“If he had returned from the tropics he most probably had thin blood and would have felt the weather here to be cold, however much it appears warm to us.”
“It is more likely to be the latter,” interjected Pons crisply. “In view of the outcome. Pray continue, Meakins.”
“Well, sir, he registered in the name of Mr Otto Voss of Hamburg. There were few people about when he came in some time after ten o’clock, and I was on duty in the lobby. We are rather short-staffed at the moment, so after he had registered, I carried his attaché-case up to his room, № 31. He had only the one valise, which was extremely heavy, and the small attaché-case.”
“Hmm. Did you notice anything else about him?”
“He kept his glasses on and his overcoat while I was in the room and he seemed anxious for me to be gone. He had not taken his eyes off the valise all the while I was with him and when I went to put it on the rack, he darted at it and took it from me as though he was afraid I was going to drop it.”
“Curious, Pons,” I said.
“Indeed, Parker,” returned my companion drily. “You have no doubt read something of significance into that factor.”
“Undoubtedly,” said I, entering into the spirit of his banter. “The ratiocinative process is a complex one but I think I may agree with you there.”
Pons said nothing but little flecks of humour were dancing in his eyes as we turned down Haymarket and then left into Trafalgar Square. The pompous bulk of the National Gallery had slid by before he again broke silence.
“There is more to come, surely, Meakins?”
“By all means. I am so knocked out by this business that I have difficulty in collecting my thoughts.”
We were now in the thick of the traffic joining the Strand from the forecourt of Charing Cross Station and our driver had some difficulty in turning across the flow into a narrow street running down toward the river. He stopped in front of the Metropole, a small hotel of the better sort, whose facade and appointments had an air of faded elegance. The driver cut off his engine and waited patiently until Pons’ interrogation of Meakins should be completed.
“Well, sir, Mr Voss tipped me half a crown and I left him. About an hour later he rang for room service. There was no-one else about so I went to the kitchen myself and took him up a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee. He thanked me and tipped me a pound, which I thought was extremely generous of the gentleman.”
“How did he seem?”
“Worried, Mr Pons. He kept glancing round the room as though frightened of something. He had the curtains tightly drawn and the window closed, though it was a beautiful warm evening.”
“How did you know that?”
“The gentleman’s coat had been thrown on the bed and had fallen to the floor, Mr Pons. I bent to pick it up and accidentally brushed against the curtains on that side of the bed.”
“I see. Continue.”
“He was wearing a thick tweed suit, Mr Pons, but still kept his glasses and the hat on.”
“That is extremely curious, Parker. It suggests he did not wish his identity known.”
“I follow you, Pons.”
“He said nothing to you, Meakins?”
“Nothing, Mr Pons, beyond his plain ‘yes’ and ‘no’ and `thank you’ when I left.”
“And his voice?”
“Very strong and powerful, Mr Pons. He spoke good English but with a heavy German accent.”
“You are familiar with the German accent, of course?” “Yes, Mr Pons. From the war. I was a guard at a prisoner-of-war camp for some time, after my wound.”
“I see. And this Mr Voss has died during the night from what you tell us.”
Meakins swallowed and nodded. He seemed having difficulty in articulating his words.
“Yes, Mr Pons. No-one saw him after I took him the sandwich. He was not seen this morning and after the maid had reported being unable to get into his room, the manager, Mr Hibbert took the pass-key and himself went to № 31.”
“By himself?”
“By himself, Mr Pons. He came back in about twenty minutes as white as a sheet. Mr Voss was lying on his bed, strangled, Mr Pons!”
We were both silent for a moment. Pons looked absently at the faded elegance of the Metropole facade a few paces away across the pavement.
“And now Mr Hibbert has been arrested, you say?”
“Yes, Mr Pons. You see, gentlemen, the room was locked, the key was on the table and there was no other but the pass-key at the desk. So Inspector Jamison has arrested the manager…”
“Really.”
To Meakins’ evident surprise Solar Pons gave a deep chuckle and got out of the cab with astonishing alacrity. I paid the driver and joined him at the hotel entrance.
“So friend Jamison has done it again, Pons.”
“It would appear so, Parker. In my experience hotel managers do not go about strangling their guests. What possible motive could the man have? “
“True, Pons,” I said.
We followed Meakins over toward the Metropole entrance, pushing through the swing doors into the gold and purple Interior. The old messenger led us away from the main vestibule and down a narrow corridor floored in faded red carpeting. He tapped discreetly on a door which bore the legend: MANAGER. PRIVATE in gold-painted letters. He held the door aside for us.
“Mr Pons and Dr Parker, Mr Hibbert.”
I followed Pons in and Meakins came behind us to stand in front of the door as though determined to do his duty to the last. There were three men in the room; a large man with glossy black hair, dressed in civilian clothes, who was slumped in a chair behind his desk; a uniformed constable who stood guard at one side of the room; and our old acquaintance Inspector Jamison of Scotland Yard. He bristled like a terrier as soon as we had entered.
“Ah, Mr Pons! You’ll not find much to engage your talents here, I’ll be bound.”
“We shall see, Jamison, we shall see,” said Solar Pons languidly, striding past the Scotland Yard man and extending his hand to the manager.
“Now, Mr Hibbert, friend Meakins yonder tells me you are in some sort of trouble.”
“It was good of you to come, Mr Pons,” groaned Hibbert, a worried expression on his face. “I am accused of murder by the Inspector here. The very idea is preposterous but I must admit that the circumstances are difficult, very difficult indeed.”
“You may well say so,” put in Jamison acidly. “An open and shut case, Mr Pons. The room was locked and Mr Hibbert was the only person who went there; the only person who had access. The only other key to the room was upon the table.”
“So I understand,” said Solar Pons. “Nevertheless I would prefer to hear Mr Hibbert’s story and then examine the circumstances for myself.”
“I would be so grateful, Mr Pons,” put in Hibbert. “If you have no objection, Inspector, I would like Meakins to order me some breakfast for I have had nothing since this terrible business began.”
“By all means,” said Inspector Jamison, his entire persona exuding smugness. “My constable will take the message for I have not finished interrogating Meakins yet.”
“Oblige me by examining Mr Hibbert’s hands, if you would be so good, Parker,” said Solar Pons carelessly.
Jamison stared at Pons in amazement as I bent toward the manager.
“What am I looking for, Pons?”
“When a man is strangled, Parker, particularly if the victim is a strong, vigorous man in the prime of life, he will struggle violently. During that struggle, even if he be half-asleep as this man may have been, he might well bite his assailant on the hands and would most certainly scratch him in his attempts to dislodge the grip. In addition, there are almost always traces of flesh left beneath the murderer’s finger-nails.”