Chapter TWENTY-TWO

First of all he paid a visit to his own room, as he wanted to get from there certain things which were necessary for the carrying out of his investigations.

A few minutes later he found himself in the millionaire’s bedroom, where he went swiftly to work.

One look at the pillow was sufficient to show him he had rightly diagnosed the workings of Quentin’s mind, that he was only just in time to avert a repetition of the tragedy which had happened some time ago in the Hôtel du Palais at Biarritz.

He produced from his pocket a sheet of oiled paper: then putting on a glass mask, he approached the pillow. His next procedure was to slip on a pair of thin rubber gloves. Then, very carefully, he removed the pillow-slip, replacing it with the one he had purchased that afternoon, and wrapped the one he had removed in the oiled paper.

This he carried to his own room, which he reached without encountering anybody. He packed up the precious parcel in a stout cardboard box and addressed it to Monsieur Dumont. Then he rang up the latter.

The well-known scientist answered the summons himself. “What is your news?” he asked briefly.

Aylmer explained to him the result of his researches in Whitefield’s room, concluding with the information that he had packed the pillow-slip in a box and would take it down to the hall-porter to await Dumont’s messenger.

“Good,” was Dumont’s reply through the telephone. “I will send at once. I will make an analysis directly it comes into my hands, and let you know the result as soon as I know it myself.”

Aylmer carried the box down to the hall-porter, and waited about until Dumont’s messenger appeared and took the parcel away. The young man looked at his watch; he was well within the limit he had suggested to Whitefield, the half hour in which the American was to keep watch over the smooth-faced criminal who had laid his plans with such devilish cunning.

Much as he had read about crime and its perpetrators, Aylmer, never yet to his knowledge, had been at close quarters with an actual criminal. Now he had talked with one in careless intimacy, sat at table opposite to him, partaken of his hospitality.

One by one, the various incidents of the past went in a slow procession through his mind. The first meeting at Ostend, when he had taken Quentin for a cultivated man of means and leisure--the swift growth of his interest in Eileen, her impulsive confession of the real relations between herself and her supposed husband--the first visit to Hampstead, the mysterious and sinister figure of Ramon, escorted to the garden-gate by the two men long after the rest of the household had retired to rest--his meetings with Eileen in London, Quentin’s persistent attempts to get money out of him, a shudder ran through him as he thought what his fate might have been if he had fallen in with his host’s suggestion--the sudden departure from Hampstead, Eileen’s brief and cryptic letter of farewell--the researches of Duberry, establishing very little in relation to Quentin, except the fact that he was the associate of very sinister people and therefore himself suspect--the accidental meeting with Whitefield resulting in his visit to Nice.

And here, in this charming town, this respectable hotel full of clean-living people who little suspected that they harbored amongst them a cold-blooded and callous criminal, the last scene of the drama was on the point of being played. By now Dumont was beginning to prepare the deadly evidence that would prove this smooth-spoken man to be a murderer of a singularly ruthless and calculating type.

He strolled into the billiard-room; there was nobody in it but the two players, they had dispensed with the services of the marker as they scored so slowly that his presence rather embarrassed them. Quentin’s face was greatly flushed; it was easy to see he had been drinking even more heavily than was his wont. He seemed in an almost excited state for a man of his usually calm mood, cracking rather silly jokes at his own bad playing, clapping Whitefield when he missed an easy stroke, and ever and anon lifting the tumbler to his lips, and ringing for a fresh supply of drink.

Painfully interested in this new field of psychology that had just been opened to him, Aylmer found himself wondering whether a miscreant of this type had any conscience at all. And if he had, was he trying to drown its still, small voice with these copious draughts of alcohol?

For he felt quite sure of his facts now. Dumont’s evidence was necessary, but he had not the slightest doubt of what the great scientist’s evidence would be. On that pillow-case had been sprinkled a deadly mixture which would send the American into a sleep from which he would never wake.

They stayed in the billiard-room till it was past eleven o’clock, playing game after game. Stifling his loathing, Aylmer played once with Quentin, who by now had drunk pretty nearly as much as he could carry. Whitefield began to yawn, and refused Quentin’s invitation to a last trial of strength.

“I begin to feel a bit sleepy, I think I shall toddle off.” And having said this the American rose to go.

“The night is still young,” cried Quentin a little boisterously; his voice was still steady but his gait seemed a bit uncertain. “Aylmer, you’re only a boy. You don’t want to go to bed yet. Let you and I have a fifty up.”

But Aylmer declined. He had stood Quentin’s company in the presence of a third party, but he felt it would be nauseating to be alone with him.

“No, I am going to follow Mr. Whitefield’s example. Come along, sir.” He tucked his arm in that of the millionaire, and they left the room together, leaving Quentin at the table, playing idly with the balls.

