“According to Inspector Davies, at least seven or eight hours, and possibly more. He saw the body at about seven-forty-five this morning, I understand.”
“Well, I suppose I could just have done it,” reflected Giles. “Only I rather doubt, from my knowledge of him, whether I should have found Roger still up, and writing letters, at one in the morning.”
“You are not, at the moment, one of my suspects,” replied Hannasyde, with a glimmer of a smile. He turned, as Sergeant Hemingway came back into the room, escorting the hall-porter, and said in his pleasant way: “Good-morning. You are the porter here?”
“Yes, sir,” said the man, looking rather fearfully round the room. “Leastways, the night-porter, more properly speaking.”
“What is your name?”
“Fletcher, sir. Henry George Fletcher.”
The Sergeant interpolated: “I've got the name and address, Superintendent.”
“All right. What time do you come on duty, Fletcher?”
“At eight p.m., sir and go off the same a.m.”
“Are you on the premises for the whole of that time?”
Fletcher gave a slight cough. “Well, sir - official - like - if you take my meaning. Sometimes I do stroll out for a breather. I wouldn't be gone more than a couple of minutes or so. Not often, that is.”
“Did you go out last night?”
“No, sir.”
“You're quite sure of that?”
“Yes, sir. It turned that chilly yesterday evening I wouldn't want to, me being what you might call susceptible to cold. I had a bit of a fire in my room downstairs, which the Sergeant here has seen.”
“Small room, I thought,” said the Sergeant. “Draughty, I daresay.”
“It is that,” agreed the porter. “Sit with the door shut?”
“There isn't anything against it, not in my orders,” said Fletcher defensively, “If I'm wanted I'm rung for, and I'd hear the lift working, door or no door. I can keep my eye on things with it shut, on account of the upper part being glass, like you saw.”
“If you weren't having forty winks, you could,” said the Sergeant shrewdly.
“I don't sleep when I'm on duty,” muttered Fletcher.
Hannasyde said: “All right, Sergeant. I shouldn't imagine that anyone would blame you if you did doze a bit, Fletcher. It must be dull work. I take it you didn't hear anything that might have been a shot last night?”
“No, sir, else I would have up and said at once. But we're close to the Exhibition Road, and there was a lot of cars went down it last night on account of a big do they had at the Albert Hall. Charity ball, I believe it was. One way and another, there was a bit more noise than usual, though not in this building, that I'll swear.”
“I see. Is your main front door open all night, or do you shut it?”
“Not till midnight, I don't.”
“But you do shut it then?”
“Yes, sir. That's my orders.”
“So that anyone entering the building after twelve would be obliged to ring for you to let them in?”
“That's right, sir.”
“Did anyone come in late last night?”
“Oh yes, sir! Mr and Mrs Cholmondley of No. 15, they did. Then there was Sir George and Lady Fairfax, and the two young ladies, what was all at this ball I was telling you about; and Mr Humphries, of No. 6, he was out late, too; and Mrs Muskett, of No. 9; and Miss -”
“These are all residents, I take it? You didn't admit any visitors after twelve?”
“No, sir. Well, I wouldn't hardly expect to, not at that hour.”
“And before twelve do you remember whether you saw any stranger enter the building?”
The porter rubbed his chin. “Well, it's a bit hard to say, if you understand me,” he confided. “Of course if I was to see anyone hanging about suspicious like I should be on to them quick enough; but there's twenty flats here, sir, and people coming in and out a good bit. If anyone passes my door, I take a look naturally, but I wouldn't always like to swear who it was, not if they go straight past to the lift or the stairs. For instance, there was a couple of ladies went up last night, and three gentlemen to my certain knowledge. I fancy the first lady was Miss Matthews, but I only saw her hat, it being all on the side of her head, like they wear them now. She must have come in about eight-thirty or thereabouts. The other one come in soon after eleven, but I didn't get more than a glimpse of her. I never saw her go out again, so I expect it was Miss Turner, Mrs Delaford's personal maid, come home a bit late. Then there was a gentleman went up in the lift to the fourth or fifth floor. He was a stranger all right, because he came down again about eleven, and had me call him a taxi. Tall, military gentleman, he was. The second gentleman wanted Admiral Craven's flat, and I took him up. I didn't see the other, not properly, but he went up on his own, not using the lift. I rather thought it was young Mr Muskett, because he was wearing one of those black felt hats, which Mr Muskett does with his evening-clothes, but now you put me in mind of it I wouldn't wonder if it wasn't him at all, on account of Mr Muskett's flat being on the third floor, and him not being one to walk up when there's a lift.”
“Did you see him leave the building?” Hannasyde asked.
“Well, I can't rightly say as how I did,” confessed the porter.
“And are you sure that these were the only people who might have been strangers who came in last night?”
“I wouldn't say that,” replied Fletcher cautiously. “Not to take my oath on it, that is.”
It was quite evident that the porter had spent some part of the evening at least nodding comfortably over his fire. Nothing would be gained by forcing him to admit it, so Hannasyde wisely abandoned the subject “Who occupies the flat beside this one?” he asked.
“Mr Humphries does, sir. Him as I told you about. He was at that ball, and came home close on half-past four in the morning, very happy.”
“And on the other side of the landing?”
“Well, Mr and Mrs Tomlinson has No. 3, but they're away, and No. 4 is empty.”
“Is there anyone in the flat above this?”
“Yes, sir, Mrs Muskett, what was out late too. Well, when I say late, half-past twelve it would have been when she come in. But if you was thinking she might have heard the shot, I wouldn't like to say she would. These flats is built sound-proof.”
“I'll go up and see her, all the same,” Hannasyde said. “You needn't wait; I expect you want to get home.”
“Well, it is past my time,” agreed the porter. “Of course, if there's anything I can do -”
“No, nothing, thanks. But if I were you I wouldn't talk about this.”
“Not me, sir. Mr Jackson - he's the manager - will be in a rare taking over it when he gets to hear of it.”
Hannasyde paused. “Yes, where is the manager?” he asked.
“Away for the night,” answered the Sergeant. “Expected back this morning.”
“I see. If Hollis turns up while I'm gone, tell him to take the pistol for fingerprints, and to go over the likely places in this room, and the hall, and the bathroom. I shan't be long, I hope.”
He went out as he spoke, and the Sergeant and Giles Carrington were left to entertain one another until he returned. Sergeant Hollis arrived five minutes later, and Giles, watching him set to work, said: “Well, this is interesting, anyway. Do you think you could do the telephone first, Sergeant? It dawns on me that I had better ring up my office and tell them I'm frying other fish this morning.”
“Wasting your time a bit, aren't we, sir?” said Hemingway sympathetically. “It's routine work, this. I'd be willing to bet a fiver we don't get a single print, unless it might be on that cartridge-case.”
Giles had just concluded a conversation with the elder Carrington (who said explosively that if Giles meant to spend all day and every day in his cousins' pockets the sooner they were all wiped out the better it would be) when Hannasyde came back into the room. He paused for a moment, watching Hollis, and then glanced towards Giles. “Sorry to keep you hanging about like this. I'm going to Chelsea now. There's no reason for you to come if you don't want to, you know.”