“Thank you, sir, but my mind isn't uneasy. All these questions are only part of the routine.” The Chief Inspector smiled that cheery smile of his which the London underworld dreaded more than any frown. “And now, this afternoon—let me see, where did you say you were?”
“The boat didn't get in till about five. The rest of the time till I arrived here about half-past six I spent in taxis driving from hotel to hotel. Anything else, Chief?”
The Chief Inspector assured him that there was nothing else, and suggested that he might like to try one of the very comfortable chairs in the lounge, and that should he meet the manager would he mind asking him to step into his own sitting-room again.
The manager's story was brevity itself. He told of Beale's arrival “about half-past six,” his appeal to him to get him some sort of a shelter on such a night. “I believe he offered to share the dog's kennel provided the beast didn't bite. Incidentally, he told me who he was. Of course, I wanted to do my best for such a client, and thought of the only vacant room in the house,—No. 14. It was fresh in my mind, for I had been talking to the booking clerk when the 'phone came through saying that Mr. Eames would be away over the week-end. Of course as a rule we shouldn't dream of letting anyone else occupy a room under such circumstances, but——”
“One moment: who answered the 'phone?”
“The booking-clerk.”
“Thank you, sir. Well, so you took Mr. Beale to No. 14. Did you have the room freshly done up for him—I mean, fresh towels and so on?”
“Of course.”
“And then?”
“I saw him at dinner in our restaurant, and said a word to the head waiter, then I saw no more of him till he stopped me in the corridor and told me that there was a dead man in his wardrobe.”