“Queer place, isn’t it?” Lavender answered my glance. “I don’t wonder
that Morley was stumped. I begin to think better of this case than I do
of my own, Gilly.”
He picked the lock of the door leading to the second corridor and looked
out. He tried the door on its hinges.
“Works well,” said he. “I suppose Vanderdonck has the key, wherever Mr.
Vanderdonck is! A place with two entrances and exits is always useful.”
He examined the dirty towel hanging in the closet, carrying it to the
light for a better scrutiny. Then he cocked an eye at the big safe. I
knew that he was seriously considering a more serious pick-lock job than
the earlier ones. Finally he walked over to the washstand and examined
the bowl. He touched the porcelain with his sensitive fingers, looked at
his forefinger, sniffed it, and turned on the water.
“Doesn’t run out very readily,” he remarked at length. “A bit clogged, I
fancy. And notice how the drops at the last cling to the sides of the
bowl.”
“Very interesting,” I smiled, “but what do you gather from that?”
“I’d like to see the contents of that safe,” he answered thoughtfully.
Once more putting temptation away from him, however, he turned his
attention to the holes in the floor, then to the small desk. The latter
yielded little. There was a quantity of stationery, letterheads and
envelopes, all bearing the name of Peter Vanderdonck, and the top sheet
and envelope of each pile was dusty save where a thumb had smeared the
dust into a smudge.
“Morley’s thumb,” grunted Lavender, staccato.
In the meantime I devoted myself to an investigation of the anteroom.
But the table drawer was empty and nothing offered but the books and
magazines. In the heap of the latter was one newspaper a month old,
which I resurrected and idly glanced over. Then I noticed that a
paragraph had been ringed with a blue pencil mark and I read the notice.
After which I carried it to Lavender.
“Do you suppose this is important?” I asked and handed him the paper.
He carefully read the marked paragraph and a quaint wrinkle appeared
above the bridge of his nose.
“An interesting coincidence, at any rate,” he said half to himself.
“A dramatic criticism—” I began.
“In which he happened to be interested? Just that, Gilly. But why was he
interested, supposing Vanderdonck to have marked the paper? For that
matter, why was he interested, supposing someone else to have marked the
paper and sent it to him? Did you note the cast of characters?”
“Yes,” I replied, “I did.” Then an idea struck me, and I added with a
smile, “But Charles Merritt’s name is not in the cast, Jimmie. You can’t
connect up that case.”
“So you thought of the Merritt mystery, did you? Well, it’s true that
his name isn’t here, but someone else’s name is. The part of ‘Mabel
Greensleeve’ is played, if you please, by Miss Sidney Kane. And who is
Miss Sidney Kane, Gilly?”
“I don’t know. Do you?”
“She is, although somewhat elderly, one of the bright and shining stars,
I believe, of the ‘Tinfoil Revue,’ in which Charles Merritt played a
character sketch until his disappearance.”