Woodman, then, could have both left and returned to the hotel without being seen. But had he? The very lack of possible observers seemed to make it impossible to prove the case either for or against him. If no one had seen Ellery make his investigations—and as he returned to the ground floor he was certain that no one had noticed him, at least until he reached the top of the basement stairs—why should anyone have seen Carter Woodman when he had followed the same route? The effect of Ellery’s investigations was to make Woodman’s alibi insecure. But it afforded absolutely no positive evidence of his guilt.
Still, it was something to have shown that the alibi was not conclusive, and Ellery was fairly well pleased with the result of his visit. But he had not yet done. According to Woodman’s story, he had written his letters in a small and little used writing-room on the first floor, at the opposite end of the hotel from his own rooms, but quite near the basement stairs, to which another small flight of stairs led directly from the first floor almost from the writing-room door. Ellery went into the writing-room and found it deserted. He remembered that Woodman had stated that he had had it to himself throughout the time he had spent there.
Ellery had no definite idea that the writing-room would yield a clue, but he thought that he might as well have a look round. He glanced at the blotting pads which lay on each table, only to see that the blotting paper was evidently changed very frequently. But, picking up one of the blotters he discovered that, while the top sheet was practically clean, the old used sheets of blotting paper had been left underneath. Rapidly he examined every sheet. On several he saw marks of Carter Woodman’s writing, and of his large bold signature. This, however, showed only that Woodman often used the room. So far it bore out his story. The pads bore impressions of several other handwritings; but only one other recurred frequently. Ellery was able to make out the signature by holding the paper up to the light. The writing was curious and quite unmistakable. The name of the writer was Ba Pu—evidently an Oriental.
Ellery had an idea. It was a chance and no more; but he made up his mind to see Ba Pu, if he was still in the hotel, and to put a few questions. Returning to the hall he asked the porter the number of his room.
“Oh, you mean the Burmese gentleman,” said the porter. “He has a suite on the first floor. His sitting-room is No. 17. He came in only a few minutes ago.”
Ellery made his way to No. 17 and knocked. The Burmese—a small, dark-skinned man with curious twinkling little eyes and quick movements—was in his room and received him with ready courtesy. Ellery presented his card and apologised for intruding upon him.
“Oh, no,” said the Burmese. “You not intrude. Very please.”
“You may think it very strange of me,” said Ellery, “but may I ask you a question without explaining fully why I ask it? It is on a matter of real importance.”
“Ask. Yes,” said the Burmese. “I help if I can.” He spoke English quickly and jerkily, but he evidently understood the language well. “I very glad meet you, Mr. Ellery. I Burmese, come here study the British conditions. Go back Burma tell my people all about this country. You help me. I help you.”
“Then that is a bargain, and I can ask you my question at once. Did you use the writing-room opposite here at any time on the evening of Tuesday, the 17th of this month?”
“Why, that the very day I come here. Yes, I use him that night. I came here study your conditions. I want meet all your famous men. I go there write letters ask them meet me. I write your Mr. Bernard Shaw, your Mr. Wells, your Mr. Arnold Bennett.”
Ellery interrupted. “Can you tell me at what time that evening you were in the writing-room?”
“Yes, I tell you. I come here to stay. Evening I wish write letters. I wish at once to meet your famous men. I go to writing-room door. I peep in. I see gentleman there, writing. He not notice me; but I shy. I steal away.”
“What time was that?”
“Eleven by the clock—no earlier. It was what you call eleven less a quarter.”
“I see, about 10:45.”
“Yes. I go back to my room and I wait. I leave door open and soon I see gentleman come out of writing-room and go downstairs. Then I go in. I write my letters.”
“Do you know when that was?”
“I go back to writing-room a few minutes after I go back to my room. About eleven of the clock—it was then.”
“And how long did you stay there?”
“I stay there long time—what you call the three-quarters of hour, perhaps.”
“And then you came back to your room?”
“Yes. I come back here.”
“You did not see the gentleman who was in the writing-room again.”
“Yes, I see him. He come upstairs there, outside my door, just after I get back to my room.”
“You left the door open then.”
“Yes. There was no air. It is what you call stuffy here. I see him go into writing-room.”
“And that was the last you saw of him?”
“Yes. But he stay in hotel. I see him later—days later—often times.”
“Then you would recognise him if you saw him. Is this he?” and Ellery passed a photograph of Carter Woodman to the Burmese.
“Yes, that he.” And then the Burmese smiled blandly and added, “And now you tell me why you wish know this.”
“I would rather not tell you just yet, Mr. Pu, if you will forgive me. All I can say is that what you have told
