“Perhaps if I saw the letter myself I could tell you definitely.”
“Later,” Sands said. Revel must know his full name isn’t on the letter, he thought. Suppose he sticks to his guns and swears the letter is not to him?
“It seems,” Sands went on, “as though Duncan Stevens had smuggled something across the border and brought it to this house for you or your agent to pick up.”
Revel said calmly, “That sounds like a serious accusation.”
“It Is.”
“I know nothing about it.”
“I hardly thought you would, Mr. Revel,” Sands said dryly. “It also seems likely to me that whoever murdered Stevens murdered him to get possession of whatever he had smuggled across.”
“What could it be, I wonder?” Revel said.
“Fifty brunettes.”
“Fifty brunettes!” Revel leaned back in his chair and began to laugh. There was relief as well as amusement in the laugh.
“Stevens’ phrase,” the inspector explained. “It might mean anything. I thought you’d be able to translate it for me.”
“Well, I can’t.” He paused. “Jewels, maybe. Say black pearls or something like that. But where would Stevens get fifty black pearls?”
So it isn’t jewels, Sands thought. Even Revel isn’t cool enough to supply me with the right answer immediately.
“Black opals, perhaps,” Sands said.
“Perhaps,” Revel agreed.
Sands patted his pocket. “I guess this letter that Stevens wrote isn’t for you, then.”
“It might be,” Revel said, “although I don’t see why Stevens should be writing to me.”
Sands looked at him appraisingly. A bright boy, he decided. He says he doesn’t think the letter was written to him but he admits it could have been in case we’re able to prove it was. I’ll have to strike at him through Williams. Williams will try to save his own hide.
“Mr. Williams is back,” he said.
“Is he?” Revel said. “Well, I can spare him a few days longer.”
“I was wondering if you could perhaps spare yourself a few days longer too, Mr. Revel. There is a lot I have to clear up and I think it would make it easier for me if you stayed here.”
“Anything to make it easier for you,” Revel said amiably. “Business is rotten anyway. Mind if I phone and let the office know?”
“Go ahead.”
Revel put his call through to Montreal, issued some instructions to his secretary, and hung up.
“May I return to the hotel now?” he asked.
“That won’t be necessary,” Sands replied. “I’ve spoken to Mrs. Shane and she will be glad to have you stay here. By the way, you usually stay at the Royal York when you’re in town, don’t you?”
“Usually.”
“Thanks. That’s all for now.”
Revel went out. Sands picked up the telephone and called the Royal York. The desk clerk informed him that no one called Revel had been registered there recently.
“Who has checked out within the past two hours?” Sands asked.
There was a rustling of paper at the other end of the line. “A Mr. and Mrs. Ponsonby of Washington, Oregon. Mr. Rourke of Montreal—”
“Rourke a tall, well-dressed man in brown tweeds, brown hat?”
“That’s him.”
“When did he arrive?”
“Thursday night.”
“Thanks.”
Sands remained at the desk for some time twisting his pen in his hands. His notebook was open in front of him.
There was no doubt that Duncan had written the letter to Revel. There was little doubt that if Revel denied it nothing could be done. George was a common name. A great number of people found the “Royal York more comfortable than anything at Kingston.” It could be a coincidence that Williams, who worked for Revel, should be staying at the Shanes’ at the same time as Duncan Stevens. Nor was it rare for an out-of-town businessman to register at a hotel under a false name, especially if the object of the visit was pleasure and not business.
And there was Duncan’s car, found on Front Street conveniently near the Royal York. And Mr. Revel had arrived in Toronto on Thursday night.
Sands picked up the phone again and detailed a man to find out about Mr. Revel’s movements, about the correspondence he received, the visitors, the drinks and meals sent up to his room, and whether he had any dry cleaning done on Saturday night.
In a second call to the hotel Sands requested the manager to leave Mr. Rourke’s room as it was for the time being.
Then he telephoned his own office. Sergeant Darcy had located the cabdriver who took Duncan to 197 River Road from the Union Station. The cabdriver had provided a detailed description of the young man.
“Have you got him there?” Sands asked.
“Yes sir,” Darcy said.
“Put him on, will you?”
The cabdriver identified himself.
“You picked him up at the station?” Sands asked.
“Yes sir. I was meeting a train and I saw this guy and asked him did he want a cab. He didn’t say anything, just followed me out. He looked soused to me. Couldn’t walk very well. His clothes were dirty too. What’s more, when I helped him get into the cab—” He stopped suddenly.
“When you helped him into the cab what?” Sands said patiently.
“I... nothing.”
“You felt his pockets, perhaps?” Sands was not unacquainted with the ways of certain cabdrivers with drunks.
“I wasn’t going to do anything, honest. I just happened to feel something in his pocket that felt like a gun, a little gun. Well, and that’s all. I just drove him home.”
“You didn’t actually see the gun?”
“No sir, but it was a gun. I’m sure of that.”
“Did the passenger talk at all?”
“No sir.”
“All right. Make your statement to Darcy and sign it. I may see you later. Good-by.”
Sands rang the bell for Jackson. Jackson informed him that Mr. Williams was in the billiard room in the basement.
“Bring him up,” Sands said.
Jackson went down to the basement. The door of the billiard room was closed and he hesitated in front of it for a minute.
The cold, damp air of the cellar struck the back of his neck and it felt uncomfortable, the way it did when you got an overdue haircut in the winter, Jackson thought. He put his hand up to his neck. The skin was clammy.
There was no sound at all in the cellar. By God, Jackson thought, the house has died on me again.
He put his hand on the doorknob and turned it. When the door opened a gust of warm, dry air swept into his face. Someone had lit a fire in the fireplace. The flames were hissing quietly, filling the room with soft, evil whispers.
Evil, Jackson thought. I don’t believe in evil, but it’s here, pressing on my ears and eyes.
He grinned at himself then, and there was even something of evil in his own grin. He knew that from the way his face felt, stiff and frozen, so he stopped grinning and walked over to the fireplace rather angrily.
He had to stop those whispers.
He took the poker and stabbed at the live coals. They spat at him defiantly. He stabbed again, laughing aloud. They could spit at him, but he was the master.
He felt very brave and powerful. His muscles flexed and he poked at the coals again. He was driving out the devil and it was fun. He forgot all about Mr. Williams, tasting his new power, watching the coals glare at him, consuming themselves with their own impotent hatred.
The fire died. He put down the poker, ashamed, thinking, I guess I must be crazy. I’ve got to find Mr. Williams.
Then he saw that Mr. Williams had been watching all the time. He was sitting in an easy chair in the far comer of the room, staring at Jackson.
Jackson said, “Oh. Sorry, sir. I’m very sorry, sir.” His hands were trembling because he had made a fool of himself in front of Mr. Williams.