Pointer liked to be up with the lark though he spent his time somewhat
differently. It was barely six o'clock next morning when he took
himself to the Marvel Hotel.
“Look here, Gay”—the Detective Inspector was well-known to the
booking-clerk, who had a brother at the Yard—“strictly between
ourselves, there's some trouble in a balcony room next door.
Something's missing. Who have you got in your rooms that open on to
the same balcony?”
The clerk ran a finger up his register.
“Number two left early this morning, the rest are still abed I take
it.”
Pointer swung the book around. Number two was registered to a James
Cox of Birmingham. Profession—Medical student.
“At what hour did he leave?”
“About four.”
“Room empty?” asked the other quickly. “Good, I'll go up and have a
look at it.” Reaching for the key, he was half-way up the stairs
before the clerk had finished his nod.
Pointer found the room still untouched by the chamber-maid, and he
locked the door behind him with an air of relief. The bed had not been
slept in. On the corner of the table lay a wax vesta, the counterpart
of the ones already reposing in the Detective Inspector's black bag.
The linoleum in front of the French window showed where muddy boots
had walked up and down. Both the length of the stride and the size of
the marks spoke for a tall man. On the balcony outside, the rain had
washed away all chance of tracks on the stone, but on the waist-high
grating, which was all that separated the rooms of the Marvel from
those of the Enterprise, were a few small mud-clots close in by the
wall, and under the shelter of the iron roof. Room number fourteen was
nearest to the Marvel, and in front of its window even the rain had
not been able to remove all traces of the muddy feet which had
apparently stood first on one side and then on the other, as though a
man had been trying to peer in through the blind.
Looking in, Pointer saw Watts talking to Miller, who had been left on
duty in the room all night. Yet even so, those tracks on the balcony
could not have been made many hours before the rain stopped. Someone
had walked from one window to the other after he and Watts had left
the place.
He tapped on the pane, and Watts joined him outside. He had already
seen the marks.
“And look there, sir,” he pointed to a sodden heap of canvas,
apparently an awning, which, judging by its appearance, must have lain
for months between the windows of number fourteen and number twelve of
the Enterprise. There were a couple of deep indentations on it, one
beside the other. Pointer took out the sheet of tracings he had made
yesterday at the door leading out into the street from the
service-stairs. He and Watts tried them carefully. They could have
been made by the same feet.
“Smallish feet. They just fit Miller, sir, as I was pointing out to
him when you tapped,” observed Watts facetiously, and the two Scotland
Yard men stepped into the room where Miller was waiting to make his
report. He had been dozing in the easy chair when he had heard a
couple of light taps on the pane. Very carefully he had pushed the
blind aside and looked out. Instantly a torch was flashed in his eyes,
blinding him. When he got the window open, no one was to be seen.
“Of course, I couldn't hear anything, sir. You know what the wind was
like, though the rain had pretty fair stopped by them. It was exactly
twenty minutes past three o'clock.”
“Did you get any idea of who held the torch?”
“Only that he was a big chap, sir. Big as you.”
“Did you see anyone on the opposite side of the window?”
“No, sir.”
“Could you have seen anyone there?”
The detective was positive that he could and would, as he had looked
up and down the balcony, which was fairly well lit by the street
lights. He had not tried to investigate further, as his orders had
been not to leave the room.
On the balcony outside, the Chief Inspector stood for a second by the
heap of canvas. “Just run the blind down inside there, and turn on the
light.”
After a moment Pointer tapped, as a signal that the window was to be
opened again. “You can see better into the room from the other
side—the side nearest the Marvel.”
“You think it was someone from the Enterprise, sir, who wanted to be
sure of getting back unnoticed?”
“Looks that way.”
“You don't think that two men could have been out there together,
sir?”
Pointer did not reply as he stepped into the room again, and sent
Miller off for breakfast and sleep.
“Now, about that morphia taken. Of course we shall know for certain in
the morning, but I take it that there's no doubt but that it was
morphia all right. It's an odd thing that we couldn't find any cup or
glass from which the stuff was drunk. From what the doctor said as to
the amount, it's not likely that Eames could have washed up after his
drink, nor can I see the point. Let's have another hunt.”
And they did, with no better result.
“Could he have flung the glass over the balcony railing?” Watts
measured the distance carefully. “Yes, a man could, fairly easily.”
