“He came in about an hour ago,” said the tenant’s voice, “then somebody called him. I can hear the phone very plainly from my room. Bex or Wex or some such name.”
“Rex?” asked the inspector quickly, “yes, yes—he went out did he? Thank you.”
He sat staring down at his blotting pad for a minute, then he got up and pulled on his raincoat.
His squad were getting into cabs as he came out of the station and he entered the first of these.
Had he left it too long, he wondered? The warrant had been issued, after he had taken the sworn statement of the man Green, formerly butler to Jesse Trasmere. He had brought this witness from Australia, had cabled to him the very day that Trasmere was found murdered; Green’s reply had confirmed his suspicions.
Too late now to regret his delay. Accompanied by his sergeant he strolled into the hotel. The lounge was empty, half the lights had been extinguished and, as he had expected, the room clerk had gone, leaving a stalwart night porter in charge.
“Mr. Lander, sir? No, I don’t think he is in. I’ll get through to his room.”
“Don’t touch that telephone!” said the inspector, “I am an officer of the police. Show me to his room.”
The man hesitated the fraction of a second and then:
“If you monkey with the switchboard I’ll put you where the rats won’t bite you,” said Carver sharply. “Come out of that!”
The man obeyed sulkily.
“I’ve done no wrong,” he said, “I was only trying to—”
“Watch this man,” said Carver. “Now give me the key of Lander’s room.”
The man took down a key from the hook and threw it on the counter.
Rex Lander’s suite was empty as Carver had expected.
“I want a thorough search made of these rooms,” he said to the sergeant. “I will leave you a man to help you. All stations must be maintained until they are withdrawn. He may come in late.”
He waited for half-an-hour inside the hall but though there was a constant procession of cars and cabs laden with people returning from the theatres, there was no sight of Rex Lander.
The hall porter became informative.
“I’ve got a wife and three children. I don’t want to get into any trouble. What do you want Mr. Lander for?”
“I’ll not tell you,” said Carver curtly.
“If it is anything very serious I know nothing about it,” said the porter. “I might as well tell you that I did him a favour the other night.”
“Last night was it?”
“Yes. He was in the hall when somebody telephoned through for him, and he asked me to keep them waiting whilst he went up to his room. He told me it was a lady friend that he wasn’t on good terms with. That’s all I know about it. He is a very nice man,” he added in justification.
“A perfect peach,” agreed Carver sardonically. “Well?”
One of the men he had left to search the room was coming hurriedly across the lounge. He drew Carver aside and produced from his pocket a long-barrelled revolver of an old-fashioned make.
“We found this in one of the drawers,” he said.
Carver examined it curiously. The moment he saw it he knew what it was, even before he found the Chinese characters engraved on the steel of the butt.
“I thought so,” he said. “It is a Chinese issue, the sort they served out to their army officers about twelve years ago. I think you’ll find it was the property of Trasmere.” He snapped it open. It was fully loaded, containing four live and two used cartridges. “Keep that carefully apart. Wrap it in paper and have it photographed for fingerprints,” he ordered. “You found nothing else?”
“There’s a receipted bill from Burbidges for a sapphire ring,” said the man and Carver smiled faintly.
The present which Rex had bought “in Rome” for his friend had been purchased within a few miles of Doughty Street and was intended to emphasise the fact that Rex was abroad.
It was nearing twelve o’clock when a phone message came through from police headquarters, and Carver went to the instrument.
“Is that you, Mr. Carver—Mayfield is burning—the brigade have just had a call.”
Carver dropped the receiver as if it were red-hot and flew to the door. A cab had just set down some guests at the hotel and he pushed unceremoniously past them.
“Peak Avenue,” he said.
What a fool not to have thought of Mayfield before! He cursed volubly in the darkness of the taxi. And after he knew that Rex Lander had called Tab on the phone, and that Tab had gone out! Of course, that was where he would have taken Tab—to Mayfield. Tab would have gone cheerfully, having no suspicion of his friend, and—Carver shuddered.
He had read only too clearly the significance of the torn photographs. The man was insanely jealous; would stop at nothing. With two murders to his credit, a third would be simple.
Long before he reached Peak Avenue, he saw the red glow in the sky and groaned. Amidst that blazing hell Rex Lander had destroyed not only his rival but half the evidence of his crime.
The cab dashed through the police line into the Avenue, crowded now with half-dressed inhabitants, and brightly lit by the flames that mounted above the doomed house. The roof fell in as he sprang from the cab; a crowd of sparks leapt into the dark sky and Carver could only stand speechless and sorrowful beyond expression.
Then it was that somebody tapped his elbow, and looking round he saw a man in a soaked and bedraggled dressing-gown. At first he did not recognise him, for the little man’s face was blackened and scorched, his eyes were red and wild.
“My father was a fireman,” said Mr. Stott solemnly. “We Stotts are a hard bit’n race. Heroes all of us!”
Carver looked at the man aghast.
