“Let’s have another look at the book, anyway. Carmichael said that it was obviously Brotherhood’s copy, because of the queries and things in the margin, but we haven’t even verified that yet.”
They were met by an almost uncanny repetition of Reeves’ experience two days before. He had put the paper-bound volume—he was positive that he had put it—in a particular place on his shelves. It was not there, and no amount of search in his rooms could discover it. In despair they sent for Carmichael, to know if for any reason of his own he had resumed possession of what, after all, was his book. He knew nothing of the disappearance; and was inclined to suspect deliberate theft. “You see,” he said, “we never proved that it was Davenant who took away that cipher. We suspected him, of course, when we found that he had been hiding in the secret passage; the exchange of photographs can only be put down to him. But it’s perfectly possible that the cipher was taken away by somebody who simply walked in at the door—somebody who is still in a position to walk in at the door and steal your books, Reeves.”
“And that somebody isn’t Davenant. Davenant, poor fellow, is under lock and key.”
“It’s a rum thing about that cipher,” said Gordon. “When we’ve got it it doesn’t seem to help us in the least, but whenever we want to get at it, it always seems that the important document has disappeared.”
“It’s getting on my nerves,” admitted Reeves. “Seems to me I can’t leave my room without something queer turning up.”
“Look here, Carmichael,” said Gordon, “this is where you come in. Get out your stethoscope and go down on all-fours and find clues for us.”
“I am afraid that a person entering a room and taking a book away does not commonly leave very much mark on the surroundings. Let’s take a look round, by all means—it’s Sunday, after all, and the housemaid won’t have been dusting. Maids, you will notice, always polish the grates on Sunday but do not dust the rooms; why, I cannot say. Whereabouts did you put the book, Reeves?”
“On that shelf there, the top but one.”
“It was natural for you to put it there, because it’s within your reach. But you’re tall—I wonder if the other gentleman was shorter? I think a chair would be useful here. … Thank you. Yes, he was a good deal shorter. He had to stand on tiptoe to reach the book, and balanced himself, as we all do in such circumstances, by resting the four fingertips of his left hand on the edge of the shelf beneath. In that way, you see, he could get the forefinger of his right hand on the top of the book. I should say he was a man of about Gordon’s height.”
“Unmasked!” cried Gordon, recoiling dramatically. “Send for the Black Maria; I’ll go quiet.”
“I was about to observe, my dear Gordon, that I attach no suspicion to you, because you have unusually long arms for your height. But this man, on the usual calculations, would be about your height, or a little smaller. Now, I wonder if he poked about in the other shelves at all? Most people, when they are looking for a book, take out one or two of the other books in mere inadvertent curiosity. Extraordinary the fascination that books have. I am told that Whitewell, at Oxford, loses twenty pounds’ worth of books a year by theft, as the result of letting people prowl round his shop at their pleasure. Ah! Reeves, your room is an excellent subject for the detective.”
“Why mine, particularly?”
“Because you are a man of such tidy habits.”
“Tidy!” protested Gordon. “Look at those letters on the table.”
“Pernickety would perhaps have been the just word. You are the sort of man who cannot leave a thing lying on the floor, he must pick it up. Consequently, you are the kind of man who always keeps his books on a dead level: some people do, some don’t. Now, if this Shakespeare had been protruding like that yesterday, you would have noticed it and pushed it in.”
“I suppose I should.”
“Your visitor has not the same type of mind. He pushed in the two volumes on each side when he took it out, and then he put it back without driving it home, so to speak. Now, let’s see if we can find which part he was reading. Ordinarily, as you doubtless know, if you open a book at random it will open at the page where it was last shut—that is, if it has been held open some little time … If that principle applies here, our unknown friend has been reading Hamlet—‘To be or not to be’ comes on this page.”
“A rather banal taste,” suggested Gordon. “You can’t get much out of that.”
“It suggests at least that he was a seriously minded person, and not all our fellow-residents are that. By the way, I suppose there is no chance that the secret passage is still being used?”
“Hardly. You see, it made me nervous, so I put that settee in front of it.”
“One could push that out,” suggested Gordon.
“But not put it back in position again once you were inside the passage. No, I think it must be a member of the club (just possibly a servant) we are looking for, who stands about five foot four and has sombre tastes in literature. Has he left any other traces? The fireplace is the only hope. Ah! He seems to me to treat you rather familiarly, Reeves—he has borrowed a pipe-cleaner and used it.” And Carmichael, stooping, picked one out of the fireplace. “Did you have a fire yesterday?”
“No, life was too hurried. But I had one the day before.”
“Then your grate
