were hissed in his ear. “This room is wired!”
The new Sir Denis crossed to the recently closed door and locked it. He turned and beckoned Brian to follow him. In the lobby: “Say nothing,” he whispered, “but take your cue from me.” Brian nodded. Nayland Smith opened the outer door;
shut it again noisily. “Hullo, Merrick! Before your time.” He spoke, now, in a loud tone. “Anything wrong? You look under the weather. Go and lie down. I’ll bring a drink to your room.”
Brian crossed, rather unsteadily, to his own room and went in. Sir Denis’s extemporized “cue” wasn’t far from the truth. This experience had shaken him severely. Even now he couldn’t get the facts into focus.
Nayland Smith rejoined him, carrying two drinks on a tray. He quietly closed the bedroom door behind him.
“I need one, too, Merrick,” he confessed. “That premature entrance nearly resulted in a second murder—
“But——”
“Wait a minute.” Sir Denis held up his hand. “Let’s get the important thing settled first, because there’s a lot to say and not much time to say it. You wouldn’t be human if you didn’t wonder which of us is the real Nayland Smith. I had a fair chance to study my double—and I felt like a man looking in a mirror. Hark back to the time I stayed in Washington. Ask me something about your home life that nobody could know who hadn’t lived with you.”
Brian tried to force his bewildered brain to think clearly, and presently an idea came.
“Do you remember Father’s dog?” he asked.
“Do I remember Rufus!” Nayland Smith smiled—and it was the smile Brian had known, the boyish smile which lifted a curtain of years. “Good reason to remember him, Merrrick.” He pulled up his left trouser leg. “There’s the souvenir Rufus left me when I tried to break up a scrap he was having with a Boston terrier. Rufus thought my interference unsporting! It was you yourself who phoned the doctor, and damn it! He wanted to give me Pasteur injections!”
And, in that moment, all doubt was washed out. Brian knew that this was the real Nayland Smith, that the man he had been employed to work with was an impostor—and a miraculous double!
He held out his hand. “Thank God it’s
“I have done so already, Merrick, devoutly. I have passed through the unique experience of witnessing my
