“That’s right, sir. Well, now, these facts of yours. There’s no papers anywhere. All burnt in that basket. Rather odd there is not so much as a book.”
“I don’t think he was a man of culture, the elusive Rand. But you’ve missed something, haven’t you?”
“I dare say,” Bell grinned. “I generally do when you’re about.”
“There’s not a sign the murder was done in this room.”
“Oh, I saw that all right. But we hadn’t any reason to think it was.”
“No,” Reggie sighed, “No. So tidy. So tidy.” And they went into Mr. Rand’s bedroom.
That also was tidy. No trace of a struggle, of blood. That also had no papers, no books, nothing personal but clothes.
“Spent a good deal at his tailor’s,” said Bell, looking into a well-filled wardrobe, and read out the name of a man in Savile Row. “Hallo. They’re not all the same make. Some cheaper stuff. Why, what’s the matter with his boots, sir?” For Reggie was taking up one pair after another.
“Nothing. All quite satisfactory. About a nine and rather broad. The corpse wore about a nine and had a broad foot. What’s that about his clothes? Different tailors? Are the clothes all the same size? All made for the same man?” Suit after suit was spread out on the bed. They were to the same measure; they all were marked “W. H. Rand.” “Quite satisfactory,” Reggie purred. “They’d fit the corpse all right. Pretty different styles, though. He dressed to look different at different times. He is elusive, is W. H. Rand.”
They began to open drawers. There was the same abundance, the same variety of styles in Mr. Rand’s hosiery. “Yes, he meant to be elusive,” Reggie murmured. “Anything from a bookmaker to a churchwarden at a funeral. 16½ collars, though. And that’s the measure of the corpse. Is all the linen marked?”
It was, and with ink, so that the mark could only be removed by taking out a piece of the stuff. “If the corpse is Rand, where the devil did his shirt come from?” said Reggie. “The slayer unpicked the name from his coat. That was one of the Savile Row suits. But the shirt? Did the slayer bring a change of linen with him? Provident fellow, very provident.”
Bell, on his knees by a chest of drawers, gave a grunt. “Lord, here’s a drawer tumbled. And that’s the first yet. It’s new stuff, too—not worn.”
Reggie bent over him and whistled. “Not marked. Same sort of stuff as the corpse wears. And the drawer’s left untidy. The first untidy drawer. Well, well. Everybody breaks down somewhere. He began to be untidy then. When he got to the shirt and the vest.” He shivered and turned away to the window. “This damned place looks out on the well,” he cried out, and turned back and sat down. “Bah! The slayer did that, I suppose,” he muttered, and sprang up. “Believe in ghosts, you men?”
“Good Lord, sir, don’t you start giving us the jumps!” said Bell.
Reggie was at the dressing-table. “Sorry, sorry,” he said over his shoulder, opening and shutting drawers. Then he turned with something in his hands. “That wasn’t such a bad shot of mine. Bell. Here’s a wig. The corpse is uncommon bald. The elusive Rand had lots of brown hair. Here’s a nice brown wig.”
“There’s no blood on it!” Bell cried.
“No. I guess this is Mr. Rand’s second best. The one he had on when he was killed wouldn’t look nice now.”
“That about settles it,” Bell said slowly.
“We haven’t seen the bathroom,” said Reggie.
Bell looked at him and shrugged.
“Not likely to be much there, sir,” said the inspector.
“There could be,” said Reggie gravely, and led the way.
It was a bathroom of some size but no luxury. Only the sheer necessities of bathing were provided. The lower half of the walls was tiled, the floor of linoleum. Reggie stopped in the doorway. “Anything strike you about it, Bell?”
“Looks new, sir.”
“Yes. Nice and clean. Tidy, don’t you know. But there’s no towels and no sponge. Yet in the bedroom everything was ready for Rand to sleep there tonight—pyjamas, brushes and comb, everything. Didn’t he use towels? Didn’t he have a sponge?”
“What do you mean, sir?”
“This is where the slayer cleared up after the murder. And he took the dirty towels and the bloody sponge away with him. Tidy fellow—always tidy. Just wait, will you?” And he went into the bathroom on all fours. About the middle of the room he stopped, and pored over the linoleum, and felt it with the tips of his fingers. Then he stood up and went to the window, opened it, and looked out. He examined the sill, and then sat himself on it in the manner of a window cleaner, and began to study the window frame. After a minute or two he pulled out a pocketknife, and with great care cut a piece of wood. He put this down on the edge of the porcelain basin, and resumed his study. When he had finished he went down again on his hands and knees, and wandered over the floor. He made an exclamation, he lay down on his stomach, and stretched underneath the bath. When he stood up he had in his hand something that glittered. He held it out on his palm to Bell.
“What’s that, sir? A matchbox?”
“It might be. A gold matchbox—provisionally. No name. No initials. On opening—we find inside—a little white powder”—he smelt it, put a fragment on the tip of his finger and tasted—“which is cocaine. Well, come in, Bell, come in. See what you can make of the place. I can’t find a fingerprint anywhere.” He slipped the gold box into his pocket.
The two detectives came in, and went over the room even more minutely than he. “There’s nothing that tells me anything,” said Bell.
Reggie sat on the edge of the bath. “Well, well, I wouldn’t say that,” he said mildly. “It’s not what we could wish,
