“No, Chief, no. I'm a stranger to this wicked little village of yours. I was just wondering what it is that makes young men throw away their lives so easily for the first pretty face that comes along. I suppose there'll be a girl at the bottom of this case, too.” He turned away. “Any objection to a cigar all round?”
“Not unless they're lit,” and the Chief Inspector accepted one, too. The manager came out of his abstraction. He had been wondering, among other things, how to give the news of the occurrence to the Press in its least interesting form. “Perhaps you could leave taking him away till one o'clock?”
“Very good, sir. You'll find that we try to be as little in the way as possible. Did he have anything in your safe?”
“No, nothing.”
“Now, gentlemen, if you'll both step into another room, I'll join you later to hear any further particulars you can give me. First, sir, kindly point out anything that is yours.”
Mr. Beale took up his top-coat and umbrella, while the manager picked up a bag. Watts looked all three over very carefully inside and out, his superior lending a casual hand.
When the police officers were alone they rapidly finished the undressing of the young man. He seemed barely thirty.
“Done no manual work,” Watts laid a hand down gently, “or—I'm not so sure. But at any rate not a dandy. No manicuring.”
“Has been in the habit of wearing a ring for years, judging by that oval mark, very likely a signet ring. Found one in his pockets?” But nothing was found in the young man's pockets except a handkerchief marked R.E., a fountain pen, a pencil—at whose point the Superintendent gazed meditatively—the keys of the wardrobe and the chest of drawers, and a watch and chain.
The Chief Inspector held the inside pocket of the waistcoat to the light.