Detective Fiction Weekly. Vol. 36, No. 4, October 20, 1928

During the next hour Archer Dawe saw many strange things. A few minutes after he had posted himself with his eye to the peephole which his foresight had devised, the man whom he now knew as Dr. Brownson came hurriedly out of 45, and sped away along the corridor. Archer Dawe heard the key turned upon him as he left the room. This was at exactly eight-twenty.

At eight-forty this man came just as hurriedly back. He was accompanied by a tall, middle-aged woman in the garb of a district nurse, and he carried a small, black bag in his hand. He tapped twice at the door of 45, and he and the woman were instantly admitted. Once more Archer Dawe heard the key turned in the lock.

At eight-forty-eight the door was opened again. Three people came out. One of them was the man the waiter said was Dr. Hislop; another was James Barr; the third was the lady who had made the fifth at Stephen Barr’s dinner table. She leaned on James Barr’s arm and held a handkerchief to her eyes. Again the door was locked as soon as those leaving the room had crossed the threshold.

Archer Dawe slipped out of his room as soon as he thought these people would be clear of the corridor and the stairs. He reached the hall in time to see the two men assisting the lady into a taxicab. She still held the handkerchief to her eyes and seemed to be in great grief.

When the cab had driven away the two men stepped back into the hotel, and went to the manager’s office. There they remained for some minutes. Coming out at length, they went upstairs again.

Archer Dawe strolled out to the door, making pretense of examining the weather. Turning in again he was met by the under-manager, who smiled in an apologetic manner.

“I believe, sir,” he said, in a low voice, “you are the gentleman in 46?”

“I am,” replied Archer Dawe.

“Well, sir, of course, it is necessary to keep these sad affairs very quiet in a hotel, as you are aware. The poor gentleman in 45, the room opposite yours, is dead.”

“Dead?”

“Yes, sir — he died twenty minutes ago. Heart failure. You are, I believe, a medical man, sir. Yes, then you will understand. He had his own two doctors with him at the time — nothing could be done. He has had these attacks here before. I was wondering if you would like to be transferred to another room, sir?”

“No, I don’t know that I should — I am not squeamish about these things,” replied Archer Dawe.

“Well, sir, I thought it best to mention it to you. Certainly the — the body will not be in the house all night. As the doctors were well acquainted with the deceased gentleman’s complaint they will be able to certify, so there will be no need for an inquest. A... a coffin is coming at half past ten, sir, and they are going to remove the body to Normancaster, where the dead gentleman lived, by the night train. These two gentlemen are going to make arrangements now, sir, I believe.”

Archer Dawe turned and saw James Barr and Dr. Hislop descending the staircase. They passed him and the under-manager, went down the steps of the front entrance, and separated, Barr crossing over to the station, and Hislop entering a cab.

“No, you need not change my room, thank you,” said Archer Dawe to the under-manager, and left him. “I do not mind at all.”

He dawdled about the smoking room for a while, then went upstairs again. And once more he applied himself to the hole in the door. At nine-ten the nurse came out, followed by the man whom he knew as Dr. Brownson. Brownson locked the door and put the key in his pocket. He and the nurse went along the corridor whispering. Archer Dawe cautiously opened his door and tiptoed after them until he saw them descend the stairs. Then he hurried back. Now was his chance! The two women were gone; the three men were gone. There could be nothing in 45 but — what?

In another instant he had whipped out the key which he had caused to be made that morning, had slipped it into the lock of the door behind which so much mystery seemed to be concealed, and had entered the room. His hand sought and found the electric light, and as it flashed out he took one swift glance around him.

The room was empty. Empty! There was neither dead man nor living man in it. Everything was in order. Two large trunks stood side by side against the wall; a large traveling bag, strapped, stood near them; a smaller one, which Archer Dawe recognized as that which Stephen Barr had had with him the night before, stood, similarly strapped, at the foot of the bed. But on the bed itself there was no stark figure. The room was empty.

Archer Dawe saw all these things in a moment. He turned out the light, relocked the door, and went downstairs into the smoking room, where he sipped a whisky and soda. On the other side of the room Dr. Brownson was similarly employed. As Archer Dawe looked at him he thought of Holland’s words of the previous afternoon. “Dawe, it’s a damned plant!”