Mr. James B. Coulson settled down to live what was, to all appearance, a very inoffensive and ordinary life. He rose a little earlier than was customary for an Englishman of business of his own standing, but he made up for this by a somewhat prolonged visit to the barber, a breakfast which bespoke an unimpaired digestion, and a cigar of more than ordinary length over his newspaper. At about eleven o'clock he went down to the city, and returned sometimes to luncheon, sometimes at varying hours, never later, however, than four or five o'clock. From that time until seven, he was generally to be found in the American bar, meeting old friends or making new ones.
On the sixth day of his stay at the Savoy Hotel the waiter who looked after the bar smoking room accosted him as he entered at his usual time, a little after half past four.
"There's a gentleman here, Mr. Coulson, been asking after you,"he announced. "I told him that you generally came in about this time. You'll find him sitting over there."Mr. Coulson glanced in the direction indicated. It was Mr. Jacks who awaited him in the cushioned easy chair. For a single moment, perhaps, his lips tightened and the light of battle flashed in his face. Then he crossed the room apparently himself again,--an undistinguished, perfectly natural figure.
"It's Mr. Jacks, isn't it?" he asked, holding out his hand. "Ithought I recognized you."
The Inspector rose to his feet.
"I am sorry to trouble you again, Mr. Coulson," he said, "but if you could spare me just a minute or two, I should be very much obliged."Mr. Coulson laughed pleasantly.
"You can have all you want of me from now till midnight," he declared. "My business doesn't take very long, and I can only see the people I want to see in the middle of the day. After that, Idon't mind telling you that I find time hangs a bit on my hands.
Try one of these," he added, producing a cigar case.
The Inspector thanked him and helped himself. Mr. Coulson summoned the waiter.
"Highball for me," he directed. "What's yours, Mr. Jacks?""Thank you very much," the Inspector said. "I will take a little Scotch whiskey and soda."The two men sat down. The corner was a retired one, and there was no one within earshot.
"Say, are you still on this Hamilton Fynes business?" Mr. Coulson asked.
"Partly," the Inspector replied.
"You know, I'm not making reflections," Mr. Coulson said, sticking his cigar in a corner of his mouth and leaning back in a comfortable attitude, "but it does seem to me that you are none too rapid on this side in clearing up these matters. Why, a little affair of that sort wouldn't take the police twenty minutes in New York. We have a big city, full of alien quarters, full of hiding places, and chock full of criminals, but our police catch em, all the same. There's no one going to commit murder in the streets of New York without finding himself in the Tombs before he's a week older. No offence, Mr. Jacks.""I am not taking any, Mr. Coulson," the Inspector answered. "Imust admit that there's a great deal of truth in what you say. It is rather a reflection upon us that we have not as yet even made an arrest, but I think you will also admit that the circumstances of those murders were exceedingly curious."Mr. Coulson knocked the ash from his cigar.
"Well, as to that," he said, "and if we are to judge only by what we read in the papers, they are curious, without a doubt. But Iam not supposing for one moment that you fellows at Scotland Yard don't know more than you've let on to the newspapers. You keep your discoveries out of the Press over here, and a good job, too, but you wouldn't persuade me that you haven't some very distinct theory as to how that crime was worked, and the sort of person who did it. Eh, Mr. Jacks?""We are perhaps not quite so ignorant as we seem," the Inspector answered, "and of course you are right when you say that we have a few more facts to go by than have appeared in the newspapers.
Still, the affair is an extremely puzzling one,--as puzzling, in its way," Mr. Jacks continued, "as the murder on the very next evening of this young American gentleman."Mr. Coulson nodded sympathetically. The drinks were brought, and he raised his glass to his guest.
"Here's luck!" he said--"luck to you with your game of human chess, and luck to me with my woollen machinery patents! You were speaking of that second murder," he remarked, setting down his glass. "I haven't noticed the papers much this morning. Has any arrest been made yet?""Not yet," the Inspector admitted. "To tell you the truth, we find it almost as puzzling an affair as the one in which Mr.
Hamilton Fynes was concerned."
Mr. Coulson nodded. He seemed content, at this stage in their conversation, to assume the role of listener.
"You read the particulars of the murder of Mr. Vanderpole, Isuppose?" the Inspector asked.
"Every word," Mr. Coulson answered. "Most interesting thing I've seen in an English newspaper since I landed. Didn't sound like London somehow. Gray old law-abiding place, my partner always calls it.""I am going to be quite frank with you, Mr. Coulson," the Inspector continued. "I am going to tell you exactly why I have come to see you again tonight.""Why, that's good," Mr. Coulson declared. "I like to know everything a man's got in his mind.""I have come to you," the Inspector said, "because, by a somewhat curious coincidence, I find that, besides your slight acquaintance with and knowledge of Mr. Hamilton Fynes, you were also acquainted with this Mr. Richard Vanderpole,--that you were," he continued, knocking the ash off his cigar and speaking a little more slowly, "the last person, except the driver of the taxicab, to have seen him alive."Mr. Coulson turned slowly around and faced his companion.
"Now, how the devil do you know that?" he asked.
The Inspector smiled tolerantly.
"Well," he said, "that is very simple. The taxicab started from here. Mr. Vanderpole had been visiting some one in the hotel.