“Seems to me that our friend has indulged a bit too much,” remarked Whitefield as they went up the staircase together. “He was quite boisterous to-night. He takes his lotion pretty freely always, but I have never seen him so far advanced as to-night. I suppose he is making merry over my ten thousand pounds,” he added with a grim laugh.

“More than likely,” agreed Aylmer with a grimness equal to his own. Whitefield’s room was at the further end of the corridor in which the young man’s was situated. Aylmer accompanied him to the door, and as they shook hands, addressed him.

“Mr. Whitefield, you have a bolt on your door?”

The American looked his surprise at the question.

“Of course I have. Why do you ask?”

As usual, Aylmer did not directly answer the question.

“I don’t know whether you habitually make use of it; it is always safer to do so in hotels. You have said you believe in me. Will you kindly oblige me by bolting your door to-night?”

Whitefield stared at him, hard. “Do you mean to say this fellow would have the audacity to come into my room in the dead of night to rob me of more than he has done already. Besides, how could he get a key?”

Aylmer smiled at his companion’s simplicity, and drawing from his pocket his pass-key which he had become possessed of through the instrumentality of the obliging chambermaid, inserted it into the lock and threw open the door, much to Whitefield’s astonishment.

“You see I can enter your room; I am an honest man who is on the side of law and order. It only requires a very little ingenuity. If I can do it, how much easier for a professional rogue. No, I don’t think Quentin will want any more money from you, but he might pay you a visit from other motives.”

And then, suddenly, Whitefield’s sorely tried powers of self-control gave way, and he indulged in one of his explosive fits; when it came, Aylmer was not in the least surprised; he could only marvel that the American had been able to keep himself in check so long.

“Look here, young Aylmer, I’m not sure you are acting in quite a friendly way with me. You fill my mind with all sorts of horrible suspicions, and still you keep up that irritating reticence. Surely, you can drop a word, a hint to relieve my anxiety.”

The young man laid his hand upon his companion’s arm, and spoke in a soothing voice. “I can quite understand you are very angry with me. Well, give me just a bit more rope--say, till after breakfast to-morrow morning, and I promise you that then you shall know exactly what I know myself. When I do take you into my confidence, I want to do it fully, to reveal to you absolute facts, not mere suspicions. And now, good-night, and don’t forget to bolt that door.”

He left the millionaire still fuming a little, but more comfortable in his mind. According to Aylmer’s promise, he had only to wait a few hours longer for the mystery to be cleared up.

The young man went into his own room, but he did not at once proceed to undress. The exciting nature of the situation made him very wakeful. He sat in an easy chair, absorbed in thought. Then, after a quarter of an hour’s interval, he heard the telephone bell ring. In a few strides he was at the instrument and listening to the voice of Dumont.

“Well, my friend, I have made the analysis; it did not take me so very long, after all. I say, can you put yourself in a taxi and come round to my place? It is better to talk over these things privately.”

In spite of the hour, of course Aylmer would go. In a few moments he was closeted with the well-known scientist in his cozy study.

“You were absolutely right in your suspicions,” said Monsieur Dumont. “This scoundrel is evidently a toxicologist of some pretensions. That pillow-case was sprinkled with a little-known but most powerful poison. It is prepared by the Malays from the plant Cheraka, with datura seeds; he must have picked up the recipe in his wanderings. Quite a little of it sprinkled upon a pillow and inhaled during sleep, would produce symptoms so exactly resembling heart disease that a post-mortem would fail to discover the true cause of death. There can be no doubt now as to the way in which your relative came to his end. Equally certain that this miscreant intended to remove Whitefield, by the same means.”

Aylmer returned to the hotel and got straightway into bed. He had imagined it would be a long time before he would get any sleep. But in this supposition he was mistaken. The strenuousness and excitement of the day had produced the inevitable reaction. He fell into a profound and dreamless slumber from which he was aroused by the entrance of the chambermaid.

He rose, had his bath, and dressed himself quickly. Then he went out into the corridor and made his way to Whitefield’s room. On his way he passed Quentin’s apartment, and paused a moment to listen. This cold-blooded murderer was habitually an early riser; the chances were he was already astir. He could hear no sound of movements within. But, as the door was shut, he concluded Quentin was still inside. He was curious to know if anything had happened in the night. He had intended to keep awake, but sleep suddenly had overcome him.

He rapped at Whitefield’s door. A gruff voice called out: “Who is it?”

“It is I. Frank Aylmer,” was the answer. The head of the millionaire appeared in the doorway; he was fully dressed save for his coat and waistcoat. In his deep-set eyes was a watchful look. When he recognized the young man, his expression lightened.

