“Don’t forget Woodman’s alibi. That still holds unless we can shake it.”
“It must be your next business to shake it. We now know that Woodman did leave the Cunningham Hotel that evening. It is your job to discover how he left it and how he got into Liskeard House. Make these the next points, inspector.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
“And there is one other matter I should tell you about, though, in the light of our discoveries, it is now probably of quite minor importance, I think. Still, we must not be too cocksure, or neglect any fact that may possibly bear on the case. If we are right about Woodman, then he planned the whole affair very carefully; but he took a big risk all the same.”
“Having you to reckon with, yes.”
“Well, I doubt if a man would take a risk of that magnitude without some very urgent reason—such as grave and immediate financial embarrassment. I want you to look into Woodman’s record, make inquiries about him in the city, and see if he appears to be in Queer Street, or anything of that sort.”
“It wouldn’t prove anything if he were.”
“No; but it would greatly strengthen our case on the question of motive. It’s worth looking into, at all events. And now, inspector, I won’t keep you. There’s work to do; and you had best be getting about it. And I want to do some more thinking in this case. It gets interesting.”
XXIX
The Lie of the Land
When Joan and Ellery determined upon their course of action, Ellery’s immediate part was to make a thorough investigation of Carter Woodman’s movements. Apparently he had a perfect alibi—as good as Ellery’s own—absolving him of all part in the events of the fatal Tuesday night. Indeed, in the eyes of the law he had scarcely needed an alibi, for nothing had occurred to throw any real suspicion upon him. Ellery suspected him nevertheless almost to certainty; but he admitted to himself that even now his suspicion was based on what others would regard as no more than a guess. Tuesday, therefore, seemed the best starting-point; for if Woodman’s alibi for that occasion held good, that would finish the matter, and prove that the whole edifice of suppositions which Ellery had built up was founded on nothing.
It was easy enough for Ellery to walk into the Cunningham Hotel, where he was already known, under pretext of a visit to Marian Brooklyn. But, having made his entry, he did not proceed to the suite of rooms which she shared with the Woodmans. His object was to explore the hotel in order to discover whether there was in fact, as the porter and the manager had stated to Inspector Blaikie, only one possible exit. The porter, who had been at the door from ten o’clock onwards through the night had been quite certain that Woodman had not gone out that way. He had come in with his wife and Mrs. Brooklyn at about a quarter past ten, and he had not returned to the entrance hall until about a quarter to twelve, when he had given the porter his late letters for the post, and had gone straight upstairs again. That seemed clear enough; for the porter was very positive that Woodman had not gone out at any time during the evening.
There was, the manager had told the police, another exit, of course, for the hotel servants. But the only way to this from the club quarters lay through the great kitchen, and it would be quite impossible for a guest to leave by this way without being observed. Ellery had chosen eleven o’clock at night for his visit to the hotel, and meeting the manager, whom he knew, he asked to be shown into the kitchens. The management was excessively proud of these, and made a regular show of them to its guests. The manager readily agreed to take him round, and even a cursory inspection was enough to show Ellery that, even at that hour in the evening, no guest could possibly have left by the servant’s exit without being seen by at least half a dozen persons. The preparation of theatre suppers was in full swing, and the kitchens were alive with chefs and waiters at least until midnight.
Leaving the manager, as if he were going up to the Woodmans’ apartment, Ellery resumed his prowl. On the ground floor he speedily discovered there was no possible means of exit except the main door. There remained the basement, occupied mainly by a vast grill room which was closed at ten o’clock. Ellery descended the stairs, and pushed open the grill room door communicating with the hotel. The place was in darkness and, without turning on the light, he made a tour of the huge room. At the far end were cloak rooms and another flight of stairs communicating with the street. So far it would be fully possible for a guest to make his way without attracting attention. Ellery went up the far stairs, and approached the door leading from the grill room to the street. It was heavily barred and bolted, as well as locked. But the key was in the lock, and there seemed to be nothing to prevent the bolts from being withdrawn from the inside. As quietly as he could Ellery took down the bars, slid back the bolts, and unlocked the door. He stood, not in the street, but in a small outer hall with another locked door in front of him. This door also could be undone from the inside, and, opening it cautiously, Ellery found himself looking out into St. John’s Street. He had established the fact that it was possible at night for a
