The Eames-Erskine case

“I 'phoned,” a tall young man answered crisply. “I am the manager of the hotel. This is Mr. Beale, an American gentleman to whom this room was let a couple of hours ago. It really belongs to a young fellow who is away for the week-end, but as there was no other room available we assigned it to this gentleman for the one night. Mr. Beale has just told me that there is something wrong about the wardrobe you see there. Kindly investigate that large knot-hole in the back for yourself, Inspector.”

The Chief Inspector peered at the hole indicated, ran a finger lightly around it, and inserted it as gently as a mother feeling her baby's tooth. His face showed no change of expression, but, stepping back, he looked the piece of furniture over with the meticulous care of a would-be purchaser hoping to find a flaw, before he got on a chair and examined the top.

“Miller, take your coat off and be doing something outside. See that no one lingers, and notice if any of the doors along the corridor are open.”

“Yes, sir.” The man vanished.

“The wardrobe evidently stood back against the wall. I take it that it hasn't been tampered with in any way before you rang us up, Mr. Manager?”

“Not by me. This gentleman called me in because he fancied that there was something wrong.”

The Chief Inspector looked Mr. Beale over almost as carefully as he had the wardrobe. He did not strike the police officer as the kind of man to be occupying just such an apartment, for the room looked simple, and Mr. Beale did not,—not in the least. “Did you do anything to it, sir?”

The well-dressed, well-manicured, middle-aged man folded his hands over his ample front, pursed up a cruel mouth, and shook his head. “No, Chief, not beyond moving it out and feeling around through that gaping hole same as yourself.” His voice wrapped the Stars and Stripes around him.

“I'd be obliged, gentlemen, if you will remain quite still for a few minutes. Lester, I want the usual flashlight photos.”

“Yes, sir,” and the photographer got to work. The exposures were quickly made.

“Now, then, help Watts to lift the top off, and we'll get the wardrobe on its side. Gently does it.”

“Ah-h-h!” came from the two men watching, and the manager made an impulsive forward movement.

“Stand back, sir!” The Chief Inspector's voice was sharp. “Now, another flashlight, Lester.”

When this was done, the Chief Inspector unobtrusively picked up a wax vesta which had tumbled out from the wardrobe while the huddled figure inside was lifted on to the bed.

“Good God!” The manager stared at the placid young face bent stiffly to one side: “it's the young fellow himself—Eames—who took this room hardly a week ago. Why, I had a telephone message from him at five o'clock saying that he was going out of town for the week-end.”

“And now it's nine-thirty. Humph! You can positively identify him?”

“Positively.”

The Chief Inspector took a letter which one of his men had just found in the dead man's coat pocket. He examined it closely before holding it out to the manager. “It's for you, sir.”

The manager started back, and turned a little pale. He did not seem to care for the task of opening it, but after a moment's hesitation he ripped the envelope and read in a low voice:

“Enterprise Hotel, Aug. 4th.

Sir,

Enclosed please find £10 to pay for my bill, and the cheapest funeral possible. It may save time and trouble to know that I have just taken an overdose of morphia, after 'phoning to you to let my room stay as it is until Monday. I am now about to fasten myself into my temporary coffin. I have nothing left to live for. I only regret on your behalf that chance has made your hotel my stepping-off plank. For both our sakes do your best to keep the matter quiet.