“He came in about an hour ago,” said the tenant’s voice, “then somebody called him. I can hear the ’phone very plainly from my room. Bex or Wex or some such name.”
“Rex?” asked the inspector quickly, “yes, yes—he went out did he? Thank you.”
He sat staring down at his blotting pad for a minute, then he got up and pulled on his raincoat.
His squad were getting into cabs as he came out of the station and he entered the first of these.
Had he left it too long, he wondered? The warrant had been issued, after he had taken the sworn statement of the man Green, formerly butler to Jesse Trasmere. He had brought this witness from Australia, had cabled to him the very day that Trasmere was found murdered; Green’s reply had confirmed his suspicions.
Too late now to regret his delay. Accompanied by his sergeant he strolled into the hotel. The lounge was empty, half the lights had been extinguished and, as he had expected, the room clerk had gone, leaving a stalwart night porter in charge.
“Mr. Lander, sir? No, I don’t think he is in. I’ll get through to his room.”
“Don’t touch that telephone!” said the inspector, “I am an officer of the police. Show me to his room.”
The man hesitated the fraction of a second and then:
“If you monkey with the switch-board I’ll put you where the rats won’t bite you,” said Carver sharply. “Come out of that!”