“Ten minutes fast! Do you mean—do you mean that it had been put on?”
“Looks re—markably like it, don’t it, sir?” said Buntle with a wink.
Poole stared for a second at the clock, then dashed to the window and threw it open.
“Where does this give on to?” he exclaimed ungrammatically.
“Yard at the back, sir, leading into St. James’s Alley.”
Poole leaned out. Dark as it was, he could see just below him the top of a large ash-bin. It would be a simple matter for an active man to climb out of the window—and in again.
“By God, I’ve got him,” exclaimed the detective eagerly. “Called the waiter in to see him at 6.15—clock at 6.25—slipped out of the window the moment he was out of the room; back at 6.40 and straight down to the hall-porter—apparently only 15 minutes unaccounted for! Now for Mrs.—? What’s her game?—probably the window-trick again—they generally repeat themselves.”
Poole hurried to the nearest call-box and was soon through to Chief Inspector Barrod at Scotland Yard.
“The bottom’s out of Wraile’s alibi, sir. I’m going down now to see about his wife’s. But we ought to have them both shadowed from now on; if you agree, sir, will you send me down a couple of plain-clothes men to Ald House, in Fenchurch Street, about thirty yards west of Tollard Lane? I’ll put them on to their people.”
“Yes, that’s all right,” came the reply; “but hold on a minute, there’s a message for you. Fallows rang up half an hour ago to say that Mr. Fratten had slipped him again; he’s trying to pick up the trail.”