Chapter I

IN WHICH A VERY GREAT MAN IS KEPT WAITING, AND A MOST RESPECTABLE
ESTABLISHMENT SEVERELY COMPROMISED

Perhaps you know Sugden's Hotel in St. James's Square. Or perhaps you have never heard of it. Most people never have: it all depends on the world you move in. The casual passer-by never becomes aware of it. There is no illuminated sign outside--not even a name on the door. It does not look like a hotel, inside or out. It has all the air of a handsome, well-appointed private residence, the town house of some patrician of unexceptionable means and manners. It is not large, but it is the best hotel in London. Any one who is any one will tell you so. It is not meant for the likes of us.

Sugden's has two great virtues greatly prized by its patrons. It is comfortable, and it is quiet. It has both these virtues in the highest degree, and carries them with an entire lack of ostentation. Most hotels boast and swagger: Sugden's has no need to blow its own trumpet. It is there: that is all. You can take it or leave it. It is not like a palace: it is not like a gargantuan lavatory: it is not a hotel in that sense of the term. It is just a quiet, gentlemanly house, the resort of quiet, gentlemanly people who know the best and are in the habit of getting it every day of their lives.

Sugden's is sure of its social standing--sure of itself and of its tradition. You cannot simply drive up to its door and hire a room. You have to be introduced--impeccably. Hugh Restington had this advantage: his suite had been reserved for him by no less a person than the Earl of Ealing, K.G.

Sugden's is not in the habit of being put about. It holds itself above the battle of life. Yet in Sugden's Hotel, on this sharp November morning, the stage is set for the first act of the drama here presented to the reader. And at this very moment, as the story opens, there is an almost perceptible flutter of hearts in Sugden's august vestibule. The hall porter, the boy in buttons, and the lady in the little office to the left of the entrance are all just a little flustered by what you, stout-hearted, democratic reader, doubtless regard as a most unimportant event. For all that has happened is that the Earl of Ealing has left his chauffeur to park his great purring motor-car in the square, and, passing up the broad steps, has asked for Mr. Restington, adding that he believes he is expected.

"Nothing in that," you say. But, though you may never have heard of Sugden's, it can hardly be that you have never heard of Lord Ealing. Have you never heard of the Chevalier Bayard, of the Admirable Crichton, of Napoleon, of Lord Northcliffe, of Mr. Winston Churchill, of Lord Leverhulme, and of Sir Eric Geddes? The Earl of Ealing combines the virtues of them all. He is a great patrician of unblemished descent; for that little episode of his great-great-grandfather and the flower-girl counts by now as an honour--the King Cophetua touch. He is the richest man in England, and president, for the third successive year, of the Federation of British Enterprises. He has been a member of several Cabinets--the urbanest of Home Secretaries, the most popularly militant of War Ministers, as well as the most finished orator in Parliament. He owns several newspapers, and knows how to wield the power of the Press. And he is the chairman of the fairest jewel in the crown of British commercial enterprise--the Anglo-Asiatic Commercial Corporation. Moreover, this morning's papers contain an intimation, from "a well-informed correspondent," that His Majesty's Government, though of the opposite party, has advised the conferring of a marquisate on this mighty one as the reward of his memorable services in the recent commercial negotiations with France. Hearts needs must beat faster at such a paladin's approach.

It is but nine o'clock in the morning--early for the great to be abroad. But the hall porter knows, and the boy in buttons knows, and the lady in the little office knows, that Lord Ealing has promised to take breakfast this morning with Mr. Restington, the American gentleman who occupies suite number five. With pardonable pride, Mr. Restington, in ordering breakfast the night before, mentioned the name of his distinguished guest, and the news spread rapidly round the hotel. Although Lord Ealing is expected, the mere fact of his arrival is enough to cause something of a flutter in the hearts of the hall porter, the boy in buttons, and the lady in the little office, who has but now been refreshing, out of _Debrett_, her memory of Lord Ealing's virtues. For Sugden's gives employment only to such as feel a proper veneration for the great.