“After a heavy drug?” Pointer's voice was sceptical. “And what about
passers-by?” He picked up a bottle from the wash-stand labelled “The
Cough Mixture.” It bore the name of a near-by chemist.
“I tasted that last night, sir. It's some I often take myself. It
hasn't been tampered with in any way.” Watts' tone was as good as a
respectful hint not to waste time in a blind alley.
Pointer scrutinised the bottle through his glass, and finally wrapped
it up with special care, putting it in his black bag. He told Watts of
the match which he had found in room two of the Marvel next door.
Evidently Mr. Cox of Birmingham used the identical kind,—which was odd
considering its foreign origin,—favoured by someone in room fourteen
of the Enterprise.
“Mr. Beale spoke of having just come from France, didn't he, sir?”
“He did.”
“He may have forgotten that he had left his matches on the mantelpiece
after lighting one to see into the wardrobe. Perhaps it was he who
left the match you found in the Marvel. Anyone could get over that
tiny railing between the two hotels.”
“Quite possible,” and Pointer wrapped the box, too, carefully up
again, and locked his bag.
His next move was to interview the clerk of the Marvel as to the
appearance and general behaviour of Mr. Cox. He learnt but little. Mr.
Cox had arrived very late on Saturday night in a little two-seater
which proclaimed itself as hired at a glance. He seemed a very quiet,
unobtrusive young man, carried his own bag, and had barely attracted
one glance from the booking-clerk, who only gleaned a general idea of
a big young fellow with a pronounced limp, in a grey tweed suit and
soft grey hat. He had driven his car away without asking any
directions or making any inquiries as to a garage, and had returned
shortly on foot. This would have been about one o'clock. His room had
been waiting for him for nearly a week. On July 30th a 'phone call had
asked whether any of the balcony rooms were free. There were two
vacancies. The voice asked the numbers. They were two and seven.
Number two was chosen, and the hotel was asked to keep the room for a
Mr. Cox who would be there within the hour. This was about eleven
o'clock in the morning. Half an hour later a messenger boy brought a
letter for the manager, who passed it over to the book-keeper. In it
Mr. Cox stated that he might be unable to occupy the room immediately,
but wished No. 2 reserved for him. He enclosed four one-pound notes as
a deposit. The Chief Inspector annexed the letter. When Mr. Cox
finally arrived on Saturday, August 3rd, the room was still his, and
when about four a.m. he descended, still with his bag, and walked out
of the front door without saying a word, the hotel expected him to
return for some sort of a belated breakfast. Up to the present hour he
had not been seen again, but the day was still very young, as the
clerk pointed out.
“Did you see in what direction he went?”
But nobody had taken sufficient interest to watch.
Pointer pulled out a print of Eames' dead face.
“Before July 30th—before that room was 'phoned for—did this man ask
for a room here?”
The clerk recognised the face at once. “Yes, about an hour or two
before Cox's 'phone came. Seemed a nice, friendly sort of chap. Now I
come to think of it, he, too, asked for a balcony room, and went up to
have a look at two and seven. He didn't take either; I forget why.”
“Did the 'phone message you got later sound at all like his voice?”
But that the clerk couldn't remember. “Now I come to think of it, it
didn't sound like Cox speaking. Cox talked like a Colonial,—the few
words he spoke asking about his room, and saying that he had 'phoned
for one on July 30th and sent a letter with a deposit——”
“You didn't tell me that before, Gay: that's an important point. I
want to get hold of Cox if I can. Want to ask him a few questions.”
“Well, Mr. Chief Inspector, a chap can't think of everything at once,”
responded the clerk goodhumouredly; with which view of the limitations
of the human intellect Pointer agreed.
He arranged that a call should be sent through at once if the young
man returned to the hotel, and left feeling that he had found out
quite sufficient to pay him for his early Sunday morning. Eames had
been in to prospect for his friend—or his enemy, whichever Cox was—not
long after he had taken a room at the Enterprise for himself. The
letter signed “Cox” was very unlike that man's signature in the
register, but very like the letter left in Eames' pocket for the
manager; and whatever Pointer's doubts about it, he did not attempt to
deny to himself that the writing in that letter exactly resembled
Eames' entry on the hotel book, though perhaps, to his keen eyes, a
trifle laboured-looking. It would be a nice little problem for the
handwriting expert, but, to his thinking, there was an ease and a
freedom about this last letter—the one sent in Cox's name—which
suggested a genuine document. Had he been able to get a fair
description of the man, he would have sent Cox's description to every
station in England, for he did not share the hotel's belief in his
return, but, bar his size and the limp, which were the easiest of
disguises, he had no definite idea as to the man's appearance.
