LITMIR.BIZ

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it; an aroma of tobacco that suggested Sumatra and Trichinopoly, and Rathbury wagged his head sagely. ‘Lay you anything the dead man was a Colonial, Mr Spargo,’ he remarked. ‘Well, now, I suppose that’s the landlord and landlady.’

      There was an office facing them, at the rear of the hall, and a man and woman were regarding them from a box window which opened above a ledge on which lay a register book. They were middle-aged folk: the man, a fleshy, round-faced, somewhat pompous-looking individual, who might at some time have been a butler; the woman, a tall, spare-figured, thin-featured, sharp-eyed person, who examined the newcomers with an enquiring gaze. Rathbury went up to them with easy confidence.

      ‘You the landlord of this house, sir?’ he asked. ‘Mr Walters? Just so—and Mrs Walters, I presume?’

      The landlord made a stiff bow and looked sharply at his questioner.

      ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ he enquired.

      ‘A little matter of business, Mr Walters,’ replied Rathbury, pulling out a card. ‘You’ll see there who I am—Detective-Sergeant Rathbury, of the Yard. This is Mr Frank Spargo, a newspaper man; this is Mr Ronald Breton, a barrister.’

      The landlady, hearing their names and description, pointed to a side door, and signed Rathbury and his companions to pass through. Obeying her pointed finger, they found themselves in a small private parlour. Walters closed the two doors which led into it and looked at his principal visitor.

      ‘What is it, Mr Rathbury?’ he enquired. ‘Anything wrong?’

      ‘We want a bit of information,’ answered Rathbury, almost with indifference.

      ‘Did anybody of the name of Marbury put up here yesterday—elderly man, grey hair, fresh complexion?’

      Mrs Walters started, glancing at her husband.

      ‘There!’ she exclaimed. ‘I knew some enquiry would be made. Yes—a Mr Marbury took a room here yesterday morning, just after the noon train got in from Southampton. Number 20 he took. But—he didn’t use it last night. He went out—very late—and he never came back.’

      Rathbury nodded. Answering a sign from the landlord, he took a chair and, sitting down, looked at Mrs Walters.

      ‘What made you think some enquiry would be made, ma’am?’ he asked. ‘Had you noticed anything?’

      Mrs Walters seemed a little confused by this direct question. Her husband gave vent to a species of growl.

      ‘Nothing to notice,’ he muttered. ‘Her way of speaking—that’s all.’

      ‘Well—why I said that was this,’ said the landlady. ‘He happened to tell us, did Mr Marbury, that he hadn’t been in London for over twenty years, and couldn’t remember anything about it—him, he said, never having known much about London at any time. And, of course, when he went out so late and never came back, why, naturally, I thought something had happened to him, and that there’d be enquiries made.’

      ‘Just so—just so!’ said Rathbury. ‘So you would, ma’am—so you would. Well, something has happened to him. He’s dead. What’s more, there’s strong reason to think he was murdered.’

      Mr and Mrs Walters received this announcement with proper surprise and horror, and the landlord suggested a little refreshment to his visitors. Spargo and Breton declined, on the ground that they had work to do during the afternoon; Rathbury accepted it, evidently as a matter of course.

      ‘My respects,’ he said, lifting his glass. ‘Well, now, perhaps you’ll just tell me what you know of this man? I may as well tell you, Mr and Mrs Walters, that he was found dead in Middle Temple Lane this morning, at a quarter to three; that there wasn’t anything on him but his clothes and a scrap of paper which bore this gentleman’s name and address; that this gentleman knows nothing whatever of him, and that I traced him here because he bought a cap at a West End hatter’s yesterday, and had it sent to your hotel.’

      ‘Yes,’ said Mrs Walters quickly, ‘that’s so. And he went out in that cap last night. Well—we don’t know much about him. As I said, he came in here about a quarter past twelve yesterday morning, and booked Number 20. He had a porter with him that brought a trunk and a bag—they’re in 20 now, of course. He told me that he had stayed at this house over twenty years ago, on his way to Australia—that, of course, was long before we took it. And he signed his name in the book as John Marbury.’

      ‘We’ll look at that, if you please,’ said Rathbury.

      Walters fetched in the register and turned the leaf to the previous day’s entries. They all bent over the dead man’s writing.

      ‘“John Marbury, Coolumbidgee, New South Wales,”’ said Rathbury. ‘Ah—now I was wondering if that writing would be the same as that on the scrap of paper, Mr Breton. But, you see, it isn’t—it’s quite different.’

      ‘Quite different,’ said Breton. He, too, was regarding the handwriting with great interest. And Rathbury noticed his keen inspection of it, and asked another question.

      ‘Ever seen that writing before?’ he suggested.

      ‘Never,’ answered Breton. ‘And yet—there’s something very familiar about it.’

      ‘Then the probability is that you have seen it before,’ remarked Rathbury. ‘Well—now we’ll hear a little more about Marbury’s doings here. Just tell me all you know, Mr and Mrs Walters.’

      ‘My wife knows most,’ said Walters. ‘I scarcely saw the man—I don’t remember speaking with him.’

      ‘No,’ said Mrs Walters. ‘You didn’t—you weren’t much in his way. Well,’ she continued, ‘I showed him up to his room. He talked a bit—said he’d just landed at Southampton from Melbourne.’

      ‘Did he mention his ship?’ asked Rathbury. ‘But if he didn’t, it doesn’t matter, for we can find out.’

      ‘I believe the name’s on his things,’ answered the landlady. ‘There are some labels of that sort. Well, he asked for a chop to be cooked for him at once, as he was going out. He had his chop, and he went out at exactly one o’clock, saying to me that he expected he’d get lost, as he didn’t know London well at any time, and shouldn’t know it at all now. He went outside there—I saw him—looked about him and walked off towards Blackfriars way. During the afternoon the cap you spoke of came for him—from Fiskie’s. So, of course, I judged he’d been Piccadilly way. But he himself never came in until ten o’clock. And then he brought a gentleman with him.’

      ‘Aye?’ said Rathbury. ‘A gentleman, now? Did you see him?’

      ‘Just,’ replied the landlady. ‘They went straight up to 20, and I just caught a mere glimpse of the gentleman as they turned up the stairs. A tall, well-built gentleman, with a grey beard, very well dressed as far as I could see, with a top hat and a white silk muffler round his throat, and carrying an umbrella.’

      ‘And they went to Marbury’s room?’ said Rathbury. ‘What then?’

      ‘Well, then, Mr Marbury rang for some whisky and soda,’ continued Mrs Walters. ‘He was particular to have a decanter of whisky: that, and a syphon of soda were taken up there. I heard nothing more until nearly midnight; then the hall-porter told me that the gentleman in 20 had gone out, and had asked him if there was a night-porter—as, of course, there is. He went out at half-past eleven.’

      ‘And the other gentleman?’ asked Rathbury.

      ‘The other gentleman,’ answered the landlady, ‘went out with him. The hall-porter said they turned towards the station. And that was the last anybody in this house saw of Mr Marbury. He certainly never came back.’

      ‘That,’ observed Rathbury with a quiet smile, ‘that is quite certain, ma’am? Well—I suppose we’d better see this Number 20 room, and have a look at what he left there.’

      ‘Everything,’

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