But there is more in it than mere proper feeling. Hugh Restington has ordered breakfast for 9.30, and has given positive orders that he must not be called until ten past nine o'clock. It is now barely nine; yet here is Lord Ealing arrived already. Calamity of calamities! He has arrived half an hour too early: the Marquess of Ealing (for surely one may anticipate in one's thoughts the coming honour), the Marquess will be kept waiting. He may be hungry: it is desolating to think of a hungry marquess. He may be annoyed: great men's tempers are seldom of the best. He may visit on Sugden's his resentment at the affront. Dreadful things may happen.

The hall porter assumes his most deferential manner, reserved as a rule for the goutier princes of the royal blood. "Will your lordship be so good as to step this way a moment?" He ushers the great man into the outer lounge next door to the little office. "Mr. Restington, m'lord, shall be hinformed himmediately." The hall porter always throws in a few additional aitches at moments such as this. It seems somehow more respectful. At normal times his aitches are normal.

The porter beckons majestically to the boy in buttons.

"Inform the attendant of suite number five that the Right Hon. the Earl of Ealing awaits Mr. Restington below."

The boy hurries off. Silence, as of prayer, descends on the vestibule. A full ten minutes pass. Lord Ealing stands before the fire, frowning a little. He does not like to be kept waiting. Then at last, after the silence has grown tense, and Lord Ealing's frown has had time to deepen into a scowl, down the august steps comes the scurrying boy in buttons, too agitated to use the lift, and with wide, terror-struck eyes--a panic figure against the placid background of Sugden's decorative scheme.

"Mister, I say, Mister," he pants ... "Thomas says ... it's murder. Help!"

Never before has the hall porter, in his sacred hall, and under the very eyes of an honoured visitor, been addressed as "mister" by a minion. The outrage, however, passes unnoticed, for the boy's manner is enough to show that something is seriously wrong. "What's that?" says the hall porter, clutching at a chair for support, and overturning it in his consternation, "Murder? Here? Who would dare?--I'm coming," and he runs with ungainly steps to the lift, the boy following close on his heels, drawn with frightful fascination back to the scene of disaster.

The lady in the little office protrudes a frightened head, but dares not leave her post. Lord Ealing, in the lounge, both sees and hears. Emerging into the hall, he hesitates for a moment what to do. The lift shoots up out of sight. He stares for a few seconds after it, then turns and runs rapidly up the stairs. The lady, with her head still sticking out over the office counter, is left, making faint, frightened noises, in sole possession of the field. She stares fixedly at the empty hall with horror in her eyes.

* * * * *

Suite number five was on the first floor. When Lord Ealing reached the head of the stairs, he saw the hall porter, with the boy still beside him, hurrying towards a silent, beckoning figure at the other end of the main corridor. This was Thomas, the attendant belonging to the suite. "What's up?" asked the porter, in a hoarse whisper; for the hotel guests must on no account be disturbed. "What's all this fuss about?" he added fiercely, as if it were all Thomas's fault that the serenity of Sugden's had been so rudely disturbed.

"It's in his room," Thomas whispered. "He's not there. I don't like the look of it."

"Don't like what?" said the porter, brushing past. "Here, I'll see for myself." The others followed him in. Lord Ealing silently brought up the rear. None seemed to notice him. It was a measure of the shock these well-drilled servants had sustained.

The sitting-room which they entered was in perfect order. A cheerful fire was burning, and a round table set ready for breakfast for two persons. Nothing amiss so far. "It's in there," said Thomas, pointing to an open door beyond. The little procession moved across the room, and looked into Hugh Restington's bedroom.

