Josephine Tey - To Love and Be Wise

'Do you know of anyone who would be likely to want to?

Whitmore hesitated; presumably with Serge Ratoff in his mind.

'Not that kind of violence, he said at length.

'Not what kind?

'Not that waiting-in-the-dark kind.

'I see. Just the ordinary sock-in-the-jaw kind. There was a scene with Serge Ratoff, I understand.

'Anyone who gets through life in close proximity to Serge Ratoff and doesn't have a scene with him must be abnormal, Walter said.

'You don't know of anyone who might have a grudge against Searle?

'No one in Salcott. I don't know anything of his friends or enemies elsewhere.

'Have you any objection to my looking through Searle's belongings?

'I haven't, but Searle might. What do you expect to find, Inspector?

'Nothing specific. A man's belongings are very revealing, I find. I am merely looking for suggestion of some sort; help of any kind in a very puzzling situation.

'I'll take you up now, then-unless there is anything else you want to ask me.

'No, thank you. You have been very helpful. I wish you could have trusted me far enough to tell me what the quarrel was about —

'There was no quarrel! Whitmore said sharply.

'I beg your pardon. I mean, in what way Searle riled you. It would tell me even more about Searle than it would about you; but perhaps it is too much to expect you to see that.

Whitmore stood by the door, considering this. 'No, he said slowly. 'No, I do see what you mean. But to tell you involves — No, I don't think I can tell you.

'I see you can't. Let us go up.

As they emerged into the baronial hall from the library where the interview had taken place, Liz had just come out of the drawing-room and was crossing to the stairs. When she saw Grant she paused and her face lighted with joy.

'Oh! she said, 'you've come with news of him!

When Grant said no, that he had no news, she looked puzzled.

'But it was you who introduced him, she insisted. 'At that party.

This was news to Walter and Grant could feel his surprise. He could also feel his resentment at that flash of overwhelming joy on Liz's face.

'This, Liz dear, he said in a cool, faintly malicious tone, 'is Detective Inspector Grant from Scotland Yard.

'From the Yard! But-you were at that party!

'It is not unheard of for policemen to be interested in the arts, Grant said, amused. 'But —

'Oh, please! I didn't mean it that way.

'I had only looked in at the party to pick up a friend. Searle was standing by the door looking lost because he didn't know Miss Fitch by sight. So I took him over and introduced them. That is all.

'And now you've come down here to-to investigate-

'To investigate his disappearance. Have you any theories, Miss Garrowby?

'I? No. Not even a rudimentary one. It just doesn't make sense. It's fantastically senseless.

'If it isn't too late may I talk to you for a little when I have been through Searle's belongings?

'No, of course it isn't too late. It isn't ten o'clock yet. She sounded weary. 'Since this happened time stretches out and out. It's like having-hashish, is it? Are you looking for anything in particular, Inspector?

'Yes, Grant said. 'Inspiration. But I doubt if I shall find it.

'I shall be in the library when you come down. I hope you will find something that will help. It is very dreadful being suspended from a spider's thread this way.

As he went through Searle's belongings Grant thought about Liz Garrowby-Marta's 'dear nice Liz'-and her relations with William's 'push-ee'. There was never any saying what a woman saw in any man, and Whitmore was of course a celebrity as well as a potentially good husband. He had said as much to Marta, coming away from the party that day. But how right had Marta been about Searle's power to upset? How much had Liz Garrowby felt Searle's charm? How much of that eager welcome of hers in the hall had been joy at Searle's imagined safety and how much mere relief from the burden of suspicion and gloom?

His hands turned over Searle's things with automatic efficiency, but his mind was busy deciding how much or how little to ask Liz Garrowby when he went downstairs again.

Searle had occupied a first-floor room in the battlemented tower that stuck out to the left of the Tudor front door, so that it had windows on three sides of it. It was large and high, and was furnished in very superior Tottenham Court Road, a little too gay and coy for its Victorian amplitude. It was an impersonal room and Searle had evidently done nothing to stamp it with his personality. This struck Grant as odd. He had rarely seen a room, occupied for so long, so devoid of atmosphere. There were brushes on the table, and books by the bedside, but of their owner there was no trace. It might have been a room in a shop window.

Of course it had been swept and tidied since last it was occupied six days ago. But still. But still.

The feeling was so strong that Grant paused to look round and consider. He thought of all the rooms he had searched in his time. They had all-even the hotel rooms-been redolent of their late occupier. But here was nothing but emptiness. An impersonal blank. Searle had kept his personality to himself.

Grant noticed, as Liz had noticed on that first day, how expensive his clothes and luggage were. As he turned over the handkerchiefs in the top drawer he noticed that they had no laundry mark, and wondered a little. Done at home, perhaps. The shirts and linen were marked but the mark was old and probably American.

As well as the two leather suitcases, there was a japanned tin case like a very large paint-box, with the name 'L. Searle' in white letters on the lid. It was fitted with a lock but was unfastened and Grant lifted the lid with some curiosity, only to find that it was filled with Searle's photographic material. It was built on the lines of a paint-box, with a top tray that was made to lift out. Grant hooked out the top tray with his forefingers and surveyed the deeper compartment below it. The lower compartment was full except for an oblong of empty space where something had been taken out. Grant put down the tray he was holding and went to unroll the camp outfit that had been brought back from the riverbank. He wanted to know what fitted into that oblong space.

But there was nothing that fitted.

There were two small cameras in the pack and some rolls of film. Neither separately nor together did they fit into the space in the tin box. Nor did anything else in the pack.

Grant came back and stood for some time considering that empty space. Something roughly 10 inches by 3–1/2 by 4 had been taken out. And it had been taken out when the box was in its present position. Any heaving about of the box would have dislodged the other objects from their packed position and obliterated the empty space.

He would have to ask about that when he went downstairs.

Meanwhile, having given the room a quick going-over, he now went over it in detail. Even so, he nearly missed the vital thing. He had run through the rather untidy handkerchief-and-ties drawer and was in the act of closing it, when something among the ties caught his attention and he picked it out.

It was a woman's glove. A very small woman's glove.

A glove about Liz Garrowby's size.

Grant looked for its mate but there was none. It was the usual lover's trophy.

So the beautiful young man had been sufficiently attracted to steal one of his beloved's gloves. Grant found it oddly endearing. An almost Victorian gesture. Nowadays fetish-worship took much more sinister forms.

Well, whatever the glove proved, it surely proved that Searle had meant to come back. One does not leave stolen love-objects in one's tie-drawer to be exposed to the unsympathetic gaze of the stranger.