“Come in, you’re an early bird. I didn’t expect to see you before breakfast. Sit down. I can tell by your manner something has happened.”

Aylmer sat down on the proffered chair. Now that he felt justified in breaking the long silence he had imposed on himself, his excitement was almost equal to that of the American. He felt as eager to tell everything now as before he had been reluctant to open his lips.

“Yes, a great deal has happened, and in a few moments you will know everything,” he said. “But first tell me, did Quentin try to enter your room, any time, in the night?”

“I can’t be sure one way or the other,” was Whitefield’s answer. “I was awfully drowsy when I went up to bed. But what you said at the last minute seemed to drive the drowsiness away, and, when I got between the sheets, I felt as wide awake as it was possible for a man to be. I’ll swear I didn’t close my eyes for some hours; then, I suppose, I must have dropped off. All the time I was awake I was listening for the sound of a key in my door; I had bolted it as you urged me. I had an ugly dream that he was trying to force his way in, and it was as vivid as it could be. So, as I have said, I can’t tell you one way or the other. For all I know to the contrary, he might have made an attempt in the middle of the night and been baffled. And now you say you are going to make a clean breast of it. But first tell me why he should want to get into my room. You say he was not after more money. What, then, would be his object?”

“Simply to get hold of the receipt he had given you, and destroy it.”

Whitefield considered a moment. “I think I see. There would then be no evidence that I had lent him the money. I suppose he then would have shuffled off and hidden himself somewhere, so that I couldn’t get at him.”

It was evident the American was not yet near the point of suspecting the whole of the ghastly design which Quentin had worked out with such devilish cunning.

“He is a thorough criminal, Mr. Whitefield. His main object in coming to your room in the dead of night would be to get hold of the receipt. But I think he had another motive--the desire to make sure that his plans in another direction had not miscarried.”

A swift flash of intelligence showed itself in Whitefield’s deep-set eyes. “There is no mistaking your meaning, Aylmer. In addition to swindling me out of ten thousand pounds, this infernal miscreant intended to purloin the receipt, and in order to make assurance doubly sure, close my mouth for ever.”

“You have guessed aright, sir,” was Aylmer’s answer. “Now I will tell you a few things which will enable you to understand how I became involved in the matter, how I have, fortunately, been able to rescue you from a terrible end. I shall make my story as brief as I can, and I may say that I owe my action to the merest accident. But for a few words that Mrs. Quentin let drop, I should never have been able to piece things together as I have done.”

“Was that charming little woman in it?” asked Whitefield eagerly.

“I will stake my life on it she was not,” said Aylmer firmly. “She may lately have had some suspicions that he was a crook, but she never dreamed him to be the vile criminal he is. If she had been his accomplice, she would never have given me the clue she did.”

He then proceeded to tell the American of the sudden death of Sir Charles Reeks at Biarritz, how the medical evidence was that he had died of heart disease, and his own suspicions of foul play.

“Now, to tell you how a sudden inspiration came to me which enabled me to piece things together. Mrs. Quentin happened to let drop that they had stayed at the Hôtel du Palais at the time of Sir Charles’s death. She appealed to Quentin for confirmation, and after a few brief words, he rose and walked away, although I happen to know that, at that particular time, he had every reason for not letting her out of his sight. This action of his set me thinking. I expect you have heard of the expression ‘reconstructing the crime’.”

“Often,” replied Whitefield. “I believe it is a method greatly favored on the Continent.”

“I did this with regard to the incident at Biarritz. I knew that Sir Charles Reeks had parted with a large sum of money to somebody shortly before his death. In all probability, he got from that unknown somebody a formal receipt. But when his belongings were examined, no receipt was found. A dispatch-case came into my possession on which were certain unidentified finger-prints. At once, by one of those flashes of intuition for which it is impossible to account, I connected Quentin with the Biarritz mystery.”

“But there must have been certain data on which to build your theory,” Whitefield interjected.

“Quite true. A certain similarity of circumstances. Quentin had tried to borrow money from me, and had been refused. He had succeeded in borrowing money from you, and given you a receipt. It was therefore on the cards that he was the unknown somebody who had been paid that large sum of money by Reeks.”

“I follow you so far, but it was nothing more than a shrewd guess. Any one of a hundred people staying at the Palais at the same time might have been the unknown somebody,” objected Whitefield.

“Perfectly true. At its best it was nothing but a guess instigated by the fact that I had made some inquiries about Quentin, and while finding practically nothing against him, I had discovered that he was the close associate of a notorious evil-doer. Of course, I wanted proof. If I could get Quentin’s finger-prints, I could compare them with those on the dispatch-case. With a little ingenuity, I contrived to get them, and found them exact. I therefore established the fact that Quentin had tampered with the dispatch-case for his own ends. From that point, the process of reconstruction was comparatively easy.”

