“Look at that shiny place. He's been in the habit of carrying a note-book there.”
“Very poor watch, and most expensive chain,” Watts remarked significantly, “wonder if he's some kind of a hotel-rat?”
“His clothes aren't flashy,” Pointer pointed out, “good material and cut, though well-worn. Ah, here's the doctor!”
The surgeon took but a few minutes before he straightened the sheet again. “Dead not less than four hours—and not more than five.” He put his thermometer away.
“Died between four-thirty and five-thirty,” wrote the police officers. “Cause of death, doctor?”
“Morphia, as far as I can judge at present, and he didn't make the mistake of taking too little. Everything points to a tremendous dose. He drank it probably; so far I've seen no punctures. Autopsy will tell more on Monday,” and the Doctor bustled off.
The two detectives turned to the wardrobe.
“Those back panels have been screwed on very badly, sir, and as for this little brass bolt on the door inside—it's a shocking sight.” Watts' father was a cabinetmaker and he spoke as an expert.
“Just so. The odd thing is that both seem done by the same bungler!” Pointer was looking carefully at the two specimens of handicraft. “Now Mr. Eames is obviously to be held responsible for the addition of the bolt which was to serve instead of locking the door on the inside, but he could hardly have been interested in the back panels, one would think.”
It was quite half an hour later, when, leaving his subordinate at work, the Chief Inspector stepped out into the little corridor.