“The wardrobe evidently stood back against the wall. I take it that it hasn't been tampered with in any way before you rang us up, Mr. Manager?”
“Not by me. This gentleman called me in because he fancied that there was something wrong.”
The Chief Inspector looked Mr. Beale over almost as carefully as he had the wardrobe. He did not strike the police officer as the kind of man to be occupying just such an apartment, for the room looked simple, and Mr. Beale did not,—not in the least. “Did you do anything to it, sir?”
The well-dressed, well-manicured, middle-aged man folded his hands over his ample front, pursed up a cruel mouth, and shook his head. “No, Chief, not beyond moving it out and feeling around through that gaping hole same as yourself.” His voice wrapped the Stars and Stripes around him.
“I'd be obliged, gentlemen, if you will remain quite still for a few minutes. Lester, I want the usual flashlight photos.”
“Yes, sir,” and the photographer got to work. The exposures were quickly made.
“Now, then, help Watts to lift the top off, and we'll get the wardrobe on its side. Gently does it.”
“Ah-h-h!” came from the two men watching, and the manager made an impulsive forward movement.
“Stand back, sir!” The Chief Inspector's voice was sharp. “Now, another flashlight, Lester.”
When this was done, the Chief Inspector unobtrusively picked up a wax vesta which had tumbled out from the wardrobe while the huddled figure inside was lifted on to the bed.