"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 Williams'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 3Vi 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 ashtray 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, c
ertainly, 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?"
They could not; and neither could Alice the housemaid.
No one did Mr. Searle's room but her, she said. Mrs. Clamp came from the village every day to help, but she did not do bedrooms. Just stairs and corridors and offices and that.
Grant watched their faces and speculated. Whit-more was poker-faced; Liz half interested by the puzzle, half troubled; Alice apprehensive that she might be held responsible for whatever was missing from the case.
He was getting nowhere.
Whitmore came to the front door with him, and peering into the dark said: "Where is your car?"
"I left it down the avenue," Grant said. "Good night, and thank you for being so helpful."
He moved away into the darkness and waited while Walter closed the door. Then he walked round the house to the garage. It was still open, and it held three cars. He tried the pockets of all three, but none of them held an odd glove. None of them held any gloves whatever.
TEN
Williams was sitting in the corner of the coffee-room at the White Hart, consuming a late supper; and the landlord greeted Grant and went away to bring supper for him too. Williams, with the aid of the local police, had spent a long, tiring, and unproductive afternoon and evening on Grant's theory that Searle might have, for reasons of his own, disappeared. At ten o'clock, having interviewed his twenty-third bus conductor, and the last available railway porter, he had called it a day, and was now relaxed over beer and sausage-and-mashed.
"Not a thing," he said, in answer to Grant's question. "No one even remotely like him. Any luck with you, sir?"
"Nothing that makes the situation any clearer."
"No letters among his belongings?"
"Not one. They must be all in his wallet, if he has any at all. Nothing but packets of photographs."
"Photographs?" Williams's ears pricked.
"Local ones that he has taken since he came here."
"Oh. Any of Walter Whitmore's girl, by any chance?"
"A very great number indeed."
"Yes? Posed ones?"
"No, Williams, no. Romantic. Her head against a sunlit sky with a spray of almond blossom across it. That kind of thing."
"Is she photogenic, would you say? A blonde?"
"No, she is a small, dark, plainish creature with a nice face."
"Oh. What does he want to go on photographing her for? Must be in love with her."
"I wonder," Grant said; and was silent while food was put in front of him.
"You really ought, just for once, to try those pickles, sir," Williams said. "They're wonderful."
"For the five hundred and seventh time, I do not eat pickles. I have a palate, Williams. A precious possession. And I have no intention of prostituting it to pickles. There was something among Searle's things that was a great deal more suggestive than any photograph."
"What, sir?"
"One of the girl's gloves," Grant said; and told him where it had been found.
"Well, well," Williams said, and chewed the information over in silence for a little. "Doesn't sound as if it had gone very far."
"What?"
"The affair. If he was still at the stage of stealing her glove. Honestly, sir, in this day and age I didn't imagine that anyone was driven to making do with a glove."
Grant laughed. "I told you. She is a nice girl. Tell me, Williams, what kind of object would fit a space 10 inches by 3 Vi by 4?"
"A bar of soap," said Williams without hesitation.
"Unlikely. What else?"
"Box of cigarettes?"
"No. Not a smoker."
"Food of some kind? Processed cheese is that shape."
"No."
"Revolver? Revolver in a case, I mean."
"I wonder. Why should he have a revolver?"
"What space are you trying to fill, sir?" Williams asked, and Grant described the photographic box, and the gap in the neatly fitted compartment
"Whatever had been there was something solid, so that the outline was hard and clear. Nothing that was still available among his belongings fitted the gap. So either he took it out and got rid of it, or it was removed for some reason after he had disappeared."
"That would mean that someone at Trimmings is suppressing evidence. You still think Whitmore not the type, sir?"
"Type?"
"Not the bumping-off type."
"I think Whitmore would be more able to get into a pet than to see red."
"But he wouldn't need to see red to drown Searle. A shove when he" was in a pet would have done it, and he mightn't have been able to do anything about rescue in the dark. Then he might lose his head and pretend he knew nothing about it. Heaven knows that happens often enough."
"You think Whitmore did it but did it in half-accident?"
"I don't know who did it. But it's my firm conviction that Searle is still in the river, sir.”
"But Inspector Rodgers says he dragged it thoroughly."
"The sergeant in charge at Wickham Police Station says the mud in the bed of the Rushmere goes half-way to Australia."
"Yes. I know. The Chief Constable, I understand, made the same observation in a less vivid phrase."
"After all," Williams said not listening, "what could have become of him if he didn't drown? If all reports are true he wasn't a type you look at and never remember."
No. That was true. Grant thought of the young man who had stood in Cormac Ross's doorway, and reflected how little the official description of the missing man conveyed the individual they were looking for.
A man, in his early twenties, five feet eight-and-a-half or nine inches, slim build, very fair, grey eyes, straight nose, cheek bones rather high, wide mouth; hatless; wearing belted mackintosh over grey tweed jacket, grey pullover, blue sports shirt, and grey flannels, brown American shoes with instep buckle instead of lacing; low voice with American accent.
No one reading that description would visualise the actuality that was Leslie Searle. On the other hand, as Williams pointed out, no one could set eyes on the actual Searle and not look back for a second glance. No one would see him and not remember.
"Besides, what could he want to disappear for?" persisted Williams.
"That I can't guess without knowing much more of his background. I must get the Yard on to it first thing tomorrow. There's a female cousin somewhere in England, but it is his American background that I want to know about. I can't help feeling that the bumping-off trade is more native to California than it is to the B.B.C."
"No one from California took whatever it was from Searle's case," Williams pointed out.
/> "No," Grant said, contemplative; and went over the inhabitants of Trimmings in his mind. Tomorrow he would have to begin the collection of alibis. Williams was of course right. It was unlikely to the point of fantasy that Searle should have disappeared in such a manner of his own accord. He had suggested to Liz Garrowby that Searle might have planned a practical joke for Walter's discomfiture, and Liz had scorned the suggestion. But even if Liz had been wrong in her estimate, how could Searle have done it?
"There is still your passing motorist," he said aloud. '
"What's that, sir?"
"We have interviewed the people on the regular transport services, but we have had no way yet of reaching the casual motorist who might have given him a lift."
Williams, dilated with sausage and beer, smiled benevolently on him. "You make the Fifty-seventh look like a girl's school, sir."
"The Fifty-seventh?"
"You die awfully hard. You still in love with that theory about his ducking of his own accord?"
"I still think that he could have walked on from the river bend, up across the fields, to the main Wickham-Crome road and got a lift there. “I’ll ask Bryce in the morning if we could have a radio S.O.S, about it"
"And after he got the lift, sir? What then? All his luggage is at Trimmings."
"We don't know that. We don't know anything about him before he walked into that party of Ross's. He is a photographer; that is all we know for certain. He says he has only a female cousin in England but he may have hah7 a dozen homes and a dozen wives for all we know."
"Maybe, but why not go in a natural fashion when this trip was finished? After all, he would want to collect on that book they were doing, surely? Why all the mumbo-jumbo?"
"To make things awkward for Walter, perhaps."
"Yes? You think that? Why?"
"Perhaps because I wouldn't mind making things awkward for Walter myself," Grant said with a half smile. "Perhaps after all it is just wishful-thinking on my part."
"It certainly is going to be very uncomfortable for Whitmore," Williams said, without any noticeable regret.
"Very. Shouldn't wonder if it leads to civil war."
"War?"
"The Faithful Whitmorites versus the Doubters."