Inspector Tripp smiled. ‘If ever you decide to commit a crime, Sir Richard—don’t. The Criminal Record Office got seven most admirable specimens from the door of that safe—your own finger-prints! Unfortunately, they found nothing else. But, frankly, I didn’t have much hope. Lord John isn’t the gentleman to take risks of that kind.’
‘Any other news?’ asked the barrister.
Tripp nodded. ‘I saw Leopold King, the hotel manager, early this morning. I told him a robbery had taken place in this room between five o’clock and midnight; I didn’t mention the nature of it, of course. He’s given me a free hand here. My own view is that Lord John himself is living in this hotel as a guest at the present moment; but how long he’s been here I can’t tell. He might even be one of the permanent residents. But I’m fairly sure of this, Sir Richard—whoever he may turn out to be, he’s the last man on earth the police would ever dream of suspecting.’
Templeton walked slowly to the window and looked out at the morning sunshine that dappled the trees along The Mall. Then he shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t envy you your task, Tripp,’ he said.
‘It has its unpleasant moments,’ admitted the detective. ‘May I see your secretary now?’
‘Certainly. I’ll ring for her——’
‘Just a moment, Sir Richard.’ Tripp pulled out his notebook. ‘You’ve already given me a record of your movements for yesterday evening.’
At the window Templeton turned round, his face in shadow. ‘Yes,’ he replied with deliberation, ‘I gave you the essential facts.’
‘It’s rather important, so I’d like to check them over.’ Tripp had opened the note-book, and he read rapidly. ‘Five-thirty at your Chambers in the Temple. Back here at seven to change. Dined at your club at eight. Read in the library afterwards. . . . By the way, can you recall any person you may have spoken to? Forgive my suggesting it, but we mustn’t rule out the members of even so exclusive a club as Baron’s. . . . You were alone? That settles it. And then you went on to a friend’s house in St. Pancras. By the way, I don’t think you mentioned the name and address, Sir Richard.’
‘It’s quite immaterial,’ said Templeton. ‘I was at the house only for a few minutes, and it’s out of the question that I could have been robbed there. I went straight on to Mrs. Prideaux’s, where you called for me.’
‘Many thanks. Now for your secretary. Miss Elizabeth Marlowe—that’s her name? By the way, I assume you trust this girl?’
‘Completely.’
‘How long have you had her?’
Templeton pursed his lips. ‘A very short time, as a matter of fact. Perhaps three or four weeks. But long enough for me to satisfy myself about her character, Tripp.’ He pressed the bell on his desk.
A moment later the door of his secretary’s room opened and Elizabeth Marlowe paused on the threshold, her full dark eyes fixed on the two men who stood waiting for her.
‘This is Chief Inspector Tripp,’ explained Sir Richard Templeton. ‘He would like to ask you one or two questions. Perhaps you’d rather see Miss Marlowe alone, Tripp?’
‘Not at all, Sir Richard. I’d rather you remained.’ With a gentle smile that was so characteristic of him, he turned to the girl and offered her a chair. ‘I hope you’ll be able to help me, Miss Marlowe. Has Sir Richard told you what has happened?’
Her glance went to her employer.
‘Yes, I explained,’ said Templeton abruptly.
Tripp nodded. ‘And you realize, Miss Marlowe, the vital importance of the documents that were stolen last night?’
‘I do.’
‘And you know that everything has gone, except this!’
He pulled the old photograph from its envelope and gave one of his quiet, chuckling laughs. ‘So you can see the problem that faces us. Whether or not the documentary evidence is already in ashes, we must find the person who took it from this safe.’
‘It’s destroyed, almost certainly, don’t you think?’ suggested Templeton.
The detective looked slowly round. ‘Yes, if Lord John himself stole it, Sir Richard. But has another possibility ever occurred to you?’
‘I don’t quite follow, Tripp.’
The Inspector leaned forward.
‘What if that evidence is being carefully treasured at this moment, not by Lord John, but by one of his enemies!’
Sir Richard Templeton started, and his lips opened; but he controlled himself.
‘You haven’t mentioned this—this possibility to me, Tripp!’ he said with acerbity.
‘I’m sorry, Sir Richard. Naturally, I have several different lines of inquiry. If I haven’t gone into them fully with you it’s because their legal aspect is of no importance—at present.’
The rebuke had been gently and tactfully administered, and the barrister inclined his head. ‘I quite see; it’s outside my scope. I apologize, Tripp. Please go on.’
The other turned to Elizabeth Marlowe. ‘Before we go further, there’s one thing I must tell you,’ he said quietly. ‘Please don’t answer any questions you don’t want to. There’s no compulsion about it whatever. I’d like you to be quite clear about this.’
‘I understand,’ replied Elizabeth in a low voice.
‘I don’t suppose it’ll be very difficult for you to remember all you did yesterday? How do you come here in the morning, as a rule? Bus? Yes. And do you go out for luncheon? Brought up to your room on a tray? I follow. And when did you leave for home? About a quarter to six? That’s a fairly normal day, I suppose? Now tell me about the evening. You spent it at home?’
Elizabeth shook her head. ‘I was out—with a friend.’
‘Tell me about it—if you wish,’ he said gently.
‘We had dinner at Mercier’s, near Piccadilly,’ she replied; ‘then a theatre, the St. Martin’s, and my friend saw me home.’
‘You can recall nothing in the least unusual? Suppose a stranger had spoken to your friend, or given him a message of any kind—say, at the restaurant or theatre—you’d remember it?’
‘There was nothing unusual,’ she said emphatically.
‘And the name of your friend? Don’t mention it if you’d rather not.’
‘I have no reason to conceal it,’ she said quickly. ‘Gilmour is the name—Mr. Alan Gilmour.’
‘Now perhaps you’d take your thoughts back a little earlier in the day. Did you get any telephone calls here from a stranger? No? And did any person call here during the day who was a stranger to you?’
‘No.’
Then she flushed slightly. ‘I’m—I’m sorry. There was a stranger.’
The smile went from the detective’s grey eyes. ‘Can you describe him, Miss Marlowe?’
Elizabeth hesitated. ‘He’s staying in the hotel,’ she said.
She saw her questioner’s lips harden slightly. ‘I suppose you could point him out to me?’
The girl’s glance fell. ‘I’ve already mentioned him, sir. It was Mr. Alan Gilmour.’
At this Sir Richard Templeton half rose from his chair. He stared at her in surprise, then a frown gathered on his forehead.
‘I don’t understand,’ he said sharply. ‘Do you mean that you dined and went to the theatre with a complete stranger?’
Her glance wavered.
‘Will you please answer me!’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘With a perfect stranger?’ expostulated Templeton.
‘I’m not ashamed of it.’ There was a flash of defiance in her voice as she faced her employer. ‘Do you imagine I’d have gone out with him if I’d seen he wasn’t a gentleman?’
‘That he was a stranger to you is sufficient,’ declared the barrister sternly, and turned away.
Inspector Tripp leaned forward. ‘Perhaps you’d better tell me about it,’ he said gently. ‘I’ve no doubt it came about in a simple way.’