might break,
or she might be seized with a desire to go inland. More especially she might
not go swimming in the early morning again. It was an ideal setting: a lonely
beach in the very early morning, with the mist just rising. Too perfect a
chance to let go to waste.”
Yes, it was a good case. Edward Champneis went back to the house in
Regent’s Park which he had inherited with the Bremer fortune, and which
between his peregrinations he called home. And Grant went down to Westover
with a warrant in his pocket.
----
CHAPTER IX
IF there was one thing Toselli hated more than another it
was the police. All his life he had been no poor hater, Toselli. As commis he had hated the maitre maitre d’hôtel, as maitre d’hôtel he
had hated the management, as the management he hated many things: the chef,
wet weather, his wife, the head porter’s mustache, clients who demanded to
see him at breakfast time—oh, many things! But more than all he hated
the police. They were bad for business and bad for the digestion. It stopped
his digestive juices flowing just to see one of them walk in through the
glass doors. It was bad enough to remember his annual bill for New Year
“presents” to the local officers—thirty bottles of Scotch, thirty of
gin, two dozen champagne, and six of liqueur brandy it had come to last
year—but to suffer the invasion of officers not so far “looked after,”
and therefore callous to the brittle delicacy of hotel well-being—well,
it was more than Toselli’s abundant flesh and high-pressured blood could
stand.
That is why he smiled so sweetly upon Grant—all his life Toselli’s
smile had been stretched across his rage, like a tight-rope spanning a
chasm—and gave him one of the second-best cigars. Inspector Grant
wanted to interview the new waiter, did he? But certainly! This was the
waiter’s hour off—between lunch and afternoon tea—but he should
be sent for immediately.
“Stop!” said Grant. “You say the man is off duty? Do you know where he
will be?”
“Very probably in his room. Waiters like to take the weight off their feet
for a little, you understand.”
“I’d like to see him there.”
“But certainly. Tony!” Toselli called to a page passing the office door.
“Take this gentleman up to the room of the new waiter.”
“Thank you,” Grant said. “You’ll be here when I come down? I should like
to talk to you.”
“I shall be here.” Toselli’s tone expressed dramatic resignation. His
smile deepened as he flung out his hands. “Last week it was a stabbing affair
in the kitchen, this week it is—what? theft? affiliation?”
“I’ll tell you all about it presently, Mr. Toselli.”
“I shall be here.” His smile became ferocious “But not for long, no! I am
going to buy one of those businesses where one puts sixpence into a slot and
the meal comes out. Yes. There, but there, would be happiness.”
“Even there, there are bent coins,” Grant said as he followed Tony to the
lift.
“Sanger, you come up with me,” he said as they passed through the busy
hall. “You can wait for us here, Williams. We’ll bring him out this way. Much
less fuss than through the servants’ side. No one will notice anything. Car
waiting?”
“Yes, sir.”
Grant and Sanger went up in the lift. In those few seconds of sudden quiet
and suspended action, Grant found time to wonder why he had not shown his
warrant and told Toselli what he had come for. That would have been his
normal course. Why was he so anxious to have the bird in his hand? Was it
just the canniness of his Scots ancestry coming out, or was there a
presentiment that—that what? He didn’t know. He knew only that he was
here, he could not wait. Explanations could follow. He must have the man in
his hands.
The soft sound of the lift in the silence was like the sound of the
curtain going up.
At the very top of the colossal building which was the Westover
or she might be seized with a desire to go inland. More especially she might
not go swimming in the early morning again. It was an ideal setting: a lonely
beach in the very early morning, with the mist just rising. Too perfect a
chance to let go to waste.”
Yes, it was a good case. Edward Champneis went back to the house in
Regent’s Park which he had inherited with the Bremer fortune, and which
between his peregrinations he called home. And Grant went down to Westover
with a warrant in his pocket.
----
CHAPTER IX
IF there was one thing Toselli hated more than another it
was the police. All his life he had been no poor hater, Toselli. As commis he had hated the maitre maitre d’hôtel, as maitre d’hôtel he
had hated the management, as the management he hated many things: the chef,
wet weather, his wife, the head porter’s mustache, clients who demanded to
see him at breakfast time—oh, many things! But more than all he hated
the police. They were bad for business and bad for the digestion. It stopped
his digestive juices flowing just to see one of them walk in through the
glass doors. It was bad enough to remember his annual bill for New Year
“presents” to the local officers—thirty bottles of Scotch, thirty of
gin, two dozen champagne, and six of liqueur brandy it had come to last
year—but to suffer the invasion of officers not so far “looked after,”
and therefore callous to the brittle delicacy of hotel well-being—well,
it was more than Toselli’s abundant flesh and high-pressured blood could
stand.
That is why he smiled so sweetly upon Grant—all his life Toselli’s
smile had been stretched across his rage, like a tight-rope spanning a
chasm—and gave him one of the second-best cigars. Inspector Grant
wanted to interview the new waiter, did he? But certainly! This was the
waiter’s hour off—between lunch and afternoon tea—but he should
be sent for immediately.
“Stop!” said Grant. “You say the man is off duty? Do you know where he
will be?”
“Very probably in his room. Waiters like to take the weight off their feet
for a little, you understand.”
“I’d like to see him there.”
“But certainly. Tony!” Toselli called to a page passing the office door.
“Take this gentleman up to the room of the new waiter.”
“Thank you,” Grant said. “You’ll be here when I come down? I should like
to talk to you.”
“I shall be here.” Toselli’s tone expressed dramatic resignation. His
smile deepened as he flung out his hands. “Last week it was a stabbing affair
in the kitchen, this week it is—what? theft? affiliation?”
“I’ll tell you all about it presently, Mr. Toselli.”
“I shall be here.” His smile became ferocious “But not for long, no! I am
going to buy one of those businesses where one puts sixpence into a slot and
the meal comes out. Yes. There, but there, would be happiness.”
“Even there, there are bent coins,” Grant said as he followed Tony to the
lift.
“Sanger, you come up with me,” he said as they passed through the busy
hall. “You can wait for us here, Williams. We’ll bring him out this way. Much
less fuss than through the servants’ side. No one will notice anything. Car
waiting?”
“Yes, sir.”
Grant and Sanger went up in the lift. In those few seconds of sudden quiet
and suspended action, Grant found time to wonder why he had not shown his
warrant and told Toselli what he had come for. That would have been his
normal course. Why was he so anxious to have the bird in his hand? Was it
just the canniness of his Scots ancestry coming out, or was there a
presentiment that—that what? He didn’t know. He knew only that he was
here, he could not wait. Explanations could follow. He must have the man in
his hands.
The soft sound of the lift in the silence was like the sound of the
curtain going up.
At the very top of the colossal building which was the Westover
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