Whitefield nodded his grey head. “Yes, I think I see the process by which you arrived at it, but please give me more details. I am intensely interested.”

“I felt convinced in my own mind that Quentin had got that money from Sir Charles, had stolen the receipt and put him out of the way, so that the transaction would not be revealed to any human being and he would never be called upon to refund the amount. I guessed that, to effect his diabolical purpose, he had made use of some subtle and little-known poison. With criminals of his type a knowledge of unfamiliar poisons is a part of their stock-in-trade. I do not suppose for a moment that Sir Charles was his only victim.”

“And he was going to practice on me the same methods that he used on your relative,” cried the American with a shudder he could not repress.

“As soon as I learned from you that you had lent him that ten thousand pounds, and the very remarkable fact that he had stipulated he should receive it in cash, I at once jumped to the conclusion that the chances were a hundred to one the previous gruesome history would be repeated. I went into your room last night, removed your pillow-case, which I replaced with one similar in appearance, and sent it to my friend Dumont, one of the greatest toxicologists in Europe, for analysis. Until I received his report I could hardly make any positive affirmation, however sure I was in my own mind. That report I received some little time after you had gone to bed. The pillow-case had been impregnated with a powerful poison, prepared by the Malays, the symptoms it produces in the victim being so similar to heart disease that a post-mortem would never detect the real cause of death.”

There was a long pause after Aylmer’s circumstantial narrative. The American was a man of grit and nerve, and although he must have been terribly shaken by the knowledge of how near he had been to death, he soon resumed his normal demeanor.

“Well, Aylmer, what can I say to express my thanks for what you have done? Any form of words I can think of would be inadequate to convey my gratitude. If there’s anything I can ever do for you, don’t forget you have made a friend for life. I know from that vile creature, who, I expect, is at the present moment gloating over my supposed end, that you are a young man born to fortune, otherwise I would charge myself with your future welfare. Well, I cannot now express a tenth of what I would like to say; perhaps, later on, I shall be able to say it better.”

He paused a moment, and then spoke briskly. “And now, I presume our next step is to inform the police.”

Aylmer agreed. He looked at his watch. “Our talk has taken a little time. I should say that Quentin is half-way through his breakfast. I propose we wait another quarter of an hour before we go down; he will have cleared out by then. As soon as possible we will go round to the police.”

Whitefield had been thinking rapidly over things. “I suppose there is evidence enough,” he said presently. “You know, young man, I am quite willing to admit you are very clever; but I think you would have acted more wisely if you had taken me a bit earlier into your confidence. If, for instance, we had gone together into my room when you took that pillow-slip away, my evidence would have been rather important. Now there is only your bare word for it. You see what I mean?”

“Quite,” said Aylmer. “But I don’t think you need worry about that. I told Dumont all my suspicions, and advised him that I was going to abstract that pillow-case for his analysis.”

“I dare say you are right. I can’t help wondering about that little woman, if she is altogether as innocent as you think her.”

“As I said before, I would stake my life on it that she is,” was Aylmer’s answer. “I feel convinced in my own mind that Quentin did all he could to expedite her departure. It seems absurd to speak of conscience in the case of such a hardened ruffian, but I expect he was glad to get her out of the way before the expected _dénouement_ took place. If he has the slightest consideration for any human being, it would be for her.”

Whitefield looked at him keenly, but made no comment. He was not very observant in the small things of life, but it did begin to dawn upon this somewhat egotistical American that Aylmer had been on terms of very close friendship with Eileen and knew a great deal more about her than he did himself.

They went down to breakfast, and to their intense relief, found nobody at their table. The waiter volunteered the explanation that Monsieur Quentin had finished his meal some little time ago, and had gone out.

He evidently had gone out for only a short while, for they were not more than half-way through their meal when Aylmer saw him standing in the doorway looking in the direction of their table, and noticed his swift change of expression as he caught sight of Whitefield and recognized that his deadly plans had miscarried. As his glance met that of Aylmer, his face went livid, and with a hasty movement he turned away from the dining room.

Two minutes later, the sound of scuffling feet resounded from the direction of the big hall into which the apartment opened, and the bark of a pistol rang out.

“Something has happened,” cried Aylmer, and the two men rose simultaneously and made for the place whence those sounds had proceeded, followed by some of the waiters and others who were breakfasting.

A strange sight met their eyes. Half a dozen men were clustered round and stooping over an inert figure stretched on the floor.

One glance enabled them to establish its identity. That inert figure was the dead body of Quentin, still clutching in his stiffening fingers the weapon with which he had ended his evil life.