“What?” Mr. Carter spun around. “I saw them go into the lift myself. Just”-he glanced up at the clock-“four and a half minutes ago. And they haven’t shown up….”
He hurried across to the lift which had just that minute come down again, and spoke to the uniformed attendant.
“You took up a gentleman with a fair beard and a young lady a few minutes ago to the second floor.”
“Not the second floor. Third floor the gentleman asked for.”
“Oh!” The Chief jumped in, motioning Tommy to accompany him. “Take us up to the third floor, please.”
“I don’t understand this,” he murmured in a low voice. “But keep calm. Every exit from the Hotel is watched, and I’ve got a man on the third floor as well-on every floor, in fact. I was taking no chances.”
The lift door opened on the third floor and they sprang out, hurrying down the corridor. Half way along it, a man dressed as a waiter came to meet them.
“It’s all right, Chief. They’re in No. 318.”
Carter breathed a sigh of relief.
“That’s all right. No other exit?”
“It’s a suite, but there are only these two doors into the corridor, and to get out from any of these rooms, they’d have to pass us to get to the staircase or the lifts.”
“That’s all right, then. Just telephone down and find out who is supposed to be occupying this suite.”
The waiter returned in a minute or two.
“Mrs. Cortlandt Van Snyder of Detroit.”
Mr. Carter became very thoughtful.
“I wonder now. Is this Mrs. Van Snyder an accomplice, or is she-”
He left the sentence unfinished.
“Hear any noise from inside?” he asked abruptly.
“Not a thing. But the doors fit well. One couldn’t hope to hear much.”
Mr. Carter made up his mind suddenly.
“I don’t like this business. We’re going in. Got the master key?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Call up Evans and Clydesly.”
Reinforced by the other two men, they advanced towards the door of the suite. It opened noiselessly when the first man inserted his key.
They found themselves in a small hall. To the right was the open door of a bathroom, and in front of them was the sitting room. On the left was a closed door and from behind it a faint sound-rather like an asthmatic pug-could be heard. Mr. Carter pushed the door open and entered.
The room was a bedroom, with a big double bed ornately covered with a bedspread of rose and gold. On it, bound hand and foot, with her mouth secured by a gag and her eyes almost starting out of her head with pain and rage, was a middle aged fashionably dressed woman.
On a brief order from Mr. Carter, the other men had covered the whole suite. Only Tommy and his Chief had entered the bedroom. As he leant over the bed and strove to unfasten the knots, Carter’s eyes went roving round the room in perplexity. Save for an immense quantity of truly American luggage, the room was empty. There was no sign of the Russian or Tuppence.
In another minute the waiter came hurrying in, and reported that the other rooms were also empty. Tommy went to the window, only to draw back and shake his head. There was no balcony-nothing but a sheer drop to the street below.
“Certain it was this room they entered?” asked Carter peremptorily.
“Sure. Besides-” The man indicated the woman on the bed.
With the aid of a pen knife, Carter parted the scarf that was half choking her, and it was at once clear that whatever her sufferings, they had not deprived Mrs. Cortlandt Van Snyder of the use of her tongue.
When she had exhausted her first indignation, Mr. Carter spoke mildly.
“Would you mind telling me exactly what happened-from the beginning?”
“I guess I’ll sue the Hotel for this. It’s a perfect outrage. I was just looking for my bottle of ‘Killagrippe’ when a man sprang on me from behind and broke a little glass bottle right under my nose, and before I could get my breath I was all in. When I came to I was lying here, all trussed up, and goodness knows what’s happened to my jewels. He’s gotten the lot, I guess.”