“But you said——”
Mr. Stuyvesant held up a hand.
“I got near the gate, and then I thought, better not seem too enthusiastic. Leave him twenty-four hours to think it over. I didn’t like to leave: it was a risk, and I certainly needed to have those books. I waited a little; then I went back to the station, and took the next train to Exeter.”
“See anyone, while you were waiting?”
“You mean, did anyone see me?”
“Well——”
“I only saw one guy, and he saw me.” Mr. Stuyvesant appeared to be embarrassed. “This bit doesn’t sound too good. It’s a bit too much like what I might think up to get myself out of a jam.”
“I think I can help you out,” Ellis said. “You’re going to tell us that the guy you saw and who saw you was either going into Baildon’s place, or coming out.”
“How d’you get that?” Mr. Stuyvesant asked, surprised.
“We’ve had time to peek about a bit, since yesterday afternoon. Am I right?”
“You are. The guy was coming out of Baildon’s place, and he was in one hell of a hurry.”
“How did he strike you? What did he do?”
“I remember thinking at the time, he acted a bit queer. He looked up and down the road very quick, like he wanted to see if someone was watching. When he saw me, he sort of checked, and gave me a good look. Then he went off down the little road at the side.”
“What was he like?”
“Strong-looking guy: athletic. Broad shoulders. Clean shaven, and wore glasses. He had on a pair of gray trousers. I don’t know about his coat, except that it was lighter.”
He looked at Ellis.
“That make sense?”
Ellis nodded.
“Can you give us the time?”
“Pretty near. After I’d walked on a bit, I looked at my watch, to see about catching the train. It was twenty-five after three. I went straight to the station, and caught the ten to four train. They can verify that at the station, I guess.”
“Right.” Ellis got up, rubbing his hands together. “Well, Mr. Stuyvesant, we needn’t keep you any longer. Going back to Exeter? Good. Staying there a while? Don’t leave without letting us know where you’re going, will you?”
“You don’t want me to turn in a statement?”
“No. That’ll be all for to-day, thanks. Pleasant journey. Don’t worry too much.”
For some reason this seemed to silence Mr. Stuyvesant. He allowed Ellis to shepherd him out and down the passage: and the farewells were brief.
“Well, well.” Ellis came back, puffing out his cheeks, and still rubbing his hands. “We have more and more to say to our Mr. Nelder.”
“When you find him.”
“Oh, we’ll find him all right, don’t you worry. Now; you get on with your job, while I go up and do a bit of snooping.”
“I don’t envy you.”
“I don’t much like it myself. However—off we go.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Ellis stood in the doorway of Joan Baildon’s room, fingering his chin.
He crossed to the window, which was open top and bottom, pulled aside the flimsy white curtains that swayed gently in and out with the breeze, stuck his head out, and made sure that he could see the little drive. He withdrew his head, propped the door open with a large book, and stood by the foot of the bed, again fingering his chin.
Then, with almost unbelievable quickness, he began his search. First he tried the chest of drawers. Delicately, without deranging them, he ran his fingers through the piles of cheap, mended underwear, feeling for the bundle which, he was sure, was stowed away somewhere in the room.
Three minutes took him through the chest of drawers. There was no letters there. Joan had no desk. Her wardrobe held nothing but a few frocks. There were some boxes on top of it: they looked dirty. Ellis hesitated, then, with a fat grimace, reserved them for the end.
Matt’s books were everywhere. The child had one bookcase of her own, however. Ellis’s eyes brightened: each row of books was double. The two top rows were small, and, from his point of view, improbable. The bottom rows were tall. He pulled out a few books. No, there were books behind. Another few—ah! the light fell dimly on the brown woodwork of a box.
Ellis pulled away the books, and lifted the box out to the light of day. It was shaped like the top of a small desk, old and scarred, with a lock of inlaid mother-o’-pearl. Ellis shook the box. It was heavy, and the contents slithered about smoothly.
He put it on the bed, pulled out a fat knife with a multiplicity of gadgets, selected one, fiddled delicately at the lock, and in less than a minute had it open. The contents, as he expected, were letters, some done up in bundles, some singly, and one or two still in their original envelopes. One of them, postmarked Frinton and dated from years earlier, came from the tenor of a pierrot troupe, in answer to a youthful letter of admiration. Another was from an author, another from the comedian of a pantomime. This one surprised him. Boys, more often than girls, admire low comedians.
Ellis flipped the single letters over quickly, and examined the bundles. He gave a grunt of satisfaction. The fattest of them was labelled “E.” Two others, marked respectively “M” and “G,” he discarded after the briefest examination. They came from school friends. He picked up a long envelope marked “D,” and tipped out its contents. They came from Rattray; there was no doubt about that. The first two or three began “Dear Miss Baildon”; one started off without addressing her, and the three last said “My Dears”: but that was all that Ellis got from them. Without exception, they were short notes cancelling lessons or changing the hour. The last, referring to the vagaries of “she,” showed that the two correspondents had discussed Ursula Rattray with some freedom: but the letters told Ellis far less than he knew already.
He replaced them in the box, and started on the packet labelled “E.” These were far more promising, and in a couple of minutes Ellis was absorbed. He read fast, skipping, but missing nothing essential. By degrees a comical expression of disgust grew on his face. Impatient exclamations came from him, clickings of the tongue, explosions of breath: his nose wrinkled as at an unpleasant smell, and the exclamations crystallised into epithets discreditable to Eunice Caunter.
Then, as he picked up yet another letter from the pile, his whole body stiffened into attention. He turned the page, took a deep breath, read on, and burst into a gasp of protest.
“Oh no. No. This is too much.”
He set the letter aside, and hurried through the rest. After he had finished, he sat for a few minutes looking at nothing: then he put all the letters together, with the exception of the one he had set aside, which he pocketed. He replaced the band, put the letters back in the box, locked it, and restored it to its place, taking care not to move the dust on top of the books. Joan had chosen a good hiding-place, obvious to an experienced searcher, but perfect for her purpose. The last things likely to attract Matt’s attention would be the Girls’ Annuals and Bumper Books, the relics of his daughter’s earlier years.
He looked round the room with a grimace of pity, and went downstairs. Gilkison was still at work, proceeding at the same unhurried pace. Not till Ellis stood in front of him and grunted did he take any notice of his arrival. Even then, he did not look up.
“Well,” he said. “How’s the dirty work?”
“Very dirty.”
Ellis paused expectantly. Then, as Gilkison said nothing, he went on:
“There’s a fat bunch of letters from that wench of yours.”
Gilkison turned over a flyleaf, and made a note in his book.
“What wench?”
“That sexy piece with the moustache. The one you got so excited about. The schoolmistress. I don’t think much of your taste, Gilk. Not a nice girl. Not a nice girl at all.”