Page 68 of Marble Hall Murders

‘It is also the shortest possible name he could choose,’ Voltaire added. ‘He’s written in capitals to disguise his handwriting, but we might still be able to compare it with some of the work written by Monsieur Waysmith. You see the way the crossbar in the letter H slopes down …’

‘And what of the phone number?’

‘It’s a local number and I’ll have it checked. But it is certain to be false.’

They seemed to have come to another impasse, but Pünd was not dispirited. Between them, the book of matches and the turquoise ink proved thatsomeonefrom the Chateau Belmar had been here, even if they could not be completely sure that it was Elmer Waysmith. He turned to Louis Baptiste. ‘How often did you see Mr Ford?’ he asked.

‘Only when he checked in on the Thursday evening. And once again on Friday.’

‘When was that?’

‘It was midmorning, sometime after twelve o’clock. Perhaps five past? I did not notice the exact time. The gentleman went directly to his room.’

‘Which room was he in?’

Baptiste glanced at the register. ‘Number thirteen. On the third floor.’

‘Did he take the lift or the stairs?’

‘He took the stairs, monsieur. He came in through those doors and proceeded straight upstairs.’

‘Strange behaviour for a man with a walking stick,’ Voltaire observed.

‘I would agree, monsieur. Evidently, he was in a hurry. He did not acknowledge me.’

‘He did not stop to ask for his key?’

‘He must have taken it with him when he went out.’

Pünd glanced at Voltaire, who nodded. Fraser couldn’t help noticing that a strange chemistry had arisen between them since they had driven into Nice. Each seemed to know what the other was thinking.

‘We would like to see his room,’ Voltaire said.

‘Certainly, monsieur. It has, of course, been cleaned since Monsieur Ford departed, but it is empty now. My daughter will take you up.’

Baptiste reached out and slammed his palm down on a service bell that chimed out through the hotel. A few moments later, a door opened and a young girl appeared, holding a dustpan and brush. ‘Yes, Papa?’

‘Can you please take these gentlemen up to room thirteen, Marie. They are not guests. They are investigating a crime.’

‘A crime at the hotel?’ The girl’s eyes widened.

‘No, no, no. It has nothing to do with us.’

The girl put down the cleaning implements and removed a key from its pigeonhole, then started up the stairs. Pünd, Voltaire and Fraser followed in single file, their shoulders almost brushing against the walls on each side, the chintz wallpaper making the way seem even more narrow than it already was.

Room 13 was at the very top of the hotel, at the end of a corridor. Marie unlocked the door to allow them into a very basic, square room with a small window and a view only of the building next door. There was very little furniture: a bed, a bedside table, a half-sized armchair, a wardrobe, and a sink in the corner.

‘The toilet and shower are down the corridor,’ Marie said.

‘Did you see the gentleman who occupied this room on the second and third of June?’ Voltaire asked her, looking around him without much enthusiasm.

‘I saw him very briefly on the Friday morning, monsieur. I think it was about half past eleven. He came out of the room while I was vacuuming the carpet.’

‘Did you see his face?’

‘He had a hat …’

‘And sunglasses?’

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