“And now, Inspector, I would be obliged if you would let me have a glimpse of Voss’ effects. I presume your men have already removed them from the room for there was precious little there.”
“They are in a cardboard box on the desk here,” said Jamison ungraciously. “You are welcome to look through them though I can’t see what help they will be. The man was Otto Voss all right. We have his passport there and a number of other documents. He lived in Hamburg.”
“I see he brought some newspapers with him.”
Pons’ sharp eyes had already fastened on two journals in the heavy Gothic-style type affected by German books and periodicals. He picked up a copy of the Hamburger Zeitung.
“Rather curious, is it not?”
Jamison looked discomfited.
“I do not understand you, Mr Pons.”
“Both newspapers are of the same date.”
“Presumably he bought them both the same day. Nothing unusual in that.”
There was a sarcastic edge to Jamison’s voice which Pons ignored.
“Yes, man, but these are over three weeks old. That is surely significant. I commend that fact to your attention.”
He went swiftly through the newspapers, to the Inspector’s evident bewilderment. I must confess that I was equally puzzled but I kept my own counsel and silently watched as Pons went on, turning the pages of the journals with fingers as nervous and tensile as the antennae of an insect. He had a satisfied expression on his face as he put them down.
He next turned to the passport, then held it out for me to look at. I could see that the photograph indeed depicted the dead man in the room above. There was no mistaking the heavy beard, and the features despite the subtle change which death always brings with it.
“There is no doubt this passport is genuine, Pons?”
My companion was already holding it up to the light. He shook his head.
“I have made some little study of the textures of paper and the like, Parker. This would have to be the finest forgery in the world and I do not think the criminal fraternity has yet reached that degree of excellence. I would stake my reputation that this is a genuine document, issued in Hamburg. It should be easy enough to check in any event. No doubt friend Jamison has already put matters in hand.”
“We are in touch with the Hamburg police,” Jamison said ponderously.
I had taken the passport from Pons and studied it carefully. “What does this long phrase mean, Pons? I cannot make it out.”
Solar Pons shrugged carelessly, his eyes gleaming.
“It is his profession, Parker. He was an export official.”
“I see.”
I stared at my companion for a few moments.
“Is it of significance, Pons?”
Solar Pons pulled gently with delicate fingers at the lobe of his ear.
“It may be, Parker, it may be. I commend it to you.”
Inspector Jamison had stood apart from us all this time, resentment burning in every facet of his stiff figure. His eyes had followed Pons’ moves with curiosity but it was evident that he had read nothing from my friend’s comments or actions during the past five minutes. The windows of the office were open and the noises of the muffled traffic from the Strand came to us, insubstantial and far off as a dream.
We were alone in the office with the Inspector for I understood that the manager was taking a belated breakfast in a corner of the main dining room though, idiotically to my way of thinking, under the close observation of Jamison’s ubiquitous constable.
Solar Pons put down the documents at last.
“And now, I think, I would like a word with the young lady at the reception desk and a glance at the hotel register.” “By all means, Mr Pons.”
Some of the redness had died away from the Scotland Yard man’s neck and he seemed in a more placatory mood as he led the way along the corridor and down into the hotel’s main reception area.
A tall, slim girl with fair hair was sitting at the desk and she readily handed over the register to Pons. He stood for a moment, running a thumb down the margin, a frown on his clear-minted, aquiline features.
“The study of hand-writing is a much neglected one, Parker,” he observed. “Oh, I give you that there have been a number of studies by people who purport to be able to read character from hand-writing, but there is a good deal more to it than that.”
“Indeed, Pons.”
My friend smiled rather cynically and looked from Inspector Jamison to the girl behind the desk.
“ Criminal tendencies are inclined to show up in hand-writing also. I must give the matter some attention in a monograph one of these days.”
“I look forward to reading it, Pons,” I observed.
My companion turned back to the book and examined it intently.
“Here we are. Voss registered correctly, in his own name and giving his correct residence, as you can see clearly.”
To my astonishment, after looking at Voss’ signature, he went back through the register, turning to the previous page. He had produced his powerful pocket lens and went carefully over the pages, lingering here and there, as though the signatures were some exotic botanical specimens. His eyes were gleaming as he put the lens back in its case and transferred it to his pocket.
“Interesting, Parker. As I said, I must give it some more considered study in printed form. Now, what is the young lady’s name, Jamison? “
“Miss Anna Smithson,” said the Inspector heavily.
“Now, Miss Smithson, would it be too much trouble for you to recall the events of last night?”
The young lady smiled, revealing perfect rows of teeth.
“I am afraid I cannot help you, Mr Pons. I go off at six o’clock each evening. You want Mr Lennard, who takes over the desk at night.”
“I see. Would he be in the hotel?”
“I have had him recalled for purposes of questioning, Mr Pons,” said Jamison stiffly. “I will have him fetched.”
He went over to the dining room entrance and signalled to his constable. A minute or two later the officer returned with a thin, sallow man with silver hair cut en brosse. He wore a faded blue suit and somehow looked all of a part with the Metropole. His gold pince-nez hung by a frayed velvet ribbon from his lapel and he peered anxiously about him as the Inspector introduced Pons and myself.
“This gentlemen is Mr Solar Pons,” Jamison began pompously. “He would like to ask you a few questions.”
“Certainly, Mr Pons,” said the silver-haired man, looking uncertainly about him and moving his hands together restlessly.
“I understand you came on duty last night at about six o’clock, Lennard.”
“That is correct, sir. It was just five minutes to. I always believe in being prompt and punctual.”
“An admirable trait,” said Solar Pons smoothly. “Which extends apparently to even being before your time. Something that must have stood you in good stead in your previous occupation.”
“Eigh?”
The night receptionist looked slightly discomfited and moved his feet uneasily on the carpeting. This, combined with the restless weaving motions of his hands suddenly made him look uncertain and unreliable.
“You have been a book-keeper unless I miss my guess,” said my companion decisively. “Your desk was in front of a window and you sat at right angles to it. I would further infer that you have been employed by the Metropole Hotel for only a short time; say a fortnight at the outside.”
“This is astonishing, Mr Pons!” burst out the man being interrogated, and though I was equally surprised I felt inwardly amused at the expression on the faces of Inspector Jamison and the young lady receptionist.
“Tut, man, it was obvious,” said Solar Pons crisply. “The weather has been extraordinarily warm this spring. You exhibit a tan on the right hand side of your face only, the left being quite white and pallid. Therefore, in your normal occupation you sat in front of a window and as is well-known glass has the property of intensifying sunlight. I know of no other circumstance which would lead to such a construction. Your occupation here as night receptionist would not give rise to such a complexion, for we are under artificial light, a condition which must obtain at all times.”