Virginia ran to the telephone as soon as George had departed with a heavy gait through the front door.
She obtained the number she required and asked to speak to Lady Eileen Brent.
“Is that you, Bundle? I’m coming to Chimneys all right tomorrow. What? Bore me? No, it won’t. Bundle, wild horses wouldn’t keep me away! So there!”
VII
Mr. McGrath Refuses an Invitation
The letters were gone!
Having once made up his mind to the fact of their disappearance, there was nothing to do but accept it. Anthony realized very well that he could not pursue Giuseppe through the corridors of the Blitz Hotel. To do so was to court undesired publicity, and in all probability to fail in his object all the same.
He came to the conclusion that Giuseppe had mistaken the packet of letters, enclosed as they were in the other wrappings, for the memoirs themselves. It was likely therefore that when he discovered his mistake he would make another attempt to get hold of the memoirs. For this attempt Anthony intended to be fully prepared.
Another plan that occurred to him was to advertise discreetly for the return of the package of letters. Supposing Giuseppe to be an emissary of the Comrades of the Red Hand, or, which seemed to Anthony more probable, to be employed by the Loyalist party, the letters could have no possible interest for either employer and he would probably jump at the chance of obtaining a small sum of money for their return.
Having thought out all this, Anthony returned to bed and slept peacefully until morning. He did not fancy that Giuseppe would be anxious for a second encounter that night.
Anthony got up with his plan of campaign fully thought out. He had a good breakfast, glanced at the papers which were full of the new discoveries of oil in Herzoslovakia, and then demanded an interview with the manager, and, being Anthony Cade, with a gift for getting his own way by means of quiet determination, he obtained what he asked for.
The manager, a Frenchman with an exquisitely suave manner, received him in his private office.
“You wished to see me, I understand, Mr.—er—McGrath?”
“I did. I arrived at your hotel yesterday afternoon, and I had dinner served to me in my own rooms by a waiter whose name was Giuseppe.”
He paused.
“I dare say we have a waiter of that name,” agreed the manager indifferently.
“I was struck by something unusual in the waiter’s manner, but thought nothing more of it at the time. Later, in the night, I was awakened by the sound of someone moving softly about the room. I switched on the light, and found this same Giuseppe in the act of rifling my leather suitcase.”
The manager’s indifference had completely disappeared now.
“But I have heard nothing of this,” he exclaimed. “Why was I not informed sooner?”
“The man and I had a brief struggle—he was armed with a knife by the way. In the end he succeeded in making off by way of the window.”
“What did you do then, Mr. McGrath?”
“I examined the contents of my suitcase.”
“Had anything been taken?”
“Nothing of—importance,” said Anthony slowly.
The manager leaned back with a sigh.
“I am glad of that,” he remarked. “But you will allow me to say, Mr. McGrath, that I do not quite understand your attitude in the matter. You made no attempt to arouse the hotel? To pursue the thief?”
Anthony shrugged his shoulders.
“Nothing of value had been taken, as I tell you. I am aware, of course, that strictly speaking it is a case for the police—”
He paused, and the manager murmured without any particular enthusiasm:
“For the police—of course—”
“In any case, I was fairly certain that the man would manage to make good his escape, and since nothing was taken why bother with the police?”
The manager smiled a little.
“I see that you realize, Mr. McGrath, that I am not at all anxious to have the police called in. From my point of view it is always disastrous. If the newspapers can get hold of anything connected with a big fashionable hotel such as this, they always run it for all it is worth, no matter how insignificant the real subject matter may be.”
“Quite so,” agreed Anthony. “Now I told you that nothing of value had been taken, and that was perfectly true in a sense. Nothing of any value to the thief was taken, but he got hold of something which is of considerable value to me.”
“Ah?”
“Letters, you understand.”
An expression of superhuman discretion, only to be achieved by a Frenchman, settled down upon the manager’s face.
“I comprehend,” he murmured. “But perfectly. Naturally, it is not a matter for the police.”
“We are quite agreed upon that point. But you will understand that I have every intention of recovering these letters. In the part of the world where I come from, people are used to doing things for themselves. What I require from you therefore is the fullest possible information you can give me about this waiter, Giuseppe.”
“I see no objection to that,” said the manager after a moment or two’s pause. “I cannot give you the information offhand, of course, but if you will return in half an hour’s time I will have everything ready to lay before you.”
“Thank you very much. That will suit me admirably.”
In half an hour’s time, Anthony returned to the office again to find that the manager had been as good as his word. Jotted down upon a piece of paper were all the relevant facts known about Giuseppe Manelli.
“He came to us, you see, about three months ago. A skilled and experienced waiter. Has given complete satisfaction. He has been in England about five years.”
Together the two men ran over a list of the hotels and restaurants where the Italian had worked. One fact struck Anthony as being possibly of significance. At two of the hotels in
