Alan found himself strangely unmoved at what they had discovered in the dusty little office at Rotherhithe. The murder of Lewin had come as a shock to him, certainly. But he knew that it must all along have been plain to Carlo Lewin that he was running the gravest risk in joining with Tom Young against Lord John. He had lost—and in losing he had lost his life. No doubt the world was well rid of a scheming rogue; but the unfortunate thing was that the documents had fallen into Lord John’s hands—and little doubt they were in ashes by this time.
It was not the dead Lewin, however, who was in Alan’s thoughts as the motor-car took him rapidly over Tower Bridge and turned westward: it was Elizabeth Marlowe. When Inspector Tripp had rung him up that morning, it was Elizabeth who had jumped at once to Alan’s mind. But Tripp had not even mentioned the girl’s name, and Alan thought it better to leave the subject alone. It was obvious, however, that she must have been in Tripp’s thoughts over the week-end, for the detective had said plainly that if anything happened at Holmdean her position would be precarious. . . . Was Tripp merely biding his time? No doubt careful investigations were still being made about the raid at Mrs. Prideaux’s country-house, and it was possible that Tripp was waiting for further evidence before he acted. Alan began to wish that he had asked a direct question about the matter, though he realized that it was unlikely he would have got much satisfaction, for Tripp knew too well the truth about his feelings towards Elizabeth Marlowe.
When Alan Gilmour got back to the hotel, he went to the bureau and asked for the key of his room.
‘What time will you be leaving to-day, sir?’ asked the clerk.
‘Leaving?’ Alan was puzzled.
‘You engaged your room for one week only,’ the clerk pointed out. ‘I have just had instructions from Mr. Olney that your room was taken by another party as from to-morrow.’
‘First I’ve heard of it,’ declared Alan.
‘Well, sir, if you had intended staying beyond the week, we naturally expected you to let us know. The hotel has filled up over the week-end. . . . Anyhow, these are Mr. Olney’s instructions. He asked me to find out what time you were leaving to-day.’
‘I’d better see Mr. Olney,’ said Alan. ‘There must be a mistake.’
‘He’s out at present, sir,’ replied the clerk, who was looking uncomfortable. ‘I’m very sorry indeed. It’s—it’s most unfortunate. But of course I can’t alter Mr. Olney’s instructions.’
‘I’m quite willing to clear out of my present room,’ said Alan, noting the clerk’s discomfiture; ‘but isn’t there any other room you can let me have?’
‘I’m afraid there isn’t, sir. Mr. Olney——’
By this time Alan was considerably nettled.
‘Never mind Mr. Olney,’ he said. ‘I want to see the manager of the hotel!’
‘I’m afraid he won’t be able to help you, sir.’
‘I want to see the manager,’ repeated Alan. ‘Will you please get on to him right away?’
The clerk spoke into a telephone.
‘Mr. King is very busy this morning, sir,’ he announced presently, ‘but he’ll see you in a minute or two. Do you mind going right through? It’s the door on the right marked “Private”.’
Alan walked across the foyer and knocked. A woman, whose greying hair contrasted with her remarkably youthful face and figure, asked him to enter and take a seat. She was Mr. Leopold King’s secretary, she said, and Mr. King would be free shortly. Alan looked around him. It was a tiny room with filing-cabinets of modernist design, and a typewriting machine stood on a table in the corner. In a minute or two an inner door opened. A man passed out—he looked like one of the under-managers—and a tiny bell trilled on the indicator beside the secretary’s table.
‘Mr. King will see you now,’ she said, showing Alan through into a large and magnificently furnished apartment decorated in soft tones of grey.
The manager of the Marquise Hotel sat at a desk in the centre. He rose, and with a slight bow indicated the low chair at his side.
Leopold King was a man of medium height, slender and lithe of build, with a pale skin and smooth jet-black hair. Alan had never met him before, though once or twice he had seen him pass unobtrusively across the main hall. It was the man’s eyes that now attracted his attention. They were of an oddly indeterminate colour, but were resolute and forceful and extraordinarily brilliant—the eyes of a man of unusual personality.
‘I understand you have a complaint to make, Mr. Gilmour?’
‘It amounts to this,’ said Alan. ‘They’re trying to turn me out of your hotel, Mr. King. Considering the courtesy and so forth I’ve had here for the last week, it strikes me as a bit queer. Do you mind looking into it personally?’
‘Surely there’s some misunderstanding!’ protested Leopold King in a quiet, cultured voice.
Somebody had told Alan that Leopold King was of Italian extraction, but there was nothing in the slightest degree foreign about his voice or manner: he might have been educated at an English public school. But when he excused himself for a moment and turned to the telephone, the language that flowed quickly from his lips—Spanish, it sounded to Alan—indicated a lengthy sojourn on the continent of Europe at some period of his life.
‘Forgive me, Mr. Gilmour,’ he said, replacing the receiver. ‘As to this little misunderstanding, I’m intensely sorry. That was one of my staff just now talking about the matter. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do. You told us definitely you would be leaving in a week. The week terminates to-day, and I’m afraid your room has been engaged from to-morrow onwards.’
‘But haven’t you another room in the place?’ demanded Alan. ‘As a matter of fact, there’s a particular reason why I want to stay on at the “Marquise” for a little longer.’
Leopold King shook his head.
‘I’m afraid there’s no other room free.’
‘Do you mean this hotel is absolutely bang full?’ asked Alan half-incredulously.
‘Some of the new rooms on the upper floors are not yet ready for occupation,’ admitted the manager guardedly. ‘I’m sorry, Mr. Gilmour, we can do nothing for you.’
Alan rose to his feet. ‘I’ve no wish to be offensive, Mr. King. No doubt you’re technically in the right——’
‘No doubt about that,’ agreed Leopold King quickly. ‘We must fulfil our obligations. But I will admit this, Mr. Gilmour—I think my staff at the reception-desk have been a little remiss in not mentioning this matter to you earlier. Will you please let me make what reparation I can?’ he added soothingly. ‘Since we’re apparently putting you to some inconvenience, I propose that the cost of your room here for this last week be deducted from your bill. Is that quite satisfactory to you?’
‘On the contrary,’ said Alan, ‘I’ve been perfectly comfortable here—why shouldn’t I pay for it?’ Biting his lips, he stood looking thoughtfully at the smooth, pale face of Leopold King, and he had a strange feeling that the man was not being quite straight with him. At the start, he had felt ruffled and angered at what almost amounted to a summary ejection from the hotel; but now he was merely puzzled. There was something damnably queer about the whole affair; it was impossible to believe that they couldn’t accommodate him if they wished. Had the instructions at the bureau come from Leopold King himself? Alan had the odd conviction that this was the case. But why on earth should this man want to get him out of the hotel?
An idea struck Alan. ‘Since my room hasn’t been engaged until to-morrow,’ he said, ‘have you any objection to my occupying it until then?’
The telephone bell cut sharply into the last few words of the sentence, and with an apology Leopold King turned to the instrument. Though he waited for nearly a minute with growing impatience, the line appeared to be dead, and he touched a button on his desk.