This room was in utter confusion. The bedclothes had been torn from the bed, and lay--a crumpled heap--on the floor. A small table which had stood beside the bed had been overturned, and lay on its side, surrounded by the objects scattered in its fall--an electric reading lamp with a broken bulb, the glass trodden into powder, several books, some papers, and a gold watch with its face shattered. Several chairs had been thrown down, and the back of one wrenched off in its fall. On the floor were scattered numerous fragments of rock, piles of clothes and papers, and other miscellaneous objects--apparently the contents of two large trunks which stood open--obviously rifled--on the farther side of the room. In contrast to the confusion, a suit of clothes and undergarments, all neatly folded, lay on a chair which stood, in the midst of the debris, miraculously spared in the violent struggle which had obviously taken place in the room.

"My God," said the hall porter, whose ruddy face had gone greenish-white, "it looks like murder."

The three men stood still, contemplating the wreckage, uncertain for a moment what to do. Not so the boy, recovered by now from his fright, and conscious above all of a delicious excitement at his prominent part in these dire events. He ran straight to the heap of bedclothes, and began pulling at them, as if he expected to find a corpse beneath.

His action aroused his elders. Lord Ealing swiftly assumed command. "Here, come out of that at once," he said. The boy stopped pulling and turned round.

"Please, sir, there's a great big bloodstain on that there sheet," he said, as all his memories of Sexton Blake came crowding into his mind.

"You just come here and let it alone. Don't you hear what his lordship says?" growled the porter, recovering his voice and his authority.

"Begging your lordship's pardon," said Thomas, "there's what looks like a big bloodstain over there on the wall." He and the hall porter had become servants again. The boy's action had recalled them to a sense of their duty.

"Come into the other room, all of you," said Lord Ealing. "There has been foul play here. Till the police come, nothing must be touched. You understand that? They must be sent for at once." He spoke brusquely, the tone of command covering his evident discomposure. "You, what's your name, go and telephone at once for the police. Ring up Scotland Yard. Ask the operator for 'official,' and mention my name. Get on to some one in authority and tell them to send their best man round."

The porter hurried off, and Lord Ealing told Thomas to go and bring the manager. The boy he bade sternly to sit down in the window-seat and to sit still. "Don't fidget," he said, as the boy began kicking the seat beneath him.

For a moment the boy sat still, then he spoke. "M'lord ... m'lord."

"Well, what do you want?" Lord Ealing, who had been staring into the fire, turned towards him.

"Have you looked in the other bedroom, m'lord?" He pointed towards another door, on the opposite side of the sitting-room.

Lord Ealing strode to the door and tried it. It was locked. He went on shaking it for a moment. "Was any one sleeping in here last night?" he asked.

"Yes, m'lord, the foreign gent what came with the gent what's been murdered. He slept there. But he's gone.... Lord, I suppose it was him done it," added the boy, gloating.

"Gone? Who's gone? When?" said Lord Ealing.

"The foreign gent, m'lord. 'E went off first thing this morning, 'e did. I ordered a taxi for 'im last night ... myself."

"What time did he go?"

"'Bout seven o'clock. They was gettin' of his luggage down just as I came on duty."

"Who was getting his luggage?"

"Why, Thomas and Mr. Sacheverell--that's 'im that was here just now."

"The hall porter?"

"Yes, 'im and Thomas. It was a 'eavy one, too, that trunk. I saw 'em carryin' of it."

"Who was the man who went away? Do you know?"

"Funny-looking, foreign bloke, spoke funny, and all that. I 'eard Mr. Sacheverell sayin' 'e was a Rooshian."

"He was with Mr. ... Restington, was he?"

"I s'pose he was. They was sharin' this 'ere suite.... Do you think 'e done it, m'lord?"

"Hm, we shall see," said Lord Ealing. "A damned awkward business," he added, to himself.

At this moment the manager entered, followed by Thomas and the hall porter. "I have telephoned, my lord," said the porter. "The Inspector says he will be round in a few minutes."

Mr. Moses Mounteagle, manager of Sugden's Hotel--Sugden himself was dead and gone long ago--was a picture of distress. A murder--in Sugden's of all places--was bad enough, a sign of lamentable bad taste on the part of the murderer. But even that calamity seemed to be overshadowed in the manager's mind by the awful fact that the crime had been so committed as to put the great Earl of Ealing to personal inconvenience.

