“You will remember, I think,” commenced Goodall, “that my inquiries this morning elicited the fact that a lady and gentleman stopping here, under the names of Mr. and Mrs. Laurence Charles Stewart, received a telephone call late on Wednesday evening. The call was answered in all probability by the man.” Blanchard intervened. “Quite correct, Inspector! I was downstairs at the time when the ’phone rang. Mr. Stewart went into the smoke-room to answer it.”
“Good,” rapped Goodall. “What happened after that?”
“Directly afterwards, Mr. Stewart came to me and asked for his bill. He said that he had just received bad news concerning a near relation. Serious illness of some kind—they would have to leave at once. They paid the bill and went off at once.”
“H’m,” said Goodall. “Now a few questions, Mr. Blanchard. I may as well tell you that this pair that we’ve been discussing are strongly suspected in connection with the Hanover Galleries murder, so I’ll trouble you to be as careful and explicit in answering as possible.”
Blanchard’s fat face paled. Such things were not good advertisements for his hotel!
“Count on me, Inspector,” he fluttered. “Ask me your questions!”
“How long had they been stopping here?”
Blanchard picked up the receiver and pressed a button. “That you, Miss Fortescue? Bring me up the reception register, at once, please. Ask Atkins to stand by till you get back!” Blanchard opened the register; ran his finger down two or three pages—then looked up. “Here you are, Inspector——came in on the 28th May—the last Saturday of the month.” He pushed the book across to Goodall.
“From New York, I see,” said the Inspector. “Did they strike you as being American?”
Blanchard nodded. “Yes, I should have put them down as American anywhere had I been asked—not knowing!”