Page 67 of Marble Hall Murders

‘It is interesting, do you not think, how the finger of suspicion points directly at just one man? Monsieur Waysmith alone had the motive to kill Lady Chalfont.’

‘She had discovered something about him that might have persuaded her to change her will.’

‘So it would appear. Why else would she have arranged to meet with Jean Lambert on the day of her death?’

‘And it would seem almost certain that it was he who visited the pharmacy,’ Pünd concluded. ‘There is even the matter of the signature in the register.’

‘Yes. I saw that too.’

‘But there was no signature!’ Fraser exclaimed. ‘It was just a scribble.’

‘You did not remark upon the colour of the ink?’ Pünd asked.

‘Turquoise.’ Voltaire nodded in agreement.

‘Exactly. The papers on the desk in Mr Waysmith’s office were written in that same colour, James. I have no doubt that the same pen was used in both cases.’

‘So it must have been him, then!’

‘I do not know.’ Voltaire finished his coffee and stubbed out his cigarette. ‘There is something about this business that I find disturbing.’

‘It is not as straightforward as it might appear,’ Pünd agreed. ‘I noticed a hotel at the end of this street. I would suggest that we look in and pay it a visit before we leave the area.’

‘And why is that, Monsieur Pünd?’ Voltaire asked.

‘Because I saw its name when we were at the Chateau Belmar. There are some who would say that this is just a coincidence, but …’

‘Mr Pünd doesn’t believe in coincidences.’ Fraser finished the sentence for him.

‘Where did you see it?’

‘Right here!’ Pünd leaned forward and picked up the book of matches that Voltaire had used to light his cigarette. He turned it over and there, in red letters, were the two words:HôTEL LAFAYETTE. ‘I hope you will not mind my asking where you found this, Monsieur Voltaire.’

Briefly, Voltaire’s face clouded over, but then the moment passed. ‘I believe I picked it up in the vestibule as we left the Chateau Belmar after the reading of the will,’ he said. ‘It was lying on a table and after the unpleasant scene we had witnessed, I had a desire to smoke a cigarette in the garden.’ He glanced down the narrow street towards the hotel. ‘I agree with you again, Monsieur Pünd. It cannot be a coincidence. Did Elmer Waysmith also visit the hotel?’

Pünd stood up. ‘Let us find out,’ he said.

THIRTEEN

‘Yes. I do remember the gentleman of whom you speak. He was an elderly man who wore a panama hat and sunglasses. I never saw him without them, even when he was inside the building. He booked a room for two nights: Thursday and Friday, the second and third of this month. There is not very much more I can tell you about him. He arrived with a small suitcase, which he insisted on carrying himself, and paid in advance with cash. He was a man of few words. He used a walking stick.’

The speaker was an anxious-looking man with hollow cheeks and a moustache. He had introduced himself as Louis Baptiste and he was the owner of the Hôtel Lafayette as well as its manager, receptionist, barman and occasional chef. His wife and daughter were partners in the enterprise and they had another three employees who helped with the cleaning, the kitchen, security and general maintenance.

Pünd, Voltaire and Fraser were standing in the hotel’s reception area, which consisted of a curved marble-topped counter with, behind it, fourteen wooden pigeonholes. To one side, the smallest lift Fraser had ever seen stood waiting, although if a family of four with luggage had decided to check in, the only way they would have been able to go up might have been one at a time.

‘Did you ask him for his identity card?’ Voltaire asked.

‘He had already paid,’ Baptiste replied. ‘There was no need.’

‘Did he enter his name into your visitors’ book?’

‘We ask every guest to register with us. I have it here.’

There was a black ledger in front of him and the hotel manager opened it at the correct page. Pünd and Voltaire leaned forward and immediately saw the name – JOHN FORD – written in capital letters and in the same turquoise ink they recognised from the pharmacy. There was a phone number but no address.

‘John Ford …’ Voltaire muttered.

‘That’s the name of an American film director,’ Fraser said. ‘He madeRio Grandewith John Wayne. I thought it was rather good.’

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