“Who cleans the boots here?”
The porter looked interested.
“I do,” he replied, “and why that?”
“Only this. Can you remember what sort of boots this man Douglas wore?”
“Well, they were small, like himself. Small boots like you’d expect a boy to wear.”
“With nails in the soles?”
“Just that. Guess, mister, you’re a ’tec?”
Tanner nodded.
“From Scotland Yard,” he answered. “I’m after that man Douglas, and if you can tell me anything about him, I’ll make it worth your while.”
The man whistled.
“Gosh! but I just thought he was a wrong ’un. Wot’s ’e been up to, mister?”
“Never mind now. Why did you think he was a wrong ’un?”
“W’y, ’e looked scared fit to die. ’E ’ad something worrying ’im, ’e ’ad.”
“All the time he was here?”
“No, the morning ’e left. ’E got ’is tea the night before a bit early—about or thereabouts—and then went out, and ’e didn’t come back till ; walks in at all shaking and grey about the face and calls for brandy. Swallowed two large brandies nearly neat, ’e did. They pulled ’im together some, and then ’e pays ’is bill and ’ooks it.”
“Hooked it?”
“Yes, we never saw ’im no more after that.”
“And do you remember what day that was?”
“No, but I can get it for you at the office.”
The porter vanished for a moment to a room at the back.
“ ’E left on Thursday morning, the .”
“Did you notice anything about his boots that morning?”
“Yes. They were covered with mud—just covered. You couldn’t but notice them. And the ends of ’is trousers too. ’E looked as if ’e ’ad been up to the knees in muddy water.”
Tanner was as nearly excited as his dignity would allow. There could be little doubt, he felt, that this Douglas was indeed the man of whom he was in search. The man’s size—a small man would take short steps—the little, hobnailed boots, the wet and muddy trousers, the goatee beard—these points considered cumulatively, made the evidence of identity almost overwhelming. And in addition he had been out all the night of the tragedy, and had returned in the morning shaken and clamouring for brandy. Enough evidence to hang a man, Tanner thought with satisfaction. He turned again to the porter.
“What day did he come here first?”
“I looked that up when I went to the office. It was on the evening before.”
“He left no address, I suppose?”
“Not ’im,” said the porter with a wink.
“How did he go away? Did he get a cab?”
“Keb?” returned the other disgustedly. “Not ’im. ’E took ’is bag in ’is hand and just ’ooked it on ’is blooming feet.”
Tanner replied absently. He was thinking that a man who departed on foot from an hotel without leaving an address might not be so easy to trace. And the best description of his appearance he could get was too vague to be of much use. The porter had not noticed the colour of the man’s eyes, if there was any scar or mark on his face or hands, the shape of his ears, any peculiarity in his gait—none of the matters on which identification depends. Tanner could only remind himself that a general hazy notion was better than no notion at all.
He went to the office and saw the proprietor. The latter was a tall weedy individual, dilapidated looking as his own hotel. But he spoke civilly, and exerted himself to answer the Inspector’s questions, calling in various maids, and an untidy waiter for the latter’s interrogations. Unfortunately, none of them could tell anything Tanner had not already learned.
The man had registered “William Douglas, Fulham Street, Birmingham,” and with the proprietor’s permission Tanner cut out and pocketed the leaf. Then he asked to see the room the visitor had occupied.
It was a small apartment on the fourth floor, supplied with the minimum of cheap, rickety furniture. The bed was not made up, and dust lay thick everywhere.
“It hasn’t been occupied recently?”
“Not since Mr. Douglas had it,” the proprietor admitted.
“I’ll just take a look round, if you don’t mind,” said Tanner. “Don’t let me keep you. I’ll follow you to the office in a minute or two.”
Left to himself Inspector Tanner began one of his careful, painstaking examinations. The entire contents of the room were minutely inspected. Every inch of the carpet and the cracks between the floor boards were examined in the hope of finding some small object which might have been dropped. The drawers of the small wardrobe, the bedclothes, the dressing-table and washstand, all were gone through with the utmost care, but with no result. At last to complete his task the searcher turned his attention to the fireplace.
A broken Japanese fan was stuck in the old-fashioned grate, and only partially concealed a litter of matches, scraps of paper, bits of cord and other debris. Tanner lifted out the fan and began to go through the rubbish with the same scrupulous care. And then his perseverance was rewarded.
Among the papers he found the charred remains of an envelope which at once interested him. It was more than half burnt, a triangular portion with the stamp on one corner only remaining. As he picked it up it struck him it was of unusually good quality to find in a room of that description—thick, cream-laid paper, which only a well-to-do person would have used. A few letters at the end of each line of the address remained visible. But at these he hardly glanced at first, his attention being riveted on the postmark. The letters were slightly blurred, but still he could read it clearly—“Halford .”
As