He glanced at his watch. Nine o'clock. Time to see if the manager and
Mr. Beale had remembered any fresh details. The manager was at his
breakfast, and Pointer thought that his manner had changed in some
subtle way from what it had been last night. Mr. Beale was apparently
not up yet. As Pointer particularly wished to question him, he sent
the hotel's one and only page to the room which had been assigned to
the American for the rest of the night—it happened to be the manager's
sitting-room—with a polite message as to the pleasure it would give
the Chief Inspector to be allowed a few minutes' conversation in room
No. 14.
The boy came back with bulging eyes.
“I believe the gentleman's killed hisself too, sir,” he hissed
melodramatically in Pointer's ear. Evidently the news about No. 14 had
leaked out among the staff.
For once the Scotland Yard man acted like any mere mortal, and bounded
from his chair. “What?”
“Well, there ain't no sound, and I can't make him answer, though I've
hammered and banged like anything on his door.” The boy was evidently
thoroughly enjoying himself.
“Idiot! Keep your mouth shut! Ask the manager to come here a moment,”
was the somewhat contradictory directions he received in a tone which
made Pointer's meaning clear.
The manager arrived, a trifle breathless, and the two men entered the
lobby into which both his bedroom and his sitting-room opened. They
tried the sitting-room door. It was locked, and no reply came from
within to voice or knock.
“There's a door into it from my bedroom. I have the key, and the
bolt's on the bedroom side.” The manager, who was very white, led the
way, and after a second's wait unlocked the door and flung it open. A
burst of fresh air met them. The window stood ajar. The room was
empty. The other door locked and bolted. A bag, half-open, stood at
the foot of the bed which had been made up on the couch, and which had
evidently not been slept in. A half-burnt cigar lay on the carpet by
the armchair, together with a novel. The electric lamp was still on.
Pointer felt the end of the cigar.
“Been out some time. Excuse me, sir, you're standing on a piece of
paper.”
The manager jumped away as though his companion had spoken of a live
coal. Pointer carelessly ran the little wisp of green and white
striped paper through his fingers as he looked at the sill, and out on
the pavement, which was on a level with the floor. Provided there was
the will, there certainly was an easy enough way. But why the will?
Why should the editor of an important newspaper leave by the window
rather than by the door, even though he were an American?
He looked Mr. Beale's bag over. Nothing had been taken. He saw in it
no paper to match the little end he had “absent-mindedly” stuffed into
his pocket.
“I thought I saw a piece of striped paper lying around”—he glanced
about him—“did it belong to anything of yours?”
The manager shook his head. He was even paler than he had been.
“Was it anything of yours, sir?” persisted the officer, peering under
the table.
“No.” The manager's voice was harsh.
“Odd sort of paper, too. Oh, here it is”—Pointer fished it out, “Did
you see anything like it in Mr. Beale's hands last night?”
“I suppose on a modest estimate I had near a dozen people in this room
yesterday.” The manager's voice was studiously level. “I should say
that the probabilities are that any one of them dropped that little
tag.”
“Shouldn't wonder,” agreed Pointer amicably. “Did you and Mr. Beale
sit up long together last night?”
The manager hesitated for the fraction of a second. “N—no, not beyond
saying good-night, after his refusing to let me give him my bedroom.”
“You didn't discuss Mr. Eames?”
“Not at all. Not at all.”
“Kindly look carefully around the room and see if anything is
missing.”
The manager obeyed, and Pointer with one deft swoop, while he back was
turned, emptied the contents of an ash-tray, which stood on a little
table between two easy chairs, into an envelope. Then he sauntered
casually into the bedroom, and watched the manager in a mirror, as he
aimlessly took up trifle after trifle, stopping now and then to stare
out of the window with a puzzled, worried look. Suddenly he seemed to
leave the world of speculations.
“I say, Inspector, this is all rot! Mr. Beale isn't a thief. You saw
his passport, and I saw a letter of credit and various other letters
of his.”
“Have you any idea, sir, as to when he left this room?”
