Moriarty

9 The Bostonian

In fact, Jones was wrong. As things turned out, the raid on the Bostonian did prove useful in one small but significant respect.

It was already dark when I left my room at the hotel and as I stepped into the corridor I was aware of the door next to mine swinging shut. Once again I did not see the occupant beyond a shadowy figure who vanished immediately as the door closed but it occurred to me that I had not heard him go past, which I should surely have done as the carpet was threadbare. Had he been waiting outside as I made my preparations? Had he left when he heard me approach? I was tempted to challenge him but decided against it. Jones had been precise about the hour of our meeting. There might be a perfectly innocent explanation for the behaviour of my mysterious neighbour. At any event, he could wait.

And so we found ourselves, an hour later, standing beneath a gas lamp on the corner of Trebeck Street, waiting for the signal—the scream of a whistle and the tramp of a dozen leather boots—which would announce that the adventure had begun. The club was in front of us: a narrow, quite ordinary white-fronted building on a corner. But for the heavy curtains drawn across the windows and the occasional snatch of piano music jingling into the night, it could have been a bank. Jones was in a strange mood. He had been virtually silent since I had joined him and appeared to be deep in thought. It was unseasonably cold and damp—it seemed as if the summer was never going to arrive—and we were both wearing heavy coats. I wondered if the weather was accentuating the pain in his leg. But suddenly he turned to me and asked, ‘Did you not find Lestrade’s testimony to be of particular interest?’

The question had taken me by surprise. ‘Which part of it?’

‘How did he know that your agent, Jonathan Pilgrim, had a room at the Bostonian?’

I thought for a moment. ‘I have no idea. It could be that Pilgrim was carrying the key to his room. Or I suppose he could have had the address written down.’

‘Was he a careless man?’

‘He was headstrong. He could be reckless. But he was very aware of the danger of discovery.’

‘My point exactly: it’s almost as if he wanted us to come here. I hope we are not making a grave mistake.’

He lapsed once again into silence and I took out my watch. There were another five minutes until the raid began and I wished we hadn’t arrived so early. It seemed to me that my companion was avoiding my eye. He always stood awkwardly and I knew that he was in fairly constant discomfort and needed his walking stick. But as we waited there, he was more awkward than ever.

‘Is there something the matter, Jones?’ I asked at length.

‘No. Not at all,’ he replied. Then: ‘As a matter of fact, there was something I wished to ask you.’

‘Please!’

‘I hope you will not find it presumptuous but my wife wondered if you might like to join us for dinner tomorrow night.’ I was amazed that something so trivial should have caused him so much difficulty but before I could answer, he continued quickly, ‘I have of course described you to her and she is most keen to meet you and to hear something of your life in America.’

‘I would be delighted to come,’ I said.

‘Elspeth does worry about me a great deal,’ he went on. ‘Between ourselves, she would be much happier if I were to find another occupation and she has often said as much. Needless to say, she knows almost nothing of the events at Bladeston House. I have told her that I am engaged on a murder investigation but I have given her none of the details and would ask you to do the same. Fortunately, she does not often read the newspapers. Elspeth has a very delicate nature and if she had any idea of the sort of people we were up against, she would be greatly troubled.’

‘I am very glad to be invited,’ I said. ‘For what it’s worth, the food at Hexam’s Hotel is atrocious. Please don’t worry yourself, Inspector. I’ll take my lead from you and will answer any questions that Mrs Jones poses with the utmost discretion.’ I looked up briefly into the gaslight. ‘My dearest mother never once discussed my work with me. I know it caused her discomfort. If only for that reason, I’ll take the greatest care.’

‘Then it’s agreed.’ Jones looked relieved. ‘We can meet at Scotland Yard and travel together to Camberwell. You will also meet my daughter, Beatrice. She is six years old and as eager to know about my business as my wife is to avoid it.’

I already knew that there was a child involved. Beatrice was doubtless the recipient of the French puppet that Jones had brought back from Paris. ‘Dress?’ I asked.

‘Come as you are. There is no need for formality.’

