But, before Joan could make her search she heard steps coming along the corridor. Hastily she unlocked the sitting-room door and hurried into the bedroom. Hardly had she done so when she saw Carter Woodman come into the room. Fortunately, the bedroom communicated directly with the corridor; and Joan, without pausing to make any further examination or to watch Woodman’s movements, let herself out noiselessly into the corridor and sped down the stairs unobserved. A narrow shave, and all, it seemed, for nothing.
Then Woodman’s presence in the hotel gave Joan another idea. If he was there, he was not at his office. Why should she not complete the task she had set herself by having a look round there as well? She took a taxi, and, in less than a quarter of an hour, she was in Woodman’s outer office, and in talk with his confidential clerk. She was told that Woodman was not in, and would not be back until after lunch. She told Moorman that she could not wait, but that she would like to go into the inner office and write a note. Moorman at once showed her in, and withdrew to the outer room.
Joan saw that whatever she did she would have to do quickly. First, she scribbled a hasty note stating that she had come to see Woodman to inquire about her stepfather’s affairs. As he was out, however, her business would keep. Having done this, she cast her eyes quickly round the room. In one corner was a hat and coat cupboard, and in it was hanging a coat of Woodman’s. Very quickly she went through the pockets. The only papers were a number of restaurant bills, evidently stuffed in hastily and forgotten. Joan confiscated them, without much hope that they would be of use. Then, in the bottom of the cupboard, she noticed a handbag, twin brother of the one she had been on the point of examining at the hotel. Hastily she opened it. Apparently it was empty; but, feeling round the corners, Joan found a hard object—a coat button—which she quickly transferred to her purse. Then, putting back the bag and closing the cupboard, she returned to the outer room. A talk with the clerk might have its uses.
“Mr. Woodman has been looking rather ill just lately,” Joan began. “Do you think he is really unwell?”
“I must say, miss, he’s not well. Between you and me, miss, he’s been badly worried.”
“About these terrible murders, you mean?”
“About them, miss, and about other things. Mr. Woodman wouldn’t like my saying so, but he has had terrible worries.”
“Oh, dear, I hope nothing serious.”
“Oh, probably not, miss, and you mustn’t say a word about it to anyone. I ought not to have said what I did say. But I’m worried too. You’ll be sure not to mention it, miss, won’t you?”
“All right, Moorman, don’t you worry.”
“But, miss, Mr. Woodman is such a short-tempered gentleman. And you don’t know how angry he’d be if he knew what I have been saying to you.”
“You’ll have to look after him, Moorman. See that he doesn’t worry too much. By the way, I suppose I couldn’t catch him now at lunch. Where does he usually lunch?”
“Generally at the Blue Boar up Holborn, miss. He generally goes to the Blue Boar every day when he’s in this part.”
“If I try there, and don’t find him, where else could I try? Does he ever go to any other restaurant?”
“I don’t quite know where he’d be, miss. One day last week he went to the Avenue by Hatton Garden. But I don’t think he’s been there since. He’s never been there but the once to my knowledge.”
“When was that, Moorman?”
“As it happens, miss, I can tell you. It was the day we heard of those terrible murders. Last Wednesday, miss.”
“Thank you, Moorman. I’ll see if he’s at either of those places. If not, I may come back.”
But Joan did not go to either of the places of which Moorman had told her. Instead, she went to the nearest telephone box, and phoned to Ellery, who was lunching at his club, to come at once and meet her outside Chancery Lane Station. Meanwhile, she went into an A.B.C. and ordered a cup of coffee. As she waited she took out the coat-button and had a good look at it.
She was not in much doubt. The button was of a quite peculiar kind—a bright brass button identical with those which George Brooklyn always wore on his summer evening coat. Here was luck indeed. According to her theory Carter Woodman had been mistaken for George Brooklyn because he had deliberately come out of Liskeard House wearing George’s coat and opera hat. George was very particular with his dress, and the coat was quite unmistakable. With these, if not in them, he must have returned to the Cunningham Hotel, where he would have stowed them away somewhere safely for the night. But the next morning his first object would be to get rid of their incriminating presence. She had guessed that he would pack them away in the bag which he usually carried, and so leave for the office bearing them away without any risk of arousing suspicion. Then her first thought had been that he would leave them in some railway cloakroom, or drop them quietly into the river. But this would involve the risk that the bag might turn up, and be identified as his. What would be the safest way of disposing of the hat and coat without leaving the bag, or running any risk of identification? She thought she had guessed at least one way in which
