Tripp’s quiet grey eyes scanned the pale, delicately cut features of Leopold King. ‘You’re extremely careful about the reputation of the Marquise Hotel, I perceive.’
‘Very careful indeed,’ agreed King.
‘In spite of the fact that you may be leaving the place soon?’ asked Tripp casually.
Leopold King gripped the arm of his chair. ‘Leaving?’ he repeated in a startled voice.
‘Perhaps I should have said “retiring”,’ murmured Inspector Tripp.
Leopold King moistened his lips. ‘When did you hear this?’ he demanded. ‘I have never said so.’
Tripp picked up his pencil and thoughtfully added several dots to the pattern on his blotting-pad. ‘Is it so, Mr. King, that you are negotiating the sale of your own interest and that of your friends—the controlling interest, I believe—in the Marquise Hotel shares?’
‘It’s a private company,’ burst out the other. ‘How did you know that?’
‘You don’t deny it?’ inquired Tripp.
Leopold King hesitated. ‘I have had an offer to purchase,’ he said, ‘though of course it may fall through in the end. But that matter is supposed to be strictly secret; meantime, there’s been a breach of confidence! I insist upon knowing where you heard of it.’
‘It’s impossible for me to say anything further, Mr. King. I happen to have picked up the information—which, by the way, will go no further. You must be satisfied with that.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Well, I’m glad you agree to let me send along some additional men to the “Marquise”, and I’ll detail three to-night. Will ten o’clock suit you—ten-thirty? Very good. No doubt you can fix them up in some subordinate job, where they won’t be a nuisance to any one. I think that’s all, Mr. King. I’m grateful to you for coming here to talk this over. If anything crops up that you think I ought to know, you won’t hesitate to telephone me? Many thanks.’
When Leopold King arrived back at the Marquise Hotel he told his secretary that he did not want to be interrupted for at least half an hour. Turning a key in his door, he walked across the room and opened a small safe concealed within a wooden cabinet. From this he took two long, thin keys of unusually intricate pattern, then opened a door in the wall, disclosing the entrance to the strong-room.
This door had three locks, two of which were operated by key, the third by combination. This combination was known only to himself; he carried it in his memory, though a note of it was deposited at his bankers for use in emergency.
The huge steel door swung open. Switching on the electric light, Leopold King entered, and more than half an hour had passed before he emerged from the chamber.
CHAPTER XXIX
WITH THE RIVER POLICE
That evening after dinner Alan was having a quiet cigar in the smoking-room. It was his last night in the Marquise Hotel, and he was contemplating the fact ruefully. For one thing, there was a strong chance that he would never see Elizabeth Marlowe again, and in spite of all that had passed this thought gave him a stab of pain, for he was finding the process of falling out of love a little more difficult than he had imagined. In his heart of hearts he still believed in her innocence; he still believed that there was some explanation for her actions which it was not in her power to make; he still believed that if only she could be persuaded to confide in him, he could straighten things out for her. . . . But there was precious little chance of that now! . . .
More, he realized that when he left the Marquise Hotel it would mean the end of his connexion with the Lord John case—and probably of his friendship with Inspector Tripp, that little quiet-voiced man with the gentle grey eyes for whom he had acquired a genuine regard during the past week. . . .
Tactfully requested to leave! . . . That’s what it amounted to; he was more than ever convinced of it—more than ever convinced that this had been prearranged between Sir Richard Templeton and Leopold King. Alan had spent a night at the village inn at Holmdean; perhaps this fact had reached the barrister’s ears, and it was this which had finally impelled him to ask his friend Leopold King to remove him to a more convenient distance from his suite at the ‘Marquise’. But if such was the explanation, what was it that Sir Richard Templeton had to conceal?
‘I’ll see if I can get hold of Tripp,’ murmured Alan, rising and going upstairs to a telephone-box.
Tripp was not at his flat; his housekeeper said she thought he was still on duty, for he had sent word that he might not be home until the early hours of the morning. Alan put through a telephone call to the Yard. Yes, Inspector Tripp was in the building, the man on the instrument-board at the ‘PBX’ told him, but he was not in his own room; and it was a couple of minutes before he was located in the Criminal Record Office.
‘You want to see me now, Gilmour?’ asked Tripp, and Alan could discern a note of suppressed excitement in his usually calm voice.
‘There’s no particular hurry. I’ve got something to tell you. It mightn’t be of any importance, but I think you ought to know about it.’
‘Right; come along. But I’ve got to go out in twenty minutes, so don’t waste any time.’
Alan picked up a taxi-cab, which whirled him down Whitehall and swung in under the grim archway of the Yard.
The constable on duty at the door recognized him, and, putting through the usual call of inquiry, handed Alan over at once to a messenger.
Inspector Tripp was alone in his room, immersed in several foolscap sheets of small, spidery handwriting.
‘That’s quick work, Gilmour,’ he remarked, glancing at the clock. ‘Sit down; I won’t keep you a moment.’
But over five minutes had passed before he stabbed his pen in the ink and, initialling each sheet, hurried from the room. When he returned he knocked the ashes from his pipe and stuffed it into his pocket. ‘Now, Gilmour, you’ve got something to tell me?’
‘I’ve been chucked out of the Marquise Hotel,’ said Alan bluntly.
‘Jolly good job too,’ replied Tripp with a grin. ‘Have you been getting tight and smashing up a cocktail bar?’
‘I’ve got to clear out of my room to-morrow, and Leopold King is trying to make me believe there isn’t another he can let me have. His excuse is that I should have given notice if I wanted to stay on. Apparently I booked my room for one week—at least, so they say.’
‘H’m,’ murmured the detective. ‘Looks as if Leopold King doesn’t love you. Got any idea what’s behind it?’
Alan shook his head. ‘But I have a queer notion that Sir Richard Templeton comes into the picture somewhere. He and Leopold King are supposed to be pretty close friends, aren’t they?’
Tripp was biting his small grey moustache. ‘Well, whether it’s Templeton’s doing or not, I’m not sorry you’re leaving the “Marquise”—you know my views about that! I’ve warned you more than once to clear out. You’ve been a mighty sight too useful to Scotland Yard lately for Lord John’s taste. . . . You’ll let me know your new address, won’t you?’ He rose and slipped on a large mackintosh, and picked up an ancient soft-felt hat. ‘I’m sorry I’ve got to push along. I wish you had rung me up a couple of hours ago—I could have told you a rather interesting story. We’ve been working like niggers all day on this Carlo Lewin business. Given any luck at all, the man who murdered him should be in the cells before midnight.’
Alan was already on his feet, and he took a step forward. ‘You’ve found Lord John——’
‘It wasn’t Lord John who murdered Lewin,’ said Tripp quietly. ‘It was his dear friend Tom Young. There must have been a row in Lewin’s office last night—a bust up was almost inevitable between these two. I should think they’ve been quarrelling like cat and dog about the Lord John documents. Well, we’re pulling in Tom Young now, and charging him with the murder. That puts “paid” to his little activities. As you know, we’ve suspected he was Lord John’s “fence”—receiver and disposer of stolen goods. We may be able to prove it now.’