Our discussion was interrupted by the shrill scream of a whistle and at once the quiet street was filled with uniformed men running towards a single door. Jones and I were here as onlookers—Lestrade had taken charge of the operation and he was the first to climb the steps and grab hold of the handle. The door was locked. We watched him step back, search for the doorbell, and ring it impatiently. Eventually, the door was opened. He and the police constables piled in. We followed.

I had not expected the interior of the Bostonian to be quite so lavish, despite what Inspector Gregson had told us. Trebeck Street was narrow and poorly lit but the front door took us into a glittering world of mirrors and chandeliers, marble floors and ornate ceilings. Paintings in gilt frames covered every inch of the walls, many of them by well-known American artists… Albert Pinkham Ryder, Thomas Cole. Anyone who had ever visited the Union Club in Park Avenue or the Metropolitan on 60th Street would have felt themselves at home, and that was surely the point. A rack of newspapers by the entrance contained only American publications. The dozens of bottles set out on the brightly polished glass shelves were largely American brands—Jim Beam and Old Fitzgerald bourbon, Fleischmann Extra Dry Gin. There were at least fifty people in the front room and I heard accents from the East Coast, from Texas, from Milwaukee. A young man in a tailcoat had been playing a piano, the front panel removed to show its inner workings. He had stopped the moment we came in and sat there, his eyes fixed on the keys.

Police officers were already moving through the room and I could feel the indignation of the crowd as the men and women, all in their finest evening wear, separated to allow them to pass. Lestrade had marched straight up to the bar as if demanding a drink and the barman was staring at him, open-mouthed. Jones and I hung back. Neither of us had been sure of the wisdom of this enterprise and we were both wondering where to begin. Two policemen were already climbing the stairs to the second floor. The rest of them were covering the doors so that nobody could enter or leave the club without being challenged. I will admit that I was greatly impressed by the Metropolitan Police. They were well-organised and disciplined even if, as far as I could tell, they had no idea why they were here.

Lestrade was still haranguing the barman when a door at the side opened and two men came out. I recognised them both at once. Edgar Mortlake we had already met. This time, his brother was with him. Just as the maid at Bladeston House had told us, the two of them were very much alike (they were both dressed in black tie) and yet they were nonetheless curiously different, as if some artist or sculptor had been at work and deliberately created from one a more brutal and hot-blooded representation in the other. Leland Mortlake had the same black hair and small eyes as his brother but no moustache. He was a few years older and they weighed heavily on him: his face was fleshier, his lips thicker, his whole expression one of contempt. He was several inches shorter than Edgar but even before he spoke I could see that he was the more dominant of the two. Edgar was standing a few steps behind him. It was his natural position.

They had not seen Lestrade—or if they had, had chosen to ignore him. However, Edgar recognised both Jones and myself and, nudging his brother, led him over to us.

‘What’s this?’ Leland demanded. His voice was hoarse and he breathed heavily as if the act of speaking exhausted him.

‘I know them,’ Edgar explained. ‘This one is a Pinkerton’s man. He didn’t trouble to give me his name. The other is Alan Jones or something of the sort. Scotland Yard. They were at Bladeston House.’

‘What do you want?’

The question was aimed at Jones and he replied. ‘We are searching for a man named Clarence Devereux.’

‘I don’t know him. He’s not here.’

‘I told you I was unacquainted with him,’ Edgar added. ‘So why have you come here? If you wanted membership, you could have asked when we met in Highgate. Although I think you may find our annual fees a little beyond your means.’

By now, Lestrade had noticed the exchange and came striding over. ‘You are Leland Mortlake?’ he demanded.

‘I am Edgar Mortlake. That’s my brother, if you wish to speak to him.’

‘We’re looking for—’

‘I know who you’re looking for. I’ve already said. He’s not here.’

‘Nobody is leaving here tonight until they have given me proof of their identity,’ Lestrade said. ‘I wish to see the register of your guests—their names and addresses. I intend to search this club from the top floor to the basement.’

‘You cannot.’

‘I very much think I can, Mr Mortlake. And I will.’

‘You had a man staying here at the beginning of the year,’ I said. ‘He was here until the end of April. His name was Jonathan Pilgrim.’

