Pons turned to me as the whine of the lift sounded in the quiet, almost hushed atmosphere of the hotel lounge.
“Do try and look a little more like a relaxed hotel guest, my dear fellow. Your knuckles are gleaming white on the handle of that stick.”
I relinquished it with a mutter of apology and fixed my gaze on the wrought iron doors of the lift entrance as the cage neared the ground floor. My features were sheltered by the magazine I was reading and I had a clear view over the top of the pages as I was almost directly facing the lift.
Leonard was on duty at the desk and was desultorily turning over some letters destined for the pigeon-holes behind him. There was no sign of Jamison and his men but I had no doubt they were lurking near. The clock in the lobby indicated 9.15 P.M. precisely as the lift-cage clicked to a halt on the ground floor and a well-built, blond-haired man with a hard face walked toward us carrying a heavy case in his right hand and a valise in his left.
6
The events of the next few minutes remain a blur in my memory. Certainly, no more dramatic incident stands out in my mind; there have been more bizarre cases, of course, and many in which the surroundings were outré in the extreme. But none more violent or shocking played out against such a mundane background as the Metropole Hotel.
The fair-haired guest, whose eyes were shooting sharp glances to either side came straight on without hesitating, though the strain on his right arm must have been considerable, as it was obvious the case he was carrying was extremely weighty. Leonard came forward as he approached and gave him a cheerful smile.
“I would like my account, please,” the tall man said, putting his key down on the desk. “The name is Thornton, Room 84.” The worried look was back on Lennard’s face again now. “The young lady has gone off duty sir. I understood her to say you were leaving tomorrow afternoon.”
“I have changed my mind,” the other rapped impatiently. “That was my intention originally but I have been called away on urgent business.”
Lennard shrugged apologetically.
“I don’t know whether she has left the bill, sir.. ” he began.
He was interrupted dramatically by his interrogator, who slammed the flat of his hand down on the reception counter with a loud bang and retorted explosively, “Well look, man, for goodness’ sake, instead of standing there gawping. Unless you wish me to fetch the manager?”
Lennard cowered back behind the desk at the menace in the other’s eyes.
“Certainly, sir. Straight away.”
His voice was agitated, his manner flustered, as he went through into the small office behind the counter. I kept my face down to my magazine but Pons had looked up as though in casual curiosity at the angry scene. Thornton evidently felt this himself, for he bit his underlip with annoyance and controlled the nervous drumming of his fingers on the countertop. I thought he was about to make some observation to my companion but he evidently thought better of it, and instead turned on his heel to glance at the clock set above the lift entrance at the other side of the hall.
We waited in a tense silence like that for perhaps two minutes; I concentrated on the article in my magazine but the type swam before my eyes and conveyed nothing to me. I could feel the rough surface of the manager’s stick reassuringly solid against the fingers of my left hand. Then we heard the hurried tread of the receptionist’s feet coming back. He was flushed and nervous still but he carried a slip of paper in his hand.
“Here it is, sir,” he said quickly. “I am sorry to have kept you waiting. Miss Smithson had made up the account and left it on the desk.”
Thornton grunted and glanced at the document, reaching inside his coat for his wallet. It was then that Pons acted.
With a subtle gesture to me he rose quickly, put down his newspaper with a stifled yawn, and turned as though to quit the vestibule. As he passed behind Thornton and while the other’s back was turned, he apparently stumbled across the case. It was cleverly done and though I knew Pons’ clumsiness was only simulated I was completely deceived. Pons landed asprawl behind the thickset man.
“Dear me,” he said apologetically. “I am so sorry.”
The blond man gave a snarl and reached for his pocket. For once I was equal to the occasion. I had risen after Pons and was standing only a few feet away. I seized my stick and rushed forward, cannoning into Thornton. Taken off balance, he half-turned and fell heavily over Pons’ semi-recumbent form. I had one glimpse of Lennard’s face, frozen in horror and then Thornton had hit the floor.
He rolled over, Pons’ hand clamped to his wrist.
“Quickly, Parker!” my friend snapped in unruffled tones.
I brought the heavy stick over hard, felt it crack against bone. Thornton’s face turned grey and his arm hung limply. A heavy blued-steel automatic pistol bounced across the floor.
The lobby suddenly seemed full of men. Jamison had darted from somewhere behind the reception desk and threw himself without hesitation, terrier-like and determined, on to the suddenly raving figure of Thornton. Two plains-clothes men joined in and there was a wild melee of flying arms and legs, round which I hovered anxiously, glimpsing Pons rising and falling amid the confusion like some craft tossed in a stormy sea.
More police officers arrived and I could see Hibbert, pale and distracted in the background. Pons rose to his feet, a wry smile on his face, and dusted himself down.
“Well, Parker,” he drawled. “It seems as though our little surmise has borne fruit.”
“Indeed, Pons,” I said, glimpsing Jamison’s dogged face and the gleam of triumph in his eyes as handcuffs closed on the blond man’s wrists.
“But I hope we have the right man.”
“So do I, Dr Parker,” Jamison snapped, straightening up, his breathing fast and shallow.
“Tut, Inspector,” said Solar Pons calmly. “There is no doubt about it. The gentleman yonder, whatever his real name, is our man right enough. No self-respecting guest carries an automatic, far less being prepared to use it in a crowded hotel lobby.”
He looked wryly at the anxious faces clustered round the harassed manager, as guests and staff were drawn to the boiling confusion about the blond man, now recumbent and glaring-eyed upon the floor.
“Just fetch a knife, Jamison, if you would be so good, and we will cut open that case,” Pons commanded.
The Inspector hesitated but sent a constable to the kitchen. The pinioned man redoubled his efforts to escape as Pons approached the heavy valise which had been knocked over in the desperate struggle. It had three locks and, as Pons had expected, was secured. He cut a six-inch gash in the expensive leather with the razor-sharp kitchen-knife and soon eased up a triangular flap. From the gap poured several bundles of five-pound Bank of England notes.
Jamison looked stupefied. The blond man’s face was set like granite as the police officers hauled him to his feet. His glittering eyes never left my companion’s face.
“What are the charges, Mr Pons?” said Inspector Jamison awkwardly.
Pons smiled faintly.
“Murder and bank robbery will do to be going on with.” “Bank robbery, Mr Pons!”
My companion chuckled.
“Of course, Jamison. This case contains the equivalent of more than one hundred thousand pounds sterling, the property of the Hamburg branch of the German State Bank. If you had paid a little attention to an elementary study of languages the whole picture would soon have become clear to you.”
I shook my head.
“The whole thing is far from clear to me, Pons. What you are saying is that Thornton is the man who murdered Voss?”
Solar Pons turned his deep-set eyes on me thoughtfully.