“Give me Hertford 906,” he said.
In five minutes the call was signalled.
“Miss Ardfern—Carver speaking, I’m very, very sorry—got you out of bed, did I—so sorry! What time did Tab leave—half-past eight—you don’t say so? Oh yes, he’s all right—gone to the office—oh yes, he does some Saturday nights. Don’t worry—not at all. Only he promised to call—can’t trust love-smitten young men, eh—certainly I’d call you if there was anything wrong.”
He put the instrument back and looked up at the clock. Then he pressed a bell. The sergeant who answered was dressed as if he expected to go out into the storm at any moment.
“Men ready—good. Pitts Hotel; two men to each entrance, one to the upper floor in case he breaks that way. Four good men for his room—men sharp enough to dodge his quick firing batteries—he’ll shoot.”
“Who is the man, sir?”
“Mr. Rex Lander. I want him for murder and forgery; attempted murder and burglary. If he’s not at home it will be easy. We’ll take him as he comes into the hotel. One of the night porters is probably being well paid by him. He was the fellow who stalled me last night and gave Lander a chance to get to his room and use the telephone. So we’d better get there before the room clerk goes off duty. And don’t forget to impress upon the men that Lander will shoot! If the night porter is on duty we’ll take him. He’s not to get to the telephone. Beat his head off if he tries. I’ll be with you in five minutes.”
He made another attempt to get in touch with Tab but was no more successful. Then a thought struck him. He remembered that Tab had told him the name of the sporting tenant who occupied the flat below. But Tab had also told him that this gentleman was seldom at home. Still, there was a chance.
He waited, the receiver at his ear.
“Is that Mr. Cowling? Why, I am sorry to disturb you. I’m Inspector Carver, a friend of Holland’s, who lives above you. You haven’t any idea whether he is at home? I’ve been trying to get him—you’ve heard the ’phone going? Yes, that was me.”