“I dozed off about three o'clock. Last night's affair doesn't help a
manager to sleep any better than usual, you know. So I suppose Mr.
Beale must have left some time after that?”
“You had no idea why he left by the window?”
“I? Certainly not! I know no more than you do about the whole affair.
Probably not so much,” he added with a rather forced smile.
Pointer went carefully all over the little suite of three rooms, with
its lobby opening into the lounge and on to the landing of the
service-stairs with a door into the street. He found nothing to detain
him, and rapidly drafted a notice to be sent out to all taxi-drivers
describing Mr. Beale, and asking for news of any fare resembling him
picked up on Sunday morning or late Saturday night. Watts was off
duty, with his family at the Zoo, but the Chief Inspector had no time
for relaxation.
He sent Miller to find out which maid was responsible for the
manager's rooms and to send her up at once. Miller, who had made
himself quite popular in the staff breakfast-room, slipped away, and
within ten minutes ushered in a very fluttered young woman.
“Now, my dear, did you make up a bed in the manager's sitting-room
late last night?”
“Oh, no, sir. I was in bed when it all happened. Oh, dear no, sir.”
And she edged towards the door.
“Come, come, I don't bite, you know. Then did you do up his room this
morning?”
That was better. Kate twitteringly acknowledged that she had.
“Did you see anything of a letter I left on the bedroom table? The
window was open at the top, it may have blown on to the floor; anyway,
I haven't been able to find it.”
The maid had seen nothing of any paper, which was not surprising, as
Pointer had just invented it. “Besides, sir, the manager would have
been sure to see it. He didn't go to bed at all, nor even lie down.”
“Tut! Tut! Worried, I suppose, by all the bother. He generally sleeps
so well, too.”
He had learnt what he wanted to know, and the girl was allowed to
scuttle away from his terrifying presence.
Pointer next made his way to a window on the first floor landing. It,
too, looked on to the balcony. He examined the sill with his
magnifying glass very carefully, and bending out scrutinised the
boards below.
“Come here, Miller,” he called softly, “could you scramble out of that
window?”
The detective proved that he could, provided that he were helped, but
he found it difficult.
“When the manager, and that American gentleman, left No. 14 last
night, did you see them go on down the stairs?”
“I saw them turn on to this landing, sir, but I couldn't see this
window from where I was. I thought I heard their footsteps go on
down.”
“The wind was rather rough. One or both might have come up quietly
again and got out.”
“I don't think anyone could have opened that window without my hearing
them. And I think I should have felt the draught, sir.”
“Humph!” was all Pointer said to himself, as he walked on out of the
hotel and took a train to Streatham, where lived Doctor Burden, the
great Government analyst, expert in poisons, and reasons for sudden
deaths.
Pointer had barely pushed open the gate of the drive when the doctor
met him, swinging along, golf sticks under his arm. Too late he tried
to dodge behind a clump of laurels, the law was upon him.
“Just a moment, doctor. It's only for a second, sir,” begged the
police officer, with a firm grip on the clubs. “It really won't take
you more than one glance. All I want to know is whether a spot on a
label is morphia solution or not. That's all.”
“I know you, Pointer.” The doctor tried to wrest his irons free; “you
got me last time with that yarn, and tied me up in a thirty-six hour
job before I knew where I was. Never again!”
“But this time it really is only one spot of what I think may be a
solution of morphia that I'm after.”
He won, and the doctor, growling at his folly in having gone to
Service instead of straight on to the links, led him into his study.
Pointer unpacked the bottle of cough-mixture which he had taken from
the washstand in No. 14.
“Here, sir, where the writing has run a bit on the label. Could that
smear be morphia? The stuff in the bottle is all right, I fancy, but
it'll be sent to you to-morrow to test at your leisure.”
“Leisure!” groaned the analyst, “you're a wag. My leisure!” He took
the bottle and disappeared through a door to return in a couple of
minutes. “It _is_ morphia. And in a solution strong enough to kill an
elephant. Don't ask me for exact quantities, I'm off.”
“Very much obliged to you, sir,” grinned the Chief Inspector, as he
carefully replaced the bottle, and followed the doctor at a more
leisurely pace out of the garden.
“The case begins to move at last,” he murmured to himself with
satisfaction. He proceeded to jog along still further by ringing the
private bell of Mr. Redman, the chemist, until that gentleman opened
the door.
