‘I know what I’m talking about! Follow him—find out where he goes. Can you do it? If you can’t, say so. There isn’t a split second to lose.’
The urgency of Alan’s tone was convincing. The young man jumped into the driving seat, and held the door open: ‘Come along.’
But Alan waved his hand impatiently: ‘Push on alone. I must warn the police he’s been here. Ring me up as soon as you can—I’ll wait at the hotel. Gilmour’s my name . . .
The big red touring car was already throbbing, and it was off like a streak towards Trafalgar Square . . .
In response to Alan’s telephone call, the operator at Scotland Yard informed him that Tripp was not in the building, and plugged through to Chief Inspector Holtby.
‘If your man can hang on to his tail there’s just a chance,’ said Holtby tersely. ‘He turned west, did you say? Good! There’s a Flying Squad car out Knightsbridge way—I’ll warn it right away.’ Alan heard him shout a message over his shoulder to somebody in the room. ‘Ring off, Mr. Gilmour, will you? I want to call up the hotel manager and get in touch with our men there.’
Alan hung up the receiver. Had the worst happened? Did Mr. Julius Brown’s successful exit imply that Lord John had already pulled off the coup which he had apparently been planning? As Alan hurried upstairs to the room from which he had seen Julius Brown emerge, the pure audacity of the thing almost took his breath away.
He knocked on the door, but there was no response, and he entered. It was a large bedroom; several pieces of luggage lay open beside the couch at the foot of the bed. Then he noticed a door which appeared to communicate with the next room. Once more there was no reply to his knock, and when he opened the door he found himself in a narrow passage belonging to a small suite. As he hesitated a step sounded behind him, and Gilmour swung round.
A dark-skinned figure in a turban entered, then drew back with a low exclamation of surprise.
‘Sorry pushing in like this,’ said Alan quickly, ‘but I’ve just been in touch with Scotland Yard. A man wanted by the police has just been in here.’
The new-comer seemed to be completely nonplussed, and his dark fingers made curious gestures in the air, as though he did not comprehend.
At the first hurried glance Alan had thought he was addressing the Rajah of Nalbari himself, but now he saw that this man was more stoutly built, and his turban was of a darker colour. Evidently he was one of the Rajah’s attendants—perhaps a secretary or a valet. . . .
Alan repeated what he had said. ‘Has anything been stolen?’ he added hastily. ‘The man I saw wasn’t in here for any good purpose—you’d better have a look round!’
The dark-skinned figure moved nervously towards the open suit-cases. ‘I should not have left the room! The fault is mine. If anything has been taken——’ He broke off helplessly, and began to examine the luggage. ‘I have been packing, ready to leave. His Highness has just heard from Paris—we return there this afternoon. . . .’ He rose from his knees. ‘His Highness is in his room—I will inform him of what you say. . . .’
With some reluctance he went into the narrow passage of the suite, and knocked deferentially on a door. There was a quick mutter of some Eastern language, and then the Rajah of Nalbari himself emerged, followed by the other.
‘You are certain that this was the room?’ he asked Alan Gilmour, speaking in careful and modulated English.
‘I’m positive,’ declared Alan. ‘I warned the police at once. Has anything been stolen?’
The Rajah glanced at the luggage on the floor, then looked at his attendant. ‘You have been careless!’ he said sharply, drawing himself up. ‘Did you leave your door unfastened? You know my orders!’
The man replied in his native tongue; then his face changed, as though he had remembered something, and he made a hurried dart across the room and pulled open a drawer. With a cry of distress, he raised his hands and turned to the Rajah, talking incoherently.
There was a rapid interchange of talk, and it lasted nearly a minute before the Rajah addressed Alan.
‘A considerable sum of money has gone. About a thousand pounds, mostly in French notes. My valet had charge of it. He must have left the door of this room unfastened. Will you please ask the hotel manager to inform the police? This is most unfortunate. I leave for Paris this afternoon.’
Alan hurried downstairs to the manager’s room. A Scotland Yard man was already there—one of the plain-clothes men Leopold King had been persuaded to install temporarily in a subordinate post in the hotel. In a few words Alan gave the necessary information, then slipped quietly away, leaving word that he would be found in the front lounge if required.
About a thousand pounds has been stolen from the Rajah’s bedroom. . . . But possibly by this time they had discovered that something more important than a sum of money was missing. To Lord John a thousand pounds was a mere bagatelle; no doubt there were further revelations to come. Alan went over to the bureau to ask if a telephone call had come for him, and, instructing the clerk where he was to be found, went back to his arm-chair in the front lounge. He tried to smoke, but gave it up in exasperation. More than that, he was tempted to hurry upstairs and see what was happening, but remembered that the young man in the red touring-car might ring up any moment now, and if he had been able to trace Julius Brown the information would be vital. Half an hour passed, then an hour, and so the afternoon wore on, and Alan’s feelings of isolation increased. Had the Flying Squad car picked up Julius Brown’s trail? It seemed odd that Tripp had not got in touch with him before this. . . .
Alan could see through the glass screen into the foyer and entrance hall, and soon after five o’clock he noticed signs of excitement at the front door. Somebody was reading aloud from a newspaper, and two or three others had gathered round him. News of some kind had arrived! Alan rose and hurried out. The paper-seller on the street had a placard, and on it Alan’s eye caught the words ‘Lord John’. Rushing past the commissionaire, he was able to see the announcement:
In a fever, he grabbed at a newspaper, tossing a coin to the man. There was nothing on the front page, and he turned with trembling fingers to the Stop Press. Hastily his eye ran over the six inches of smudged type. Julius Brown, believed to be Lord John, was dead! In attempting to escape from the Flying Squad and a red touring-car driven by a civilian who was helping in the chase, he had skidded on the Portsmouth Road, his car overturning. He had expired twenty minutes later.
Alan read through the paragraph again, oblivious of the rain that was lashing down on him. Julius Brown dead! Inspector Tripp had been correct: in the end Lord John had been found at the Marquise Hotel! Under what disguise, under what name, had he been living? . . . These thoughts and others jostled through Alan’s mind as he went indoors and without hesitation hurried upstairs to Elizabeth Marlowe’s room. He knew that Templeton was not in the hotel, so the girl would be alone. He could hear the rattle of her typewriter as he opened the outer door.
‘Can I come in, Elizabeth? There’s news that I think you should know at once.’
Without a word she stepped back to let him pass.
‘Have you heard, Elizabeth?’
When she read the paragraph to which he pointed her eyes dilated and her face went white.
‘Dead,’ she whispered. ‘Dead. . . .’
‘Listen!’ Alan spoke quietly. ‘Listen, Elizabeth. You must try to pull yourself together. Tell me—have the police been to see you to-day?’
She shook her head, her hand at her heart.