Marine
Hotel, were the quarters of those waiters who were resident: small single
rooms set in a row close together under the roof. As the page put out a bony
fist to knock on a door, Grant restrained him. “All right, thank you,” he
said, and page and liftman disappeared into the crowded and luxurious depths,
leaving the two policemen on the deserted coconut-matted landing. It was very
quiet up there.
Grant knocked.
Tisdall’s indifferent voice bade him come in.
The room was so small that Grant’s involuntary thought was that the cell
that waited would be no great change. A bed on one side, a window on the
other, and in the far wall two cupboard doors. On the bed lay Tisdall in his
shirt sleeves, his shoes on the floor. A book lay open, face down, on the
coverlet.
He had expected to see a colleague. That was obvious. At the sight of
Grant his eyes widened, and as they traveled to Sanger, standing behind Grant
in the doorway, realization flooded them.
Before Grant could speak, he said, “You can’t mean it!”
“Yes, I’m afraid we do,” Grant said. He said his regulation piece of
announcement and warning, Tisdall sitting with feet dangling on the bed’s
edge, not apparently listening.
When he had finished Tisdall said slowly: “I expect this is what death is
like when you meet it. Sort of wildly unfair but inevitable.”
“How were you so sure what we had come for?”
“It doesn’t need two of you to ask about my health.” His voice rose a
little. “What I want to know is why you’re doing it? What have you against
me? You can’t have proved that button was mine because it wasn’t. Why don’t
you tell me what you have found so that I can explain away whatever it was?
If you have new evidence you can surely ask me for an explanation. I have a
right to know, haven’t I? Whether I can explain or not?”
“There isn’t anything you could explain away, Tisdall. You’d better get
ready to come with us.”
Tisdall got to his feet, his mind still entangled in the unbelievableness
of what was happening to him. “I can’t go in these things,” he said, looking
down at his waiter’s dress. “Can I change?”
“Yes, you can change, and take some things with you.” Grant’s hands ran
over his pockets in expert questioning, and came away empty. “But you’ll have
to do it with us here. Don’t be too long about it, will you? You can wait
there, Sanger,” he added, and swung the door to, leaving Sanger outside. He
himself moved over to lean against the windowsill. It was a long way to the
ground, and Tisdall, in Grant’s opinion, was the suicide type. Not enough
guts to brazen a thing out. Not enough vanity, perhaps to like the limelight
at any price. Certainly the “everyone sorry when I’m dead” type.
Grant watched him now with minute attention. To an outsider he was a
casual visitor, propped casually in the window while he indulged in casual
conversation. In reality he was ready for instant emergency.
But there was no excitement. Tisdall pulled his suitcase from under the
bed, and began with automatic method to change into his tweed and flannels.
Grant felt that if the man carried poison, it would be somewhere in his
working garments, and unconsciously relaxed a little as the waiter’s dress
was cast aside. There was going to be no trouble. The man was coming
quietly.
“I needn’t have worried as to how I was going to live,” Tisdall was
saying. “There seems to be a moral somewhere in this very immoral proceeding.
What do I do about a lawyer, by the way, when I have no money and no
friends?”
“One will be provided.”
“Like a table napkin. I see.”
He opened the cupboard nearest to Grant, and began to take things from
their hangers and fold them into his case.
“At least you can tell me what my motive was?” he said presently, as if a
new thought had struck him. “You can mistake buttons; you can even wish a
button on to a
Hotel, were the quarters of those waiters who were resident: small single
rooms set in a row close together under the roof. As the page put out a bony
fist to knock on a door, Grant restrained him. “All right, thank you,” he
said, and page and liftman disappeared into the crowded and luxurious depths,
leaving the two policemen on the deserted coconut-matted landing. It was very
quiet up there.
Grant knocked.
Tisdall’s indifferent voice bade him come in.
The room was so small that Grant’s involuntary thought was that the cell
that waited would be no great change. A bed on one side, a window on the
other, and in the far wall two cupboard doors. On the bed lay Tisdall in his
shirt sleeves, his shoes on the floor. A book lay open, face down, on the
coverlet.
He had expected to see a colleague. That was obvious. At the sight of
Grant his eyes widened, and as they traveled to Sanger, standing behind Grant
in the doorway, realization flooded them.
Before Grant could speak, he said, “You can’t mean it!”
“Yes, I’m afraid we do,” Grant said. He said his regulation piece of
announcement and warning, Tisdall sitting with feet dangling on the bed’s
edge, not apparently listening.
When he had finished Tisdall said slowly: “I expect this is what death is
like when you meet it. Sort of wildly unfair but inevitable.”
“How were you so sure what we had come for?”
“It doesn’t need two of you to ask about my health.” His voice rose a
little. “What I want to know is why you’re doing it? What have you against
me? You can’t have proved that button was mine because it wasn’t. Why don’t
you tell me what you have found so that I can explain away whatever it was?
If you have new evidence you can surely ask me for an explanation. I have a
right to know, haven’t I? Whether I can explain or not?”
“There isn’t anything you could explain away, Tisdall. You’d better get
ready to come with us.”
Tisdall got to his feet, his mind still entangled in the unbelievableness
of what was happening to him. “I can’t go in these things,” he said, looking
down at his waiter’s dress. “Can I change?”
“Yes, you can change, and take some things with you.” Grant’s hands ran
over his pockets in expert questioning, and came away empty. “But you’ll have
to do it with us here. Don’t be too long about it, will you? You can wait
there, Sanger,” he added, and swung the door to, leaving Sanger outside. He
himself moved over to lean against the windowsill. It was a long way to the
ground, and Tisdall, in Grant’s opinion, was the suicide type. Not enough
guts to brazen a thing out. Not enough vanity, perhaps to like the limelight
at any price. Certainly the “everyone sorry when I’m dead” type.
Grant watched him now with minute attention. To an outsider he was a
casual visitor, propped casually in the window while he indulged in casual
conversation. In reality he was ready for instant emergency.
But there was no excitement. Tisdall pulled his suitcase from under the
bed, and began with automatic method to change into his tweed and flannels.
Grant felt that if the man carried poison, it would be somewhere in his
working garments, and unconsciously relaxed a little as the waiter’s dress
was cast aside. There was going to be no trouble. The man was coming
quietly.
“I needn’t have worried as to how I was going to live,” Tisdall was
saying. “There seems to be a moral somewhere in this very immoral proceeding.
What do I do about a lawyer, by the way, when I have no money and no
friends?”
“One will be provided.”
“Like a table napkin. I see.”
He opened the cupboard nearest to Grant, and began to take things from
their hangers and fold them into his case.
“At least you can tell me what my motive was?” he said presently, as if a
new thought had struck him. “You can mistake buttons; you can even wish a
button on to a
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