activity was welcome. When I had to sit alone with that corpse and wait on

Fortune I was no better than a crushed worm, but if my neck’s safety was to hang

on my own wits I was prepared to be cheerful about it.

 

My next thought was whether Scudder had any papers about him to give me a better

clue to the business. I drew back the table-cloth and searched his pockets, for

I had no longer any shrinking from the body. The face was wonderfully calm for a

man who had been struck down in a moment.

 

There was nothing in the breast-pocket, and only a few loose coins and a

cigar-holder in the waistcoat. The trousers held a little penknife and some

silver, and the side pocket of his jacket contained an old crocodile-skin

cigar-case. There was no sign of the little black book in which I had seen him

making notes. That had no doubt been taken by his murderer.

 

But as I looked up from my task I saw that some drawers had been pulled out in

the writing-table. Scudder would never have left them in that state, for he was

the tidiest of mortals. Someone must have been searching for something—perhaps

for the pocket-book.

 

I went round the flat and found that everything had been ransacked—the inside of

books, drawers, cupboards, boxes, even the pockets of the clothes in my

wardrobe, and the sideboard in the dining-room. There was no trace of the book.

Most likely the enemy had found it, but they had not found it on Scudder’s body.