“Seems to me I’ve known ’im about London for years, although I can’t remember as I ever drove ’im,” he added.
The other man was, Davies said, tall and bearded, and certainly a foreigner, although he could not pretend to fix his nationality.
A tall, bearded man, and a foreigner! Smeaton pricked up his ears. The description tallied somewhat with that of the person who had dined with Monkton in the little restaurant in Soho.
Davies was dismissed with encouraging words and a liberal douceur. Given Smeaton the semblance of a clue, and he was on the track like a bloodhound.
Within twenty minutes of the taxi-driver’s departure, he was interviewing one of the hall-porters at the Savoy, an imposing functionary, and an old friend.
Smeaton had a large and extensive acquaintance among people who could be useful. He knew the hall-porters of all the big hotels. They were men of quick intelligence, keen powers of observation, and gathered much important information. He had unravelled many a mystery with their assistance.
The detective, standing aside in the hall, described the man as he had been featured by Davies. Did the hall-porter recognise him?
The answer was in the affirmative.
“He’s not a man you would be likely to forget, Mr Smeaton,” he said. “He is a pretty frequent visitor here. He lunches two or three times a week, and is popular with the waiters, through being pretty free with his tips. Most times he comes alone. Now and again he brings a guest, but nobody we know.”
“And his name?” questioned Smeaton eagerly.