Dorothy Fielding - Chief Inspector Pointer's Cases - 12 Golden Age Murder Mysteries

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EIGHT o'clock next morning found the Chief Inspector wrapped in slumber. The Boots interrupted them to tell him that there was an insistent telephone call for Mr. Deane—a lady speaking from Cannes. Grateful for the fact that science did not yet enable Miss West to see him as well as hear him, Mr. Deane descended the stairs sleepily after the briefest of toilets.

"Gladys speaking. I was at Monte Carlo last night with some Americans, and in the Rooms I saw a lady I had last seen in London at the hotel which we so often talk about. She had room number twelve there. You remember her, too, don't you?"

"Perfectly. What was she doing when you caught sight of her?"

A little gurgle came through. "Talking to Jack."

"Indeed!" Pointer's voice sounded as amused as hers, but his eyes were hard and keen. "Oh, indeed! Had she got rid of her cold?"

"You'll have to ask him. I was miles away from them, stuck in a block of people around one of the tables. But it seems that Jack was only telling her the way out."

"You saw him later on?"

"No. He too had vanished by the time I got clear. You see, he didn't expect me there. I had tried to 'phone him, but he was out all day. But I got through to him the first thing this morning."

Pointer's free hand gave an impatient tap to the table.

"Bless all amateurs!" he would have liked to reply, but he changed it instead to "I see. But first about yourself. You didn't notice where Miss—umph—"

"Twelve went to?"

"No, I only saw her for the one second, but I thought you'd be interested."

"Quite right. How was she dressed?"

"Beautifully, I guess. I can't get used to people leaving all their clothes behind them, but she had as much on as the wife of one of your ambassadors who was there, too, and Miss Les—Twelve had the finer jewels."

"Did Mr. Crane have anything interesting to tell you about her?"

"Oh, no, he was merely watching a table when she asked him the way out. She was standing beside him you see, and as she really was a lady, and alone, and had got separated from her husband, why, of course, he showed her the way out himself. In the vestibule sure enough was the husband, and they went off together. John had had enough of the rooms—and isn't the air hot inside—so he roamed along the terasse —you know what a wonderful night it was, and then after supper at the Paris motored back to Nice. But say now, Mr. Deane, don't you want to come and have a nice long talk with me, or have me come and see you? I'm so dull here."

There was nothing she could do yet, Pointer assured her, by which he meant that there was nothing he wanted her to do, and remained adamant in spite of all her appeals. His next 'phone was to Watts to come immediately to the hotel. Then he rang up Carter, who having a 'phone beside his bed answered at once, but apparently he could add nothing to Miss West's account. Until Christine had 'phoned him half an hour before he had had no idea as to who the lady was who had spoken to him last night at the Monte Carlo Rooms. Her husband was a smart, youngish-looking man with something military about his get-up. Where the couple went to Carter did not try to see.

Toule, the French detective "attached" to Carter, when questioned next on the 'phone, only knew that "Mr. Crane" had taken a car from the hotel and driven along the Corniche road to Monte Carlo, returning late at night—about twelve the hotel-porter said.

"Humph!" was the only comment of Mr. Deane as he returned to his room, where Watts was already waiting.

"Watts, get off to Monte Carlo at once. Miss West saw Miss Leslie and Carter talking together in the Rooms there last night. His explanation is"—the Chief Inspector repeated the conversations. "You have a snapshot of her—" The ladies occupying both No. 12 and No. 11 of the Enterprise had been snapshotted going down the hotel steps on the Monday following the discovery of "Eames' suicide."

"Rake the coast from Ventimiglia to Marseilles if you have to, but get on her track. What will you go as?"

"Colonel Hunter," Watts said gloomily. He disliked that gentleman exceedingly, from his walrus moustache to his political opinions, and his miserable gold handicap, but it was his best impersonation, and the only one for which he had a passport.

"Right."

The future Colonel bustled off after making a note or two. He did not report for a couple of days, and then he called up Pointer to say that Captain and Mrs. Anstruther were also stopping at the Negresco, where, oddly enough, they had gone from the Hermitage, the afternoon after the lady was seen talking to Carter. In the hotel a slight, casual-looking acquaintance seemed to have been struck up between them and Carter, ostensibly connected with his civility to Mrs. Anstruther at Monte Carlo. The closest watching had as yet shown nothing suspicious beyond the facts themselves.

Within the hour a tall, dark-haired, black-mustached man sent in his name to Mrs. Anstruther as one of the Daily Post's reporters.

It was Captain Anstruther who came down into the lounge instead.

"My wife does not care to be interviewed," he said shortly, handing back his card to "Mr. Wiley."

"We are at a loss to understand why she should be singled out for the favor."

"It's about her contract at the Columbine," the journalist said chattily, "but you might do as well. The D.P. wants to know what has become of Miss Leslie and—"

"Come upstairs." Captain Anstruther spoke with more haste than hospitality. "I don't know how you got on to the fact that my wife was Miss Leslie..."

"Recognized her."

"Well, you tell your paper that she's retired into private life. Look here, it's worth our while to make it worth your while to mention no names. See?"

"I do. But our paper thinks she married a Mr. Black, of Richmond,—or no, another place on the river—"

Captain Anstruther looked still more vexed.

"Of all the damned spying!—I'm a nephew of those Blacks as a matter of fact. Look here, keep all names out of the papers"—he squeezed a note into the journalist's hand, who returned it promptly.

"I should get the sack if I tried that game. I can keep all names out—possibly—without palm-oil. It's her broken contract anyway that our paper's keen on. Why wasn't she sued? And why no announcement of the wedding?"

Captain Anstruther bit his lip.

"Look here, Wiley, you seem a decent chap. I'll, well—I'll take you into our confidence. I'm divorced from my first wife, and Miss Leslie's people are Romans and fearfully pie. They'd have a fit. So, as they're buried alive in Cumberland, they'll never know—at least till the honeymoon is over—unless some paper spreads it broadcast. As to the contract—I squared the management under a pledge of the strictest secrecy. Now then, have a drink, and see how little you can tel! about us, there's a good chap. You might let me see your article if you would?"

The journalist sipped his tumbler of lemonade.

"Look here," he said impulsively, "I'll scratch the whole item. I've always admired Miss Leslie immensely. I wouldn't for the world do anything to annoy her. But I wonder if she wouldn't do us instead an article on 'How it feels to be on the Stage,' or some 'Reminiscences.' She could sign her old name to them all right."

"I'll bring her in and you can ask her yourself."

Miss Leslie was quite taken with the idea of a fortnightly article.

The first one on "Hardships of the dressing-room" would let her fire off quite a few burning truths she had often wished to singe the manager with in the days of her comparative poverty. And it would keep her people quiet.

Mr. Wiley only stipulated that the articles should be sent through him, and that he must, of course, be kept in touch with the authoress until the series of six articles for which he contracted in the name of his paper was finished. The Anstruthers, who knew nothing of the newspaper world, were quite impressed by Mr. Wiley's ability and helpful suggestions, and he left the apartment with their permanent address in his pocket.