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Page 10
It was undoubtedly a most awkward fix.
I listened.
Everything in the hotel was silent as the grave.
I turned from my gloomy forebodings to look again at the stranger. In
his crisp black hair and slightly protuberant cheekbones I traced again
the hint of Jewish ancestry I had remarked before. Now that the man's
eyes--his big, thoughtful eyes that had stared at me out of the darkness
of the corridor--were closed, he looked far less foreign than before: in
fact he might almost have passed as an Englishman.
He was a young man--about my own age, I judged--(I shall be twenty-eight
next birthday) and about my own height, which is five feet ten. There
was something about his appearance and build that struck a chord very
faintly in my memory.
Had I seen the fellow before?
I remembered now that I had noticed something oddly familiar about him
when I first saw him for that brief moment in the corridor.
I looked down at him again as he lay on his back on the faded carpet. I
brought the candle down closer and scanned his features.
He certainly looked less foreign than he did before. He might not be a
German after all: more likely a Hungarian or a Pole, perhaps even a
Dutchman. His German had been too flawless for a Frenchman--for a
Hungarian, either, for that matter.
I leant back on my knees to ease my cramped position. As I did so I
caught a glimpse of the stranger's three-quarters face.
Why! He reminded me of Francis a little!
There certainly was a suggestion of my brother in the man's appearance.
Was it the thick black hair, the small dark moustache? Was it the
well-chiselled mouth? It was rather a hint of Francis than a resemblance
to him.
The stranger was fully dressed. The jacket of his blue serge suit had
fallen open and I saw a portfolio in the inner breast pocket. Here, I
thought, might be a clue to the dead man's identity. I fished out the
portfolio, then rapidly ran my fingers over the stranger's other
pockets.
I left the portfolio to the last.
The jacket pockets contained nothing else except a white silk
handkerchief unmarked. In the right-hand top pocket of the waistcoat was
a neat silver cigarette case, perfectly plain, containing half a dozen
cigarettes. I took one out and looked at it. It was a Melania, a
cigarette I happen to know for they stock them at one of my clubs, the
Dionysus, and it chances to be the only place in London where you can
get the brand.
It looked as if my unknown friend had come from London.
There was also a plain silver watch of Swiss make.
In the trousers pocket was some change, a little English silver and
coppers, some Dutch silver and paper money. In the right-hand trouser
pocket was a bunch of keys.
That was all.
I put the different articles on the floor beside me. Then I got up, put
the candle on the table, drew the chair up to it and opened the
portfolio.
In a little pocket of the inner flap were visiting cards. Some were
simply engraved with the name in small letters:
Dr. Semlin
Others were more detailed:
Dr. Semlin, Brooklyn, N.Y.
The Halewright Mfg. Coy., Ltd.
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