“How's the manager developing?” O'Connor asked the night of Watts' return. “Been getting any deeper into your black books?”
“I've had a man look up his record——”
“Ah, well, that would be about the same thing with a policeman. Heaven help us all!”
“The report came in this afternoon. About a year ago he bought rather heavily of securities which are to-day a mere fraction of what he gave for them. He's slightly in the hands of money-lenders, and is altogether by no means as happily placed as might have been expected; for though the hotel is full, the running expenses are higher under him than were allowed for, and as his salary is only paid on net profits he must be pretty badly put to it sometimes. However, we've not been able to trace any previous acquaintance between him and Mr. Beale—not as yet.
“That scrap of green and white paper”—Pointer seemed to see it before him: “the manager isn't particularly quick-witted, but he certainly was quick-footed, for he was standing on it before you could say Jack Robinson—on the one and only piece of evidence the room contained. By the way, a jeweller to whom I showed Eames' studs says they're unusually fine pearls—for their size. Question is shall we ever learn what other things of value he may have had with him?”
There was a pause. “Our analyst reports that there were the ashes of two cigars and twelve cigarettes in the little lot I took him. That amount couldn't have been smoked in five minutes.”
O'Connor had risen and laid an old copy of the Era before him. “I thought I vaguely remembered something of the kind, so I hunted these up. What d'ye think of them?” he asked in would-be careless tones.
Pointer examined them. They were pictures of Miss Leslie taken four years back, in the character of an old man.
Chapter V
It was late on the afternoon of Thursday that the Chief Inspector again went meticulously over every article of Eames' which he had in his safe. The watch he lingered over longest. His advertisement had brought in no helpful replies. He had taken the watch to a neighbouring goldsmith, who had only been able to tell him that the maker, a very poor one, had long ago given up work and life itself. Pointer laid it on one side for a moment and took up the waistcoat. It was a well-worn garment, with very small pockets, one of which—the watch-pocket—had a permanent bulge. He fitted the watch into it. As he looked at it attentively it struck him that the watch did not conform at all to the outline supposed to have been made by it. An idea came to the police officer. He put on a pair of magnifying glasses and scrutinised the inside of the back of the case long and minutely. Finally he rose, with a faint flush in his cheek, and took a taxi to the largest watchmakers and goldsmiths in London.