At the sight of the officer, whom he knew, his face softened a little
from its “disturbed-at-Sunday-dinner” severity.
“Anything I can do for you, officer?” He waved him into the passage.
“It's just this, Mr. Redman,” this time the print of young Eames was
produced. “Do you remember selling anything to this gentleman any day
last week, or say since about July 25th?”
The chemist shook his head.
“But my assistant hasn't gone home yet; he dines with us on Sundays,
we keep the shop open till twelve, you know—I'll call him.”
The assistant looked curiously at the snapshot.
“What did he die of?”
“Suicide. Inquest isn't till Tuesday or Wednesday,” parried Pointer.
“Do you recognise him? Ever sold anything to him this last week or
even yesterday?”
The assistant shook his head.
“Never saw him before.”
“Quite sure?” Pointer had not expected this.
“Oh, absolutely.”
“Humph. Well, what about this bottle? It was standing on the dead
man's washstand.” He produced the cough mixture.
The two men agreed that the bottle came from them.
“Could you call to mind any people you sold one like it to? It's a
very important point in the case.”
“But there's nothing whatever in that medicine,” began the two
chemists hastily, and perhaps more truthfully than they intended.
“I know there isn't. That's not the point. The point is who bought
this bottle?”
“Let me see,” Mr. Redman rubbed his nose reflectively with his
glasses. “We don't sell much of that at this season of the year.
Yesterday's crop of colds hasn't had time to mature yet—now let me
see, a woman bought a bottle on Friday, but it was the two shilling
size.”
“I sold a bottle like that early in the week,” the assistant spoke
with certainty, “to a tall young fellow, an American he struck me as
being. Said he wanted it for a chum of his who had a bad cold. I
remember now. It was”—he paused—“I know! It was Tuesday just as I was
shutting up— Seven o'clock that would be, or say three minutes past.”
“Could you describe him?”
The assistant could; and except for the fact that the man limped
badly, the description might have fitted thousands of young men.
Incidentally, however, it fitted Mr. Cox of the Marvel Hotel to a
nicety. “Tall, broad-shouldered, in a rather crumpled tweed suit, and
felt hat, clean-shaven, dark hair, dark brown eyes, and a square jaw.
I'll bet he served during the war.”
Neither the chemist nor his assistant had made up any morphia for over
a month. A glance at their poison-book confirmed this.
So last Tuesday evening—on July 30th, to be exact—Mr. Cox had
purchased the bottle of medicine for Mr. Eames—the same Mr. Eames who
on that same Tuesday, but in the morning, had inspected a room which
had later been taken by a letter which Pointer believed to have been
written by Eames, though signed in the name of Cox—. The officer
turned these tangled facts over in his mind as he smoked a pipe in the
Enterprise lounge. Was Cox a friend or an enemy? If he was the
criminal, why had he returned last night? Had he left some clue behind
him which he must recover at all costs? Or had he been disturbed by
some sound in the afternoon, and returned—unconscious that the dead
man had already been discovered—to complete his work? In this case,
what had he left undone?
At any rate, Watts would have a vague description to go on to-morrow
in his hunt for a possible purchaser of morphia.
Pointer spent the rest of the afternoon apparently gossiping with all
and sundry. Each conversation, however, resembled all others in that,
though it might begin with the weather or cricket, it invariably
finished up with the manager's whereabouts yesterday afternoon.
He had been seen about half-past three, and he had been seen just
after five, but in the intervals it seemed impossible to locate him
exactly. Pointer wished heartily that Eames' death had occurred at
midnight. It would have made no difference to Eames but a great deal
to the detectives.
Of Eames himself he learnt but little. The young man had apparently
made no clear impression on those with whom he had come in contact,
save that they all ascribed to him unusual powers of silence.
The maid had nothing to report beyond that “the gentleman of No. 14
left his room always at eight o'clock regular.” A couple of books lay
always on his table—not novels—thick, solid-looking books. Pointer
showed her two,—“yes, those were the very identical ones.” They were
works on dentistry, very new and unused, with “Reginald Eames” neatly
written in each. To Pointer they did not look as though their late
owner had spent much time poring over them. The maid went on to say
that any remarks of hers had been met with a brevity she evidently
considered amounted to silence.