"I am distressed, my lord, distressed beyond measure. Believe me, my lord, I had no idea. Your lordship's breakfast.... Your lordship will perhaps condescend to breakfast in another room. I will give orders at once. I entreat your lordship to believe...."

"Don't be a fool, Mounteagle," said his lordship. "Never mind my breakfast."

"I assure you, my lord, it shall not occur again, if your lordship will allow me...."

Lord Ealing turned his back on the manager, who continued to hover behind him, muttering heart-broken excuses. "The man's an imbecile," said Lord Ealing, to the room at large. He turned to the porter. "Here, you, you say the police are coming. Whom did you get at the Yard?"

"Here they are, m'lord," cried the boy, who had slipped to the outer door during the conversation. A moment later, Inspector Blaikie and a plain clothes policeman entered the room.

Who knows how wind of calamity gets abroad? Perhaps the lady in the little office had hinted dreadful things, perhaps some one had overheard the porter at the telephone. At all events, behind the police followed a group of curious onlookers--residents in the hotel, chambermaids, more boys in buttons, a boots or two in shirt sleeves--a mixed assemblage of jostling humanity in which each asked the others for news of what was happening, and, even in Sugden's, social distinctions were for the time half obliterated. All these the Inspector shut out, as he closed the door behind him and turned the key. But a ring of anxious faces stared fixedly at the impenetrable door all through the subsequent proceedings.

A confused medley of voices greeted Inspector Blaikie.

"Who's in charge here?" he asked. "Where's the manager?" Then his eye fell on Lord Ealing, and his authoritative voice became at once deferential. "Your lordship perhaps knows ..." he began.

"I can soon tell you all I know of the matter, Inspector. I came here by appointment at nine o'clock this morning to breakfast with Mr. Hugh ... Restington. I was asked to wait below in the lounge while word was sent to him that I had arrived. This boy took the message. A few minutes later he came running down the stairs, shouting something about murder. The hall porter--and the boy--then hurried up here, and I followed them. We found ... what you had better see for yourself ... in here." Crossing the room, Lord Ealing flung open again the door of Hugh Restington's bedroom.

Inspector Blaikie cast a keen glance round the room; then, entering carefully, so as to disturb nothing, he looked round more carefully. "And where," he asked, "is the body?"

Several voices replied that the body had not yet been found. "We have made no search: we sent for you at once," said Lord Ealing, "but that room over there appears to be locked." He pointed to the door of the other bedroom.

"Another room?" asked the Inspector.

"Yes. I understand it was occupied last night by Mr. Restington's secretary."

"That is so, my lord," put in the manager. "A Russian," he added, in the tone of one who imputes a crime.

"Have you the key, Mounteagle?" said Lord Ealing.

"The key? Yes, my lord," said the manager. "But your lordship's breakfast...."

"Oh, damn my breakfast," said Lord Ealing, really roused at last. "Where's the key?"

While the manager cringed at Lord Ealing's tone, Thomas produced his pass-key, and the Inspector unlocked the door, and entered the room. Lord Ealing stood in the doorway, with the others behind him, peering in.

The blinds in the room were still down, the bed had obviously been slept in, and there were all the ordinary signs of recent occupation. The fitted lavatory basin was still wet, and Blaikie found remains of soap clinging round the edges. But there was nothing abnormal to be seen--no sign of the body which the Inspector had half expected to find. Blaikie stood, looking keenly round. Then he led the way back into the sitting-room. "I'll examine the place later," he said. "Who did you say occupied this room?" he asked.

"A Mr. Rosenbaum, Mr. Restington's private secretary," answered the manager, glancing timidly at Lord Ealing, in fear lest he had again said the wrong thing.

"And what has become of Mr. Rosenbaum?"

"'E slung 'is 'ook," piped the boy's shrill voice. The manager glanced at him in horrified silence.

