Athenian in the morning. They were on the point of leaving Havana by special government plane when Kennard Wood was overtaken by a messenger from the United States Minister—”
“So Longton came alone?”
“He came alone. Kennard Wood was to follow as soon as possible, and Jim intended to ring up his hotel directly he—awoke. For some reason they were travelling in great secrecy.”
“
I
know the reason!” said Smith grimly. “If you will be good enough to excuse us. Come on, Kerrigan.”
A grey-haired coloured manservant led the way upstairs, knocked upon, and then unlocked, a door. He switched on the light inside.
“Mr. James’s apartment, sir,” he murmured.
One analytical stare Smith directed upon the man’s face, and then:
“You may go,” he said.
We entered James Longton’s rooms. The first of these was a sitting-room, furnished in a manner that betrayed the hand of a woman. Some of the pictures, however, were obvious autobiographical, and there were college groups and a collection of pipes on the desk.
Nayland Smith, standing just inside the door, which he had closed, began sniffing.
“Do you notice any unusual smell, Kerrigan?”
At that I also directed my attention to the atmosphere of the place, and:
“Yes,” I replied, “there is faint, but very unpleasant smell. I am trying to place it.”
“I have placed it!” said Smith. “I have come across it before. Now for the bedroom—”
He opened a door, found the switch, and led the way into a small but adequately-equipped bedroom. Beyond, on the right, I saw a curtained recess in which presumably there was a bath. The place had a Spartan quality which may have reflected the character of the dead man; so that, noting a handsome Chinese casket on a table beside a bed—an item which seemed out of place—I was about to examine it, when:
“Don’t touch it!” snapped Smith. “Touch nothing. I am walking in the dark, and taking no chances. The unusual smell is more marked here?”
Startled by his abrupt order I turned from the box.
“Yes; it certainly seems to be. You have seen that the bed is much disarranged?”
“I have seen something else.”
He crossed to the draped recess, went in, and came out again.
“Longton undressed in the bathroom,” he said; “his clothes are there. He had a bath and then lay down. It is clear that he was tired out. His suitcase you see there on a chair, unopened. He just got into bed as he was and fell into a deep sleep. Now, you note a chill in the air?”
“Yes.”
“Unless I am on a wrong track we shall find a window open.”
He crossed and jerked the draperies aside. I saw moonlight glittering on water.
“Wide open!” he exclaimed; “a balcony outside.”
And as he stood there peering out and flashing a torch, in a moment of perhaps psychic clarity I saw him against a different background. I saw the bloody horror of Poland, the sullen sorrow of Czechoslovakia, the abasement of France, that grand defiance of Greece which I had known; and I saw guns blazing around a once peaceful English countryside. An enemy pounded at the gates of civilization; but Nayland Smith was here: therefore, here, and not in Europe, the real danger must lie.
Smith fumed and stared at the disordered bed.
“Observe anything unusual?” he snapped.
“It is all terribly untidy.”
“Really, Kerrigan, as a star reporter you disappoint me. A hostess of Mrs. Mendel Hammett’s calibre does not expect a guest to lie on a blanket. The under sheet is missing!”
“Good God! You’re right!”
He stared at me for a moment.
“They used it to lower his body to the garden,” he said slowly. “I can see the rope marks on the balcony rail! There is an old, strong clematis growing up the wall below. One of Fu-Manchu’s thugs climbed it whilst Longton was in the bath: he may or may not have forced open the window. He returned, later, bundled up the body, and lowered it to an assistant waiting in the garden.
“So Longton came alone?”
“He came alone. Kennard Wood was to follow as soon as possible, and Jim intended to ring up his hotel directly he—awoke. For some reason they were travelling in great secrecy.”
“
I
know the reason!” said Smith grimly. “If you will be good enough to excuse us. Come on, Kerrigan.”
A grey-haired coloured manservant led the way upstairs, knocked upon, and then unlocked, a door. He switched on the light inside.
“Mr. James’s apartment, sir,” he murmured.
One analytical stare Smith directed upon the man’s face, and then:
“You may go,” he said.
We entered James Longton’s rooms. The first of these was a sitting-room, furnished in a manner that betrayed the hand of a woman. Some of the pictures, however, were obvious autobiographical, and there were college groups and a collection of pipes on the desk.
Nayland Smith, standing just inside the door, which he had closed, began sniffing.
“Do you notice any unusual smell, Kerrigan?”
At that I also directed my attention to the atmosphere of the place, and:
“Yes,” I replied, “there is faint, but very unpleasant smell. I am trying to place it.”
“I have placed it!” said Smith. “I have come across it before. Now for the bedroom—”
He opened a door, found the switch, and led the way into a small but adequately-equipped bedroom. Beyond, on the right, I saw a curtained recess in which presumably there was a bath. The place had a Spartan quality which may have reflected the character of the dead man; so that, noting a handsome Chinese casket on a table beside a bed—an item which seemed out of place—I was about to examine it, when:
“Don’t touch it!” snapped Smith. “Touch nothing. I am walking in the dark, and taking no chances. The unusual smell is more marked here?”
Startled by his abrupt order I turned from the box.
“Yes; it certainly seems to be. You have seen that the bed is much disarranged?”
“I have seen something else.”
He crossed to the draped recess, went in, and came out again.
“Longton undressed in the bathroom,” he said; “his clothes are there. He had a bath and then lay down. It is clear that he was tired out. His suitcase you see there on a chair, unopened. He just got into bed as he was and fell into a deep sleep. Now, you note a chill in the air?”
“Yes.”
“Unless I am on a wrong track we shall find a window open.”
He crossed and jerked the draperies aside. I saw moonlight glittering on water.
“Wide open!” he exclaimed; “a balcony outside.”
And as he stood there peering out and flashing a torch, in a moment of perhaps psychic clarity I saw him against a different background. I saw the bloody horror of Poland, the sullen sorrow of Czechoslovakia, the abasement of France, that grand defiance of Greece which I had known; and I saw guns blazing around a once peaceful English countryside. An enemy pounded at the gates of civilization; but Nayland Smith was here: therefore, here, and not in Europe, the real danger must lie.
Smith fumed and stared at the disordered bed.
“Observe anything unusual?” he snapped.
“It is all terribly untidy.”
“Really, Kerrigan, as a star reporter you disappoint me. A hostess of Mrs. Mendel Hammett’s calibre does not expect a guest to lie on a blanket. The under sheet is missing!”
“Good God! You’re right!”
He stared at me for a moment.
“They used it to lower his body to the garden,” he said slowly. “I can see the rope marks on the balcony rail! There is an old, strong clematis growing up the wall below. One of Fu-Manchu’s thugs climbed it whilst Longton was in the bath: he may or may not have forced open the window. He returned, later, bundled up the body, and lowered it to an assistant waiting in the garden.
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