‘What of him?’

‘You remember him?’

Leland Mortlake stared vacantly, his small eyes still filled with resentment. But it was his brother who answered my question. ‘Yes. I believe we did have a guest with that name.’

‘What room?’

‘The Revere. On the second floor.’ The information was given reluctantly.

‘Has it been occupied since?’

‘No. It’s empty.’

‘I’d like to see it.’

Leland turned to his brother and for a moment I thought the two of them were going to protest. But before either of them could speak, Jones stepped forward. ‘Mr Chase is with me and he has the authorisation of Scotland Yard. Take us to the room.’

‘Whatever you say.’ Edgar Mortlake looked at us with controlled fury and had we not been in London, surrounded by the British police, I cannot say what might have ensued. ‘But this is the second time you have bossed me about and I can tell you, Mr Jones, that I don’t like it. There won’t be a third time, of that I can assure you.’

‘Are you threatening us?’ I demanded. ‘Are you forgetting who we are?’

‘I’m just saying that I won’t stand for it.’ Edgar lifted a finger. ‘And it is you, perhaps, who has forgotten who you’re dealing with, Mr Pinkerton. You may rue the day that you chose to interfere.’

‘Dry up, Edgar!’ Leland muttered.

‘Whatever you say, Leland,’ Edgar returned.

‘This is an outrage,’ the older brother continued. ‘But you must do as you want. We have nothing to hide.’

We left Lestrade with them, the police already beginning the long process of interviewing each and every one of the guests, painstakingly noting down their details. Together, we climbed the stairs, arriving at a narrow corridor running left and right. On one side, there was another large room lit by candelabra and with several tables covered with green baize. Evidently, this was where the gaming took place. We did not enter it, following the corridor in the other direction past several bedrooms, each one named after a famous Bostonian. Revere was about halfway down. The door was unlocked.

‘I cannot imagine what it is that you hope to find,’ Jones muttered as we went in.

‘I’m not sure I expect to find anything,’ I replied. ‘Inspector Lestrade said that he had already been here. And yet Pilgrim was a clever man. If he thought himself to be in danger, there’s a chance he might have tried to leave something behind.’

‘One thing is certain. There is nothing to be discovered downstairs.’

‘I quite agree.’

At first glance, the room was unpromising. There was a bed, freshly made, and a closet, empty. Another door led into a bathroom with both a water closet and a gas-heated bath. The Bostonian certainly knew how to look after its guests and I could not help feeling envious, remembering my own shabby hotel. The wallpaper, curtains and furnishings were all of the highest quality. We began a search, opening the drawers, pulling up the mattress, even turning the pictures, but it was clear that once Jonathan Pilgrim had left, the room had been stripped and cleaned.

‘This is a waste of time,’ I said.

‘So it would seem. And yet… what have we here?’ As Jones spoke, he leafed through a pile of magazines that stood on an occasional table at the foot of the bed.

‘There is nothing,’ I said. ‘I’ve already looked.’

It was true. I had quickly thumbed through the magazines—The Century, The Atlantic Monthly, The North American Review. But it was not the publications that interested Jones. He had pulled out a small advertising card from one of them and showed it to me. I read:

‘Jonathan Pilgrim was not bald,’ I said. ‘He had a fine head of hair.’

Jones smiled. ‘You see but you do not observe. Look at the name—Horner. And the address: number thirteen!’

‘Horner 13!’ I exclaimed. They were the words we had found in the diary in Scotchy Lavelle’s desk.

‘Exactly. And if your agent was as capable as you suggest, it is quite possible that he left this here on purpose in the hope that it would be found. It would, of course, mean nothing to anyone cleaning the room.’

‘It means nothing to me either! What can a hair tonic possibly have to do with Clarence Devereux or with the murders at Bladeston House?’

‘We shall see. It seems that for once, and despite his best efforts, Lestrade has actually helped our investigation. It makes a change.’ Jones slipped the advertisement into his pocket. ‘We will say nothing of this, Chase. Agreed?’

‘Of course.’

We left the room, closing the door behind us, and made our way back downstairs.