Clearly it was no use putting any questions to her as to Robert's political views. “Before I leave, could you tell me how much his uncle left him?”
Mrs. Erskine sat silent awhile, evidently thinking deeply. She seemed a very accurate person. “He did say how much it was, but I forget the exact figures. I know he conveyed the impression that”—she bit her lip—“well, that the ball of life was now at his feet. My dear husband always spoke of Ian as a wealthier man than himself, but more than that I can't say.”
It was a most painful interview. Pointer was thankful when he could close the door gently behind him with a gesture symbolical of his respectful pity.
Watts met him at Victoria Station, late though it was. The detective was eager to wipe out the memory of Mr. Russell's visit to the hotel room.
“I came across an interesting bit of evidence yesterday, sir,” he began as soon as they were in the taxi, “in the manager's room. You know that steel locked box in his desk? Well, he left his keys on his desk for a moment. I slipped out of his bedroom, where I was keeping an eye on him in accordance with your instructions, and unlocked it. He rushed back a second later, picked up his keys, and hurried off. I opened the box. There was nothing in it but a new cheque book for the Chiswick branch of the Midland bank with one cheque gone. It was a close shave, for I had hardly laid it back in the box and put it away again in its drawer when he came back and went on with his writing. It was an order for some repairs. I slipped out and down to Chiswick, and there I had a bit of luck. Their doorkeeper is Higgins of the City Police. He and I used to be on the same beat. So I showed him the manager's photo, and had a chat with him. He said the manager gave the name of Parsons, and called at the bank to open an account. Higgins has been at the branch for fourteen years, so he has the run of the place, and during the lunch hour he managed to get a look at the signature book. There was only one Parsons in it—T. A. Parsons, of 8 Parma Crt., Turnham Green. He had opened a current account on August 6, but the amount Higgins couldn't find out. Off I went to the address. It's a block of flats, and at No. 8 I asked for Mr. Parsons. It seemed that on last Monday a Mr. Parsons had taken a room which had been advertised as to let. The landlady asked for payment in advance, so he paid for a week as requested, and called daily for letters, saying that as his mother was ill he might not move in till later in the week. She had not seen him since Thursday, when he had left a note saying that he was giving up the room, as his mother's illness was taking a turn for the worse. I showed her the manager's picture, which she and the servant identified as Mr. Parsons. I pretended to be from his bank, and said that there was some difficulty about a pass book I had sent him which he had not received. Did she know his home address? She did not. But both she and the slavey were certain that a thick, sealed envelope, such as generally contains a pass book, had arrived, with the bank's name on the seals, on the morning when Mr. Parsons had left. That's all, sir.”
“Good work, Watts, though, of course, it won't prove anything. A hotel manager will have a dozen excuses for a separate account, even under an assumed name, but still—it all fits in—perhaps too well. At any rate, it shows us what first class men we have trailing him.”
“It's Marsh and Ketteridge, sir: they're both sharp fellows; but they say that the manager goes to his club and vanishes, or to some shop they've never heard of, which turns out to have a dozen entrances. Oh, he's clever enough!” They had arrived at Pointer's rooms, but he had Watts follow him in and share a supper.
“What changes at the hotel itself?”
“Two of the first floor rooms have fresh occupants. Mrs. Willett is still staying on. Miss Leslie is in bed with a bad cold.”
“Nothing odd noticed?” Pointer asked the routine questions.