In a trice Gilmour’s hand went out to the light. But once again he held back. He had no doubt that murder, or something very near to it, had been attempted; and as he himself was unarmed, to turn on the light would be to his adversary’s advantage. He crept backwards three or four paces, and waited. In the complete silence, he caught the sound of slow breathing, and there was something desperately sinister and ruthless in that quietly drawn breath: it was unhurried and deliberate, as though the man were confidently waiting for his chance to strike again.
Gilmour moved towards the fire-place, and his fingers touched the back of a chair. He gripped it eagerly. As a weapon it was better than nothing, and he began to move towards the foot of the bed. He halted again, but this time his straining ear could detect no sound, and it was difficult to gather the stranger’s intention. Presently Alan’s outstretched hand touched the opposite wall, and he groped his way to the corner beside the door. If his adversary was aware of this rapid change of position he made no sign. One minute, then two minutes passed, and Alan decided to make a move. Holding the chair poised above his head with one hand, he swept down both the electric light switches on the wall. He was counting on that fraction of a second while the man’s eyes would be dazzled, and he was ready to get in his own blow first. He steadied the chair above his head, ready to hurl it with all his force, and then he lowered it in astonishment to the floor. The bedroom was empty.
It did not take Alan many moments to ascertain that the door was still fastened. If his assailant had entered the room this way he must have been in possession of a duplicate key; and if he had gone out again by the same door it is certain that the dim night-light from the passage would have shone into the room. The bathroom door was also intact; and, again, only a duplicate key could have opened it from the outside. Alan hurried across to the bedroom, and turned back the curtains.
The windows opened in two portions, French fashion, and opened upon a small steel balcony, about four feet wide and two feet in depth. In the quietness of the night he could faintly hear the notes of Big Ben striking three. St. James’s Park lay very dark and silent; between a gap in the trees he could see a light shimmering on the water of the lake, but that was the only movement which his eyes could detect. The Marquise Hotel was equally silent and dead. There were no lights at the portico below, and only at the far end of the gently curved frontage of the building did any windows show a gleam of light. Had the stranger entered by this balcony?
It seemed the only possible explanation. The feat presented little difficulty to one who cared to take the risk of lowering himself from the balcony above. It would have been equally simple for any one possessing the familiar apparatus of a cat-burglar to climb from the balcony below: a telescopic rod to carry up the hook of a light rope-ladder, and the job was done. Alan suddenly remembered that the rooms beneath were occupied by Sir Richard Templeton. Had the barrister’s sitting-room been thus utilized? Leaning out as far as he could, he looked down. All of Templeton’s windows were in darkness.
An idea struck him. Slipping on a dressing-gown, he hurried into the corridor and ran lightly upstairs to the floor above. A yellow sign marked ‘Night Service’ glowed above a door, and he hurried towards it. The man on duty rose to his feet, surprised at being thus suddenly disturbed.
‘Who’s sleeping along this corridor on the left?’ demanded Gilmour. ‘I mean the second room from the end?’
‘On the right hand, sir?’
‘No, the left—looking out over the Park.’
‘Empty, sir,’ said the man.
‘You’re quite certain?’ queried Alan. ‘I have an idea something happened in there just now. Hadn’t we better go and have a look?’
Taking a key from the wall, the man went along the corridor and unlocked the door. Grey dust-sheets were over the furniture, and the window was certainly fastened on the inside.
‘Have you heard any movement in the last five minutes?’ inquired Gilmour.
‘No, sir.’ The man was emphatic.
‘Could anybody have left this room, and got away without you noticing it?’
‘Might be done, sir,’ admitted the man; ‘but I’ve got pretty good ears. What makes you think there was somebody in this room, sir?’
‘I sleep directly below,’ said Gilmour off-handedly. ‘Sorry I troubled you. I must have made a mistake.’
With a laugh he went downstairs to his room, and lit a cigarette. He was more convinced than ever that the intruder had made both entrance and exit by the window. The exit had been accomplished in such silence that it seemed the only possible explanation, and he gave a slight shiver as he recalled the ugly thud on the pillow where his head had lain. From the sound it might have been a sandbag which had been used to strike the blow. His eye went over to the bed, and he gave a low whistle.
He saw something which had not been there when he had left the room.
Pinned to the pillow was a slip of paper. A few quick strides and Alan was peering closely. It looked as if it had been torn from an ordinary sheet of the hotel notepaper, and scrawled across it in neat capitals were these words:
‘IT IS RECOMMENDED THAT MR. ALAN GILMOUR LEAVES THE MARQUISE HOTEL.’
CHAPTER XVI
IN WHICH SIR RICHARD TEMPLETON IS EMPHATIC
Alan smoothed out the slip of paper and stared at it thoughtfully. The whole business was extremely disturbing. It was plain that he had made an enemy—an enemy who was both ruthless and cunning. Gilmour didn’t mind a square fight in the open; but unknown dangers in the dark were not so much to his liking. He picked up the telephone at his bedside, and gave the number of Chief Inspector Tripp’s flat near Westminster.
Presently the detective’s rather sleepy voice came over the wire, and Alan gave a brief outline of what had occurred.
‘My dear chap!’ Tripp’s voice sounded uneasy. ‘You’d better clear out. Go to some other hotel to-morrow morning. You’ve given me a lot of help, and I’m grateful, but there’s no good taking further risks.’
‘We’ll discuss that later,’ said Alan with a laugh. ‘Somehow I don’t think the same gentleman will catch me napping a second time.’
‘There mustn’t be any second time. I’d advise you to get away from the place in the morning.’
After bolting as well as locking both doors, and fastening the window, Alan slept soundly. He had a substantial breakfast at the open window, basking in the glorious October sunshine. It gave promise of being a perfect autumn day. As he looked over St. James’s Park, with the sun making pools of colour among the falling leaves, he recalled how he had stood on this balcony in the darkness and listened to the solemn notes of Big Ben striking three. His experiences of the night seemed slightly unreal now, though they had been real enough then. If he had not slipped out of bed at the moment he did . . . It was an unpleasant thought. Tripp had advised him to clear out of the Marquise Hotel, but the more Alan thought this over the less he liked it. The idea of being scared away was distasteful, and things had reached too interesting a point to be casually dropped. Besides, there was Elizabeth Marlowe; if he cleared out, it would mean leaving her in the lurch. After pondering the whole situation, Alan came to the conclusion that he would remain where he was, and if the intruder of the night before cared to pay another visit, he would receive a slightly more vigorous welcome!
With leisurely ease Alan finished dressing, and opened a newspaper, wondering about the latest news of Lord John. There was nothing fresh, but considerable space was devoted to details about several of the man’s later exploits. Not a word was mentioned about the theft of the documents from Sir Richard Templeton: Tripp had evidently succeeded in keeping this quiet.