A Bid for Fortune, Guy Boothby [easy books to read TXT] 📗

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good,” I said. Then turning to the police officer, “Now, Mr. Inspector, shall we be off to the Canary Bird?”

“If you wish it, sir. In the meantime I’ll send instructions back by these men to the different stations. Before breakfast time we must have the man who held the horse in our hands.”

“You don’t know him, I suppose?” I asked Thompson.

“No, sir; but I’ve seen him before,” he answered.

“He’s a Sydney fellow then?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“Then there should be no difficulty in catching him. Now let us be going.”

Mr. Wetherell rose to accompany us, but hard though it was to stop him I eventually succeeded in dissuading him from such a course.

“But you will let me know directly you discover anything, won’t you, Mr. Hatteras?” he cried as we were about to leave the room. “Think what my anxiety will be.”

I gave my promise and then, accompanied by the Inspector, left the house. Hailing a passing cab we jumped into it and told the driver to proceed as fast as he could to the hotel in question. Just as we started a clock in the neighbourhood struck twelve. Phyllis had been in Nikola’s hands three hours.

Pulling up opposite the Canary Bird (the place where the coachman had been drugged), we jumped out and bade the cabman wait. The hotel was in complete darkness, and it was not until we had pealed the bell twice that we succeeded in producing any sign of life. Then the landlord, half dressed, carrying a candle in his hand, came downstairs and called out to know who was there and what we wanted. My companion immediately said “Police,” and in answer to that magic word the door was unbarred.

“Good evening, Mr. Bartrell,” said the Inspector politely. “May we come in for a moment on business?”

“Certainly, Mr. Inspector,” said the landlord, who evidently knew my companion. “But isn’t this rather a late hour for a call. I hope there is nothing the matter?”

“Nothing much,” returned the Inspector; “only we want to make a few enquiries about a man who was here tonight, and for whom we are looking.”

“If that is so I’m afraid I must call my barman. I was not in the bar this evening. If you’ll excuse me I’ll go and bring him down. In the meantime make yourselves comfortable.”

He left us to kick our heels in the hall while he went upstairs again. In about ten minutes, and just as my all-consuming impatience was well-nigh getting the better of me, he returned, bringing with him the sleepy barman.

“These gentlemen want some information about a man who was here tonight,” the landlord said by way of introduction. “Perhaps you can give it?”

“What was he like, sir?” asked the barman of the Inspector.

The latter, however, turned to me.

“Tall, slim, with a sallow complexion,” I said, “black hair and very dark restless eyes. He came in here with the Hon. Sylvester Wetherell’s coachman.”

The man seemed to recollect him at once.

“I remember him,” he said. “They sat in No. 5 down the passage there, and the man you mention ordered a nobbler of rum for his friend and a whisky for himself.”

“That’s the fellow we want,” said the Inspector. “Now tell me this, have you ever seen him in here before?”

“Never once,” said the barman, “and that’s a solemn fact, because if I had I couldn’t have forgotten it. His figurehead wouldn’t let you do that. No, sir, tonight was the first night he’s ever been in the Canary Bird.”

“Did anyone else visit them while they were in the room together?”

“Not as I know of. But stay, I’m not so certain. Yes; I remember seeing a tall, good-looking chap come down the passage and go in there. But it was some time, half an hour maybe, after I took in the drinks.”

“Did you see him come out again?”

“No. But I know the coachman got very drunk, and had to be carried out to the carriage.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I saw the other two doing it.”

The Inspector turned to me.

“Not very satisfactory, is it?”

“No,” I answered. “But do you mind letting us look into No. 5⁠—the room they occupied?”

“Not at all,” said the landlord. “Will you come with me?”

So saying he led the way down the passage to a little room on the right-hand side, the door of which he threw open with a theatrical flourish. It was in pitch darkness, but a few seconds later the gas was lit and we could see all that it contained. A small table stood in the centre of the room and round the walls were ranged two or three wooden chairs. A small window was at the further end and a fireplace opposite the door. On the table was a half-smoked cigar and a torn copy of the Evening Mercury. But that was not what I wanted, so I went down on my hands and knees and looked about upon the floor.

Presently I descried a small ball of paper near the grate. Picking it up I seated myself at the table and turned to the barman, who was watching my movements attentively.

“Was this room used by any other people after the party we are looking for left?”

“No, sir. There was nobody in either of these two bottom rooms.”

“You are quite certain of that?”

“Perfectly certain.”

I took up the ball of paper, unrolled it and spread it out upon the table. To my disgust it was only the back half of an envelope, and though it had a few figures dotted about upon it, was of no possible use to us.

“Nothing there?” asked the Inspector.

“Nothing at all,” I answered bitterly, “save a few incomprehensible figures.”

“Well, in that case, we’d better be getting up to the station and see if they’ve discovered anything yet.”

“Come along, then,” I answered. “We must be quick though, for we’ve lost a lot of precious time, and every minute counts.”

I took up the Evening Mercury and followed him out to the cab, after having sincerely thanked the hotel proprietor and the barman