The British Mysteries Edition: 14 Novels & 70+ Short Stories. Sapper
very still with his eyes fixed on the ground.
"Do you see that?" he breathed. "I wonder what it means. It's odd—very odd."
The dust still lay thick on the floor, and as he turned his torch from side to side his cousin began to grasp what he was driving at. Across the centre of the room were the imprints of very visible footmarks which went from the window towards the door. In one of them Jim Maitland placed his foot: it fitted exactly. They were his tracks of the previous night. But they were not the only ones. Sometimes crossing one another, but for most of the way as clear and distinct as those made by Jim were other footsteps. And it was at these that he was intently peering.
The foot was small—like a woman's, and the distance between each step was short—so short, in fact, that the tracks might have been made by a child. That they were all the work of one person was obvious, but beyond that Percy's brain failed to advance. Some small girl presumably had been running round the room, and he failed to see why the matter should interest his cousin.
"What do you make of it, Percy?" came in a whisper from Jim.
"Looks as if a girls' school had been having a dancing lesson, old lad. Let's push on: this room gives me the hump."
"You fat-headed blighter. Do you mean to say you can't read those marks? Look at that set of tracks."
Jim focussed his torch on one of them.
"Which way was the person going who made those?"
"From the window to the door," answered his cousin.
"Good boy. And now those?"
"From the door to the window."
"Getting quite bright. Now take the last lot."
"They are from the window to the door."
"Right again. Now think it out. Two lines from the window to the door, and only one from the door to the window. And all the same person."
Percy's brain wrestled with the problem manfully.
"Whoever did it must have been ga-ga," he said at length. "I mean, fancy running about this place for fun."
"And how did the person run? Where did he start from—the door or the window?"
Once again Percy's brain creaked.
"Window to door," he muttered. "Door to window: window to door."
"Not quite right, Percy—but near enough. So where is he now?"
And suddenly the full significance of it sank in.
"Good Lord!" he cried. "He must be in the house."
"Precisely," said Jim. "Therefore don't shout, and keep your wits about you. For it was no small girl who made those tracks. Now—follow me."
They passed up the stairs into the hall. Percy close on his cousin's heels. What had seemed perfectly priceless in the club was not turning out quite such good value as he had expected. From outside came the sound of a passing car: then the same deathly silence settled on the house again.
"Jim," he whispered.
There was no answer, and putting out his hand he encountered air. His cousin was not there.
"Jim." The whisper was louder, and the next instant a hand gripped his arm, so unexpectedly that he almost cried out.
"Shut up, you young idiot. I thought you were behind me. I've been up to the first landing."
"How jolly," remarked Percy. "Are you going up again?"
"To the second floor," whispered Jim. "Had a look at the roulette room: everything dismantled, as I expected."
He was creeping up the stairs as he spoke, and at the top of the flight he paused.
"Do you hear anything?" he breathed in the other's ear.
But Percy could hear nothing save the thumping of his own heart, and was only conscious of a strong desire to flee. If this was the normal manner of a burglar's life he proposed to stick to bigamy in the crime line.
"Perhaps I was mistaken," whispered Jim. "Come on."
They crept up the next flight, and again Jim stopped.
"I'm going to switch on my torch," he muttered. "If we're caught—we're caught."
But the passage was empty, and he flung open the door of the room where the body had been. Then like a flash he stepped back: opening doors can be a dangerous occupation. But nothing happened, and after a while he entered.
The room was as he had left it, save that there was no trace of the dead man. None of the furniture had been moved: papers still littered the top of the desk.
"Stay by the door, Percy," he said quietly. "No—not in the centre, old lad: stand to one side. And keep your ears skinned for any sound."
He flashed his torch over the papers on the desk, but beyond a few bills and receipts there was nothing of any interest. They were made out to Mr. M. Johnson, which might have been genuine or might not: anyway, they did not advance things.
He knelt down on the floor where the body had been, and after a while his attention was attracted by a small piece of paper that was lying just under the bottom of the desk. It was so placed that had he not been on his hands and knees he would never have noticed it, the desk would have hidden it. He picked it up and examined it: then he whistled softly to himself.
It was clearly one corner of a larger piece of paper. It had been torn off violently; the distortion of the paper was obvious. Moreover it was discoloured as if it had been held tightly between a finger and thumb which were warm. Was it possible, he reflected, that this scrap had been in the dead man's hand, and had fallen under the desk when he himself fell?
He held it up to the light and studied it carefully. The two letters WE had been written in indelible pencil, and were presumably part of a longer word. But the main point of interest lay not so much in what it might mean—with such a small clue that was bound to be a closed book to them for the time—but in the fact of its presence at all. Because it seemed to Jim that that scrap of paper justified his line of action. There was something more to it than a mere gambling row, and it was going to be his job to find out what. He put it carefully in his pocket-book, and straightened up. And he was on the point of telling his cousin that they would hook it when he heard the unmistakable sound of a board creaking in the passage outside. He signalled to Percy to stand still: then he waited motionless, his torch focussed on the floor. He knew that in a moment or two he would see again that misshapen figure, and in spite of the element of surprise being absent a queer little thrill ran through him. There came another creak, and the dwarf was standing in the room.
He saw Percy give an uncontrollable start: then for a while the three of them stood without movement. Suddenly the blind man switched on the light, walked to the desk and sat down. He picked up the telephone, and Jim made a sign with his hand towards the door. If possible he wanted to get away without being discovered, and as silently as a cat he crossed the room.
"Is that Exchange? Mr. Johnson, of 95, Oakleigh Avenue, speaking. My call is for rather an unusual purpose. Would you make quite sure you have the name and address correct? Perhaps you would repeat it. Yes: that's quite right. Well, would you make a special note in case a call comes through for him, that a Mr. Jim Maitland is with me at the moment? Yes: Jim Maitland. Thank you so much. I regret having to trouble you."
He put down the receiver and lay back in his chair with a smile, while Jim Maitland stood in the centre of the room staring fascinated at him. As far as he knew he had not made a sound, and yet the little devil had spotted him.
"Good evening, Mr. Maitland." His voice was suave. "Won't you introduce your friend? You can, of course, if you prefer it go away. At the same time, having taken all the trouble you have, a little chat might clear the air."
"How long have you known I