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Fifteen
It was the custom at the Stag for guests to be called at whatever hour they named by the simple
process of a loud bang on the door and the shouted information that it was “Eight-thirty, sir,” or
“Eight o’clock” whatever the case might be. Early tea was produced if expressly stipulated
for, and was deposited with a rattle of crockery on the mat outside the door.
On this particular Wednesday morning, young Gladys went through the usual formula outside
No. 5, yelling out, “Eight-fifteen, sir,” and crashing down the tray with a bang that slopped the
milk out of the jug. She then went on her way, calling more people and proceeding to her other
duties.
It was ten o’clock before she took in the fact that No. 5’s tea was still on the mat.
She beat a few heavy raps on the door, got no reply and therupon walked in.
No. 5 was not the kind of gentleman who overslept himself, and she had just remembered that
there was a convenient flat roof outside the window. It was just possible, thought Gladys, that No.
5 had done a bunk without paying his bill.
But the man registered as Enoch Arden had not done a bunk. He was lying on his face in the
middle of the room and without any knowledge of medicine, Gladys had no doubt whatever that
he was dead.
Gladys threw back her head and screamed, then rushed out of the room and down the stairs, still
screaming.
“Ow, Miss Lippincott—Miss Lippincott—ow—”
Beatrice Lippincott was in her private room having a cut hand bandaged by Dr. Lionel Cloade
—the latter dropped the bandage and turned irritably as the girl burst in.
“Ow, Miss!”
The doctor snapped:
“What is it? What is it?”
“What’s the matter, Gladys?” asked Beatrice.
“It’s the gentleman in No. 5, Miss. He’s lying there on the floor, dead.”
The doctor stared at the girl and then at Miss Lippincott: the latter stared at Gladys and then at
the doctor.
Finally, Dr. Cloade said uncertainly:
“Nonsense.”
“Dead as a doornail,” said Gladys, and added with a certain relish: “’Is ’ead’s bashed
in!”
The doctor looked towards Miss Lippincott.
“Perhaps I’d better—”
“Yes, please, Dr. Cloade. But really—I hardly think—it seems so impossible.”
They trooped upstairs, Gladys leading the way. Dr. Cloade took one look, knelt down and bent
over the recumbent figure.
He looked up at Beatrice. His manner had changed. It was abrupt, authoritative.
“You’d better telephone through to the police station,” he said.
Beatrice Lippincott went out, Gladys followed her.
Gladys said in an awed whisper:
“Ow, Miss, do you think it’s murder?”
Beatrice smoothed back her golden pompadour with an agitated hand.
“You hold your tongue, Gladys,” she said sharply. “Saying a thing’s murder before you
know it’s murder is libel and you might be had up in court for it. It’ll do the Stag no good to
have a lot of gossip going about.” She added, as a gracious concession: “You can go and make
yourself a nice cup of tea. I dare say you need it.”
“Yes, indeed, Miss, I do. My inside’s fair turning over! I’ll bring you along a cup, too!”
To which Beatrice did not say No.
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