When the door was shut he turned the catch sidewise, locking the door from the inside.
Only then did he heave a sigh and turn round.
He crouched.
Some one was smoking a cigaret in the darkness of the room.
The murderer!
He rasped: “Don’t move. I’ve got you covered!”
“Really?” drawled Mr. Queen from behind the glowing tip of the cigaret. “Bluffer.”
XIII. Mr. Queen and Mr. Queen in Room 1726
“Nerves,” said Mr. Queen. “From which I gather you’ve been having a rough time of it.”
“Damn you,” said Beau. “How’d you get in?”
“As you see, in one piece. Oh, you don’t. Then let’s have some light. We both seem to need a lot of that.” Mr. Queen groped, found the light-switch, and snapped it on.
They blinked at each other, and then about the room.
“Don’t worry,” said Mr. Queen, noting the object of his partner’s scrutiny. “I shut the window at once, and of course the blind was drawn when I got here.”
“Prints?”
“I’m wearing gloves. As for you, don’t touch anything. When we’re through, there’s still the law.”
“You’d never know it,” grunted Beau. “Maybe with the light on, though — it’s only a few feet across the angle of the court to the window of the sitting room there—”
“No danger,” said Mr. Queen cheerfully. “This room is reserved, did you know that?”
Beau stared.
“Oh, you didn’t. Well, it is.”
“How d’ye know?”
“I asked.”
“You mean you just walked into the hotel—”
“Certainly. Always carry a badge or two. Detective What-You-Call-It, of H.Q. — at your service. I got in all right, and even made a few ‘official’ inquiries at the desk. Beat all around the mulberry bush to find out what I wanted to know without tipping my hand. At any rate, some one reserved Room 1726—”
“Man or woman?”
“No information. Reserved this room at about a quarter to nine this evening.”
“A quarter to nine? Why, Kerrie and I only checked in around half-past eight!”
Mr. Queen frowned. “That’s fast work. Followed you, do you suppose?”
“I don’t see how it’s possible. El, there’s been a leak!”
“Who knew you were coming to the Villanoy?”
“Only Margo. You know how I pretended to cook up that scheme with her. She fell for it, but insisted on knowing just where I was going, because she wanted to make sure I didn’t doublecross her. She even made me promise I wouldn’t spend the night with Kerrie — jealous as hell. Only Margo knew — so she’s the one who talked.”
“To whom?”
“To the same one she gave Kerrie’s gun to! How was the reservation made?”
“By wire, in an obviously false name — L. L. Howard. Of course, ‘Howard’ didn’t show up to claim the room — officially. Simply made sure the room would be unoccupied by reserving it, then let himself in with a skeleton key, I suppose, the way I did. How’s Kerrie?”
“Never mind,” said Beau miserably. “Let’s go.”
“You’re sure she didn’t bop Margo herself?”
“I told you what she told me! Don’t badger me. If we find evidence that some one was in this room, it’s a confirmation of her story, isn’t it?”
“It won’t mean much legally. Not a terribly inspiring room, is it?”
It was an ordinary single room-and-bath, with a bed, a dresser, two chairs, and a writing-table. The bed was prepared for the night, its spread neatly folded at the foot, and blankets turned down at one corner; but the pillows were plump and unwrinkled and the blankets smooth.
“Those ashes—” began Beau, pointing to the rug.
“Mine,” said Mr. Queen. “Also that butt in the tray on the desk. The other trays are clean, I see. Well, let’s begin with the bathroom. Look, but don’t touch.”
They went to work in silence. The bathroom was speckless — fresh towels laid out, clean bath-mat, paper-wrapped soap, shower-curtain, wash-rag. Nothing in the medicine chest. Nothing in the hamper. The washbowl was dry.
“That’s one,” said Mr. Queen, and they went back into the bedroom.
“Closet’s as clean as the bathroom,” announced Beau. “Not a sign. How you doin’?”
Mr. Queen crawled out from under the bed, “Remarkably efficient cleaning women in this hotel! Beau, start at the door and work towards the window. I’ll start at the window and work towards the door.”
“What on?”
“The rug.”
They crept towards each other in a weaving route — from one side of the room to the other. When they met in the middle of the room they glanced at each other and then rose.
“This,” remarked Mr. Queen, looking about, “is going to be tough.”
He went through the writing-desk and the dresser, not because he hoped but because he was thorough.
“That’s that,” he said. “Beau, what have we missed?”
“The window? Shade?”
“I went over them while you were in the closet. The only evidence that might be there is fingerprints, and while I can’t be sure, I’ve a feeling friend ‘Howard’ wore gloves.”
“But there must be something,” scowled Beau. “This guy was in here at least an hour, maybe more. You just can’t occupy a room for that length of time without leaving some trace of yourself.”
“‘Howard’ seems to have done it, though.”
“Well, let’s go. It’s a washout.” Beau turned disconsolately to the door.
“Wait, Beau. My fault!” Mr. Queen whirled.
“What’s your fault?”
“I overlooked something on this side of the room.”
“What?”
“The radiator.”
Beau joined him at the window. The cold steam-radiator stood directly beneath the sill.
Mr. Queen stooped over the coils, trying to peer between them. Then he lay down on the rug, twisting so that he might see clearly the narrow patch of rug just beneath the coils.
He stiffened. “Here’s something!”
“Hallelujah! Fish it out, Brother Queen!”
Mr. Queen reached in and, after a moment, delicately, between gloved thumb and gloved forefinger, drew out a longish slender object which tapered to a point.
It was black and made of a hard rubber composition. An automatic pencil.
The gold clip was loose.
“Simple enough to reconstruct what happened,” observed Mr. Queen after examination. “Whoever fired those shots at Margo Cole had to shoot through this window. So he was standing at the window — perhaps for a long time, watching from behind the drawn shade in the dark. At some point during that vigil, he stooped; and, the clip being loose, the pencil dropped from his pocket.
“By a miracle it missed both the sill and the radiator, falling through the space between them to the rug without making a sound. And it rolled several inches under the radiator. He had no reason to use a pencil, consequently he left without discovering his loss. Very considerate of him.”
“That’s all true the way you say it,” argued Beau. “But suppose it was dropped by some one who occupied this room yesterday, or last week, or last year?”
“Improbable. The room was prepared for occupancy late this evening, after the wired reservation. We know that, because the bed’s made up for the night. That means a maid cleaned up in here later than 8.45 tonight. And a maid who left not a speck of dust under a bed would scarcely have overlooked a pencil under a radiator. No, Beau, this pencil was dropped by ‘Howard,’ whoever he is.”