Annette Taylor, for all that her meager belongings revealed, was just what she had said that she was. Her trunk and baggage bore her initials, and so did her cheap handkerchiefs and underwear, put on with indelible ink.
She had a few books with her of a general character, a toilet set in bone, a fountain pen, a bottle of moderate-priced toilette water.
“No letters, not a notebook, not a scrap of memoranda, and no money,” Juan said, as the search was ended.
Inspector Hand nodded.
“I suppose that the murderer took the money. Her purse is empty, except for her cabin-door key. He sprang the catch as he went out.”
“He might have taken the letters that she had with her, too?”
“Yes, he might. He did not look in the trunk, though, nor through the bags. Struck her as she lay asleep, and then pulled the bedclothes up around her again.”
“The only strange thing about all this that you have found, is that you found so little,” said Juan. “The most ignorant people usually have letters with them, bills, receipted or not, postals — things of that sort.”
“Yes, there was evidently nothing in the trunk or the bags known to the murderer if, as you have suggested, this was more than a common murder. Whatever it was, if it was a thing — an object — was in the purse.
“The money found on the man might have been taken from her. I am inclined to agree with you that this is not an ordinary murder. I’ll call you then in regard to it, in a day or two.”
“Yes. Remember to call me through the Ritz. Explain over the wire what it’s about. The operators always more or less listen in to calls, and if I am under suspicion by whatever gang is operating, at the switchboard is right where they will look for information about me.”
There was now a knock on the door, and a spectacled young man with a camera and a small suitcase was admitted by the inspector.
“Take every print that you find, no matter what it is,” said the inspector, preparing to leave. “Also photos of the room. Conference to-morrow morning.”
In the corridor, where the steward awaited them, the inspector formally thanked Don Jaime and his man, was sorry that the matter remained practically without explanation, trusted that Don Jaime would have a pleasant stay in the British Isles, and was off, swinging his little stick, and looking more like a prosperous merchant than ever.
“A very fine example of English efficiency, that Inspector Hand,” said Don Jaime to Michael as they went past the steward.
“A good machine,” said Michael, when they were out of earshot of the steward.
“If the rank and file of ours were as good we could be thankful,” the other replied. “Of course, he did not see the two drops of blood by the door.”
“Nor that several other drops had been wiped off the carpet nearer the bed.”
“Ah, ha, Michael — you always see more than I do.”
“On the floor, especially; I’m nearer to it!”
“She opened the door to him, then?”
“The moment that she did, she saw her danger, or perhaps did not — her face was peaceful — and turned, and he struck her. Then he snatched her up and put her back in bed before there was more than a drop or two of blood to fall. He saw those near the bed—”
“Which argues that he turned on the light—”
“—and wiped them up, possibly with his bare hand.”
“Does nothing occur to you, Michael?”
“N-no. I think that’s all.”
“She was in her nightdress, wasn’t she, when struck?”
“Yes, yes — of course. Now you are the smart one.”
“Did she strike you as the kind of a girl who would open her bedroom door to a strange man without stopping to throw on the robe that hung over her berth?”
“No.”
“Very well, then. You see that she must have known the man. Not only that, she must have known him so intimately that she had no instinct to dress before receiving him.”
“Let us think,” said Michael. “Were they at all alike? I have her sketched — did it as soon as I talked to her.”
Now they hurried to the suite and opened the dispatch bag which Michael always earned with him. “I put these sketches ere, as the safest place,” he said.
Together they looked long and carefully at the two pieces of paper on which there were, respectively, the profiles, full faces, and three-quarter views of the two who had died on the Aquitania.
After a long moment they raised their eyes, and nodded at each other.
“Relatives,” said Michael positively. “Perhaps brother and sister, or even father and daughter. We shall see whether the man’s hair was dyed. I suspect that it was. There was a peculiar color about it which makes me think that it is really gray.”
“We have gained very little,” said Juan, sighing. He had that one temperamental “trick.” Unless things were at high tension he felt that no progress was being made.
Chapter XII
At Scotland Yard
When the big car in which Don Jaime de Ventura and his “man” were traveling passed through the severe entrance of Scotland Yard he who was really the criminal scholar, Harvey Lettner, looked out curiously.
“I’ve never been in London before long enough to see all the places that I wanted to,” he said. “This time I hope that I can see something of the old town. That was sure fast and furious work we had when you were here on the Buchner case; as Don Jaime, in that case, you sure were a heart breaker.”
“You hush!” said his companion, with a well-imitated snarl. “That’s what Hoofty is always — I wonder if he arrived all right? We ought to have had a note from him this morning.”
“I was a little worried about him myself,” said Michael, as they got out of the car and were met by a man who was evidently waiting for them. “But I got word to him before Inspector Hand came aboard and found that he was all right. Not a word had leaked to the steerage about the murders.”
There are all sorts of things in the big pile of buildings called Scotland Yard, but the room into which “Don Jaime” and “Michael Strogoff” were ushered might have been the living room of a rather studious gentleman of quiet tastes.
It was the office of a chief inspector of one of the departments of the I, C. E., which is the official name of the organization housed in the historic pile.
Chief Inspector Cross proved to be a man who bore out the impression created by his room. He wore spectacles, and his suit, although of good quality, would have been the better for the attention of a valet.
Michael, who had played the valet so many times that he had a corner of his mind in which he actually was the servant, looked with disapproval at the wrinkled trouser knees and at the deep creases in the sleeves, and wished that he might suggest a fine man whom he knew — strictly in his character as Michael Strogoff — who might be had at a moderate sum, a prince of valets.
Chief Inspector Cross was also an exception to one’s conception of a high police official, in that he had not the slightest air of sternness, but appeared, on the contrary, rather shy of his most distinguished-looking guest, whose dark good looks and immaculate turnout seemed to impress him.
While the introductions were taking place Inspector Hand came in, cane swinging, notebook out, handkerchief as fresh as ever, as though he had that moment stepped away from them on the Aquitania.
“I think you will be interested in this gentleman, sir,” he said. “I suppose he was introduced to you as a Spaniard?”
The chief inspector said yes, he had been, and showed that his mental processes were not slow by instantly looking with added interest at Juan.
Inspector Hand smiled, and waved his well-manicured hand at the two guests in exactly the manner of a good merchant who has a surprising bargain with which to startle you.