“Don't think he knew how to open his mouth, but there, what with
meaning to take his life it's no wonder,—what I mean to say, you
couldn't expect him to go on like an ordinary young man, could you?”
Pointer agreed that to a woman of her keen perceptions a difference
might be discernible. Had she ever seen any letters lying around?
“Not lying about, no; but she had twice seen Mr. Eames standing by the
window reading letters. No, they hadn't looked like old ones—in fact,
once she had seen him opening the envelope. On each occasion it had
been shortly after breakfast, when she had brought in a carafe left to
be cleaned with the others on the floor. Each time Eames had looked
around as though not relishing the interruption. He certainly was that
sunk in his letters, though it was only a couple of those large square
sheets. What I mean to say, not real letters—_you_ know.”
The last time she had heard him lock the bedroom door after her had
been on Saturday morning. Yes, she was quite sure that it was
yesterday, because directly she heard of the suicide she had thought
of that letter. The time before might have been a Wednesday or
Thursday—she couldn't be sure.
“Had he looked worried when she saw him?”
No, only awfully keen, and eager, and though he wasn't smiling
exactly, he had looked distinctly pleased—this was on Saturday. She
had heard him whistling later on as she swept next door.
“Were the sheets typed or written?”
“Written in very close, tiny lines.”
Pointer showed her Cox's letter to the Marvel about his room. She was
certain that the writing had been much smaller, and also that the
paper was different. She had had to come quite close to put the carafe
on the table—“Trust you for that,” agreed Pointer mentally—and had not
been able to help seeing the writing, and the paper all in tiny
squares.
“Eh?”
“The paper, sir, all ruled in little squares—such funny paper!” She
was quite sure that she had never seen anything of a striped green and
white shiny paper such as the detective now showed her.
“Not at any time, sir.”
Questioned as to the exact hour when she had last seen Eames yesterday
morning, she put it down at about eleven o'clock—the occasion which
she had just been telling about when she had seen the young man busy
with his letter.
About the afternoon she could say nothing, as on Saturdays she helped
in the ironing room from three to six o'clock.
As to visitors, she knew of none. She never saw anyone entering or
leaving No. 14 but Mr. Eames himself. No, she had never heard any
voices in the room. Asked about a bag, she had seen one once on the
table when Mr. Eames was in the room, but never but the once. He kept
his wardrobe locked, and she had imagined the bag to be inside. It was
yesterday morning when she had seen it for the first and only time. As
to his door, he always kept that unlocked,—“I mean to say, unless he
was dressing or undressing.”
“Now, about Mr. Beale—the gentleman who had occupied No. 14 that
evening, had she ever seen him before?”
“Well, sir, I thought I had yesterday morning coming along the
corridor with the manager, but the housekeeper said it was quite
another gentleman, a Mr. Sikes she called him, but he certainly did
look very like the American gentleman, as I said to him myself.”
“Said to whom?”
“To the gentleman last night when I made up the room. He was sitting
by the window, and I said to him that surely I had seen him earlier in
the day—what I mean to say——”
“What did Mr. Beale say?” asked Pointer, feeling that flesh and blood
could stand but little more of this damsel's conversation.
She could not remember what reply her remark had called forth, which
was not surprising, since Mr. Beale, as a matter of fact, had received
it in silence.
He could learn nothing more from her except that the hour when she had
met the man whom she took to be Mr. Beale in company with the manager,
had been some time during the lunch hour,—between one and two-thirty,
in other words. All his skill in bringing the conversation around to
the manager brought him no reward. She knew nothing of anyone's
movements yesterday afternoon, so with a compliment on her clear way
of stating facts she was dismissed.
Alone in the room, Pointer unlocked one of the two top drawers whose
tidiness had struck him last night. He put his hand to the back and
brought out a little box wrapped neatly in green and white striped
paper. He compared it with the torn end which he had picked up in the
manager's sitting-room. It was identical. The square in which a small
box of pearl studs was folded was entire. It must have been from
another piece this corner came. Had it also been wrapped around
jewellery? He looked at the studs. They were small but good ones.
Genuine as far as he could tell— at any rate the gold stems and
general workmanship looked like a superior article. He took the little
box from the drawer and promoted it to a resting place in his black
bag, to be transferred on the morrow to his safe at the Yard. The
piece of paper the manager had stepped on so promptly he put into an
envelope beside it.