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.
The question to be decided was: whose glove, and how much or how little did it mean?
Grant put it in his pocket and went downstairs. Liz was waiting for him in the library as she had promised, but he noticed that she had had company. No one person could have smoked so many cigarettes as the ends in the ash-tray indicated. Grant deduced that Walter Whitmore had been in consultation with her over this affair of police interrogation.
But Liz had not forgotten that she was also a secretary and official receptionist for Trimmings, and she had caused drinks to be brought. Grant refused them because he was on duty, but approved of her effort on his behalf.
'I suppose this is only a beginning, Liz said, indicating the Wickham Times (once weekly every Friday) which was lying open on the table. *Young Man Missing*, said a modest headline in an inconspicuous position. And Walter was referred to as Mr Walter Whitmore, of Trimmings, Salcott St Mary, the well-known commentator.
'Yes, Grant said. 'The daily Press will have it tomorrow.
*Whitmore's Companion Drowned*, they would say tomorrow, on the front page. *Whitmore Mystery. Friend of Whitmore Disappears.*
'It is going to be very bad for Walter.
'Yes. Publicity is suffering from a sort of inflation. Its power is out of all proportion to its worth.
'What do you think happened to him, Inspector? To Leslie?
'Well, for a time I had a theory that he might have disappeared of his own accord.
'Voluntarily! But why?
'That I wouldn't know without knowing more about Leslie Searle. You don't think, for instance, that he was the type to play a practical joke?
'Oh, no. Quite definitely not. He wasn't that kind at all. He was very quiet and-and had excellent taste. He wouldn't see anything funny in practical joking. Besides, where could he disappear to with all his belongings left behind? He would have only what he stood up in.
'About those belongings. Did you ever happen to see inside the japanned tin box that belongs to him?
'The photographic box. I think I must have once. Because I remember thinking how neatly packed everything was.
'Something has been taken out of the lower compartment, and I can't find anything that fits the space. Would you be able to tell what is missing, do you think?
'I'm sure I shouldn't. I don't remember anything in detail. Only the neatness. It was chemical stuff, and slides, and things like that.
'Did he keep it locked?
'It did lock, I know. Some of the stuff was poisonous. But I don't think it was kept permanently locked. Is it locked now?
'No. Otherwise I shouldn't have known about the empty space.
'I thought policemen could open anything.
'They can, but they may not.
She smiled a little and said: 'I was always in trouble with that at school.
'By the way, he said, 'do you recognise this glove? And produced it from his pocket.
'Yes, she said, mildly interested. 'It looks like one of mine. Where did you find it?
'In Searle's handkerchief drawer.
It was exactly like touching a snail, he thought. The instant closing-up and withdrawal. One moment she was frank and unselfconscious. The next moment she was startled and defensive.
'How odd, she said, through a tight throat. 'He must have picked it up and meant to give it back to me. I keep a spare pair in the pocket of the car, a respectable pair, and drive in old ones. Perhaps one of my respectable pair dropped out one day.
'I see.
'That one, certainly, is one of the kind I keep in the car pocket. Presentable enough to go calling or shopping with but not too grand for everyday wear.
'Do you mind if I keep it for a little?
'No, of course not. Is it an "exhibit"? It was a gallant effort to sound light.
'Not exactly. But anything that was in Searle's room is of potential value at the moment.
'I think that glove is more likely to mislead you than help you, Inspector. But keep it by all means.
He liked the touch of spirit, and was glad of her quick recovery. He had never enjoyed teasing snails.
'Would Mr Whitmore be able to tell what is missing from that case?
'I doubt it, but we can see. She made for the door to summon Walter.
'Or anyone else in the household?
'Well, Aunt Lavinia wouldn't. She never knows even what is in her own drawers. And Mother wouldn't, because she never goes near the tower room except to put her head in to see that the bed had been done and the place dusted. But we can ask the staff.
Grant took them up to the tower bedroom and showed them what he meant about the empty space. What had lain in that oblong gap?
'Some chemical that he has already used up? Walter suggested.
'I thought of that, but all the necessary chemicals are still there and hardly used at all. You can't think of anything that you have seen him with that would fill that gap?