"I understand Mr. Rosenbaum left early this morning," said Lord Ealing.

"You keep your head shut," said Thomas to the boy. "Speak when you're spoken to, d'y 'ear?"

"The gen'l'man asked a question," said the boy.

"Thomas and I fetched his luggage down at seven o'clock," said the porter. "He went off in a taxi."

"Mortal heavy it was, too," said Thomas.

"Do you know where he went? Did he leave any address?" asked the Inspector.

"No, sir. He said Mr. Restington would take charge of any letters that came for him." It was the hall porter who replied.

"You don't know where he went?"

"I heard him tell the driver Victoria Station."

"You say his luggage was heavy. What was it?"

"One big trunk. It weighed ... it was as much as Thomas and I could manage to get it down."

"What did this ... Russian look like?"

"Very foreign-looking gentleman, sir. Queer-looking, as you might say. Not English, I mean."

"Yes, but I want a better description than that."

"Well, sir, he was tallish, and he wore spectacles and a brown beard. Bushy-like, and his hair was long."

"What colour was it?"

"Well, sir, it wasn't any particular colour. Just brown, it was."

"He had a funny high squeaky voice, sir," said Thomas. "'E spoke very foreign."

"And 'is eyes gleamed 'orrible," said the boy, who was promptly told to shut up.

"This trunk," said the Inspector, "was it heavy enough to have contained a ... dead body?"

The porter started. "Not being in the habit of carrying corpses myself," he answered, "I can't say as I can rightly tell. But it might have been."

"It was, sir," said Thomas. "I used to work for a undertaker before I came here."

Every one stared silently at Thomas for a moment after this revelation of his past life. Then the Inspector resumed his examination. Rosenbaum, it appeared, had been wearing a dark brown suit of rough tweed, of foreign-looking cut. He had a pronounced stoop, and slouched badly. He seemed to have impressed them all as "not quite a gentleman," so the hall porter put it. The Inspector next secured an exact description of the trunk, which was identified as having formed part of Hugh Restington's baggage on the previous day. It was then, the porter said, remarkably light for its size. It was a big brown trunk, leather covered, and flat topped, and fastened with two straps. Mr. Restington himself had ordered it to be placed in the sitting-room. But some of the other trunks had been very heavy indeed--and no wonder, since they contained all those lumps of rock now lying about the floor of the bedroom.

"Queer stuff to carry about with you," said the Inspector.

"I can explain that," said Lord Ealing; "they are mineral specimens--from Siberia."

"Did Mr. Rosenbaum say anything about the weight of his trunk?"

"Yes, sir, he begged our pardon for it. He said it contained specimens--yes, that's what he said--specimens--he was taking away at Mr. Restington's orders."

"Did you notice any labels on the trunk?"

"There was one or two in a queer, foreign sort of writing--Rooshian, I suppose. And there were some others, but I didn't notice," said the porter.

"Did you notice?" said the Inspector, turning to Thomas.

"Only some steamship labels. I couldn't say exactly what they were."

The Inspector closed his book, and addressed Lord Ealing. "My lord," he said, "I must telephone at once to Scotland Yard, and put them on this man Rosenbaum's track. I shall leave everything here just as it is. Will you be so good as to see nothing is disturbed? I shan't be more than ten minutes."

"I fear I, too, must telephone," said Lord Ealing. "Of course, I will stay and see this through; but I must send a message or two first. You hear, Mounteagle? The Inspector says nothing must be touched."

"Yes, my lord; certainly, my lord. But your lordship's break...."

With an inarticulate sound of fury, Lord Ealing strode from the room. After repeating his instructions to the manager that nothing must be touched in his absence, and warning the others, the Inspector followed Lord Ealing, bidding the plain clothes policeman remain in the corridor, and keep out the crowd. The eyes of the waiting group outside the door watched them along the corridor; but the onlookers held their ground. Suite number five exercised an irresistible fascination.