“We want to find out if the gentleman—Mr. Eames—had any friends or acquaintance in the hotel. People often don't like to come forward in a suicide case,” Pointer explained.
Mrs. Willett closed her black eyes convulsively.
“Don't,” she begged. “I'm leaving the hotel as soon as I can make other arrangements. I had meant to leave Sunday morning, but some friends to whom I was going have a child down with the measles; but stay on here I can't—it's too terrible . . . such a shock . . . poor young man!”
Pointer agreed that it was terrible, and bowed himself out, thankful that the interview was over; for with her arch gestures, and frenzied vivacity, and her screaming, high-pitched voice, she exhausted the air of any room. He found the inmate of number twelve quite a change. Low-voiced, gentle-mannered Miss Leslie was a hard-working young actress, who had just got into a good part at one of London's leading theatres by sheer merit and hard work. She had been away all Saturday morning rehearsing, and all afternoon on the river with friends. She had never heard voices from Mr. Eames' room since he had taken it, nor had she ever seen anyone pass the window from Mr. Eames' room in either direction; but as she had not returned from her Saturday outing till seven o'clock, when she had taken off her sodden things and crept immediately into bed, she had not been in the hotel during the afternoon hours which interested the police most.
Much of this Pointer knew from his and Watt's examination of her room and wardrobe, while she had been at her bath yesterday morning, and from questions downstairs. Her wet clothes were noted in the little book the Chief Inspector consulted now and again.
“You never heard any voices from next door, you say?”
“Not except Saturday evening. I heard men talking in very low whispers late that night. I suppose you were one of them.”
“Humph! Have you a maid who might have been in here Saturday afternoon while you were absent? We are trying to find out if Mr. Eames had any acquaintances who visited him that last day.”
“I have no maid.” Miss Leslie spoke somewhat brusquely, and turned again to her writing as a sign that the interview was over,—which was a mistake.
Pointer returned to No. 14—until the inquest, which had been fixed for Tuesday, the room was being kept by the police—and entered a few notes. Then he rang for the Boots, a thick-set young man with a humorous mouth and an intelligent eye. Pointer offered him a cigar and a match.