Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine. Vol. 101, Nos. 3 & 4. Whole Nos. 610 & 611, March 1993

In Suite Seven, Professor Giuliano, master now of a luxurious suite, wished he could have taken advantage of the well-known freedoms of the Hotel George IV. But with police in the offing that was hardly on the cards. With a sigh he returned to the maps of Southern Europe that had been occupying his master and his guest. He took hold of the carafe of barley water that Mr. Wilson had been drinking, then changed his mind and poured a glass of the prime minister’s French champagne. As he sipped, he looked down at the maps on the desk and a new expression came over his face.

In Suite Twelve, Mr. Lloyd-George took up the phone.

“Mr. Manager? Suite twelve here. Now, you said this Johnnie was Serbian, did you not?”

“Yes, Mr. Lloyd-George. What I believe we are now to call Yugoslavian.”

“Well, we shall see about that. But it’s a good point. Got any of his fellow-countrymen on your staff, have you? Or anyone else from the Balkans? Very quarrelsome people, the Eastern Europeans. Or even a North African might do.”

“I believe there is someone in the kitchens — let me see, I think there is somebody from Croatia.”

“Capital. Part of the new kingdom.”

“I seem to remember he is one of the meat chefs.”

“With the skills of a butcher, then? Even better. I wouldn’t mind betting his passport is not in order.”

“It does often happen that people will work for less if we... turn a blind eye.”

“Quite. Well, offer him a good sum of money — what’s a thousand pounds in francs? — and tell him to disappear.”

“Ah, you mean—?”

“It will be unimaginable riches to him. He’ll take himself off and become a rich man in his own country. You don’t need to do anything more. Tell the police he’s disappeared, and they’ll jump at it. Crime solved, with no effort. Suspicious foreigner — everyone’s happy. They won’t trouble anyone else, if the solution’s handed to them on a plate.”

“I do believe, Mr. Prime Minister, that you’re right.”

“Of course I am. And there’ll be no scandal attached to the hotel. We all want that, don’t we? Let me know how things go.”

As he put down the phone, the door to the bedroom opened, and a vision in rustling silks swept through.

“My dear!” said Mr. Lloyd-George appreciatively.

The men from the Sûreté behaved in a way that at first bordered on the surly.

“This is the man Radič,” said the inspector, looking at the body on the floor with disgust.

“It is. I wanted to throw him out.”

“We told you to keep an eye on him.”

“You said that you would keep an eye on him.”

“That’s what we meant. My Clod! With this man’s record it could be anyone — and possibly one of the highest in Europe. Or of course one of their hirelings...”

“It occurred to me—” began the manager.

“Yes?”

“Did you not say that the man was possibly in the pay of the King of Serbia?”

“It was one of the possibilities.”

“And has he not recently proclaimed himself king of a country called Yugoslavia?”

“Lord knows. Who understands what goes on down there? I have an idea you’re right.”

“It is a very quarrelsome part of the world...”

“They’re always at it. Love, war, love, war.”

“It is, after all, where the late conflict began.”

The inspector nodded sagely.

“It is. If the archduke were alive today, so would a hell of a lot more people be.”

“Exactly. So I wondered if someone of one of the other nationalities that the king has annexed to his new kingdom, perhaps in a quarrel with this unsavoury character...”

The inspector considered.

“You have someone from the region staying in the hotel?”

“Staying here? Heavens above, one was enough! It is, I believe, a poverty-stricken hole. But in our kitchens...”

“Ah. Someone without papers, no doubt.”

The manager gesticulated.

“His papers seemed in order—”

“Who is this man?”

“He is one of the assistant meat chefs — a lowly position.”

“I think we must talk to this man. What nationality did you say he was?”

“I believe Croatian.”

“Who knows where these places are? But it is down there somewhere. Lead on, Mr. Manager.”

Preceded by the manager, the policemen trooped along dingy corridors, up staircases and then more staircases until they came to a long, low attic which served as a sort of dormitory for the lower members of staff. Watched surreptitiously by Turkish, Portuguese, Bulgarian, and Algerian eyes, silently beseeching that their papers not be asked for, fearful of being sent back from the squalor that they lived in to the greater squalor they had come from, the little army marched nearly the length of the dimly lit room.

“Ah, see!” said the manager, greatly surprised. “He is gone!”

The bed was neatly made. From the rough cupboard beside it all trace of the occupant had been removed.

“This, evidently, is our man. Come, Mr. Manager, and give us all the details on him that you have.”

The little army turned, walked the narrow space between the rows of beds, and began the long trek down to the manager’s office. As the door to the attic closed, there could be heard a great sigh of relief in several languages.