“He might, a strong swimmer.”
“But what’s the sense of it? Besides, a dead body ain’t easy to manage. The thing to do is to search Florey’s rooms for any evidence, then to get all the niggers and the white folks as well and have an unofficial inquest. Then we might see where we’re at.”
“Good.” The coroner turned to me. “Is there any use of hunting up Mr. Nealman to show us Florey’s room?” he asked. “Can’t you take us up there?”
I was glad enough of the chance to be on hand for that search, so I didn’t hesitate to answer. “You are the law. You can go where you like—wherever you think best.”
We went together up the stairs to Florey’s room. There was not the least sign that tragedy had overtaken its occupant. It was scrupulously kept: David Florey must have been the neatest of men. The search, however, was largely unavailing.
In a little desk at one corner we found a number of papers and letters. Some of them pertained to household matters, there was a note from some friend in Charleston, a folder issued by a steamship plying out of Tampa, and a letter from Mrs. Noyes, of New Hampshire, who seemed to be the dead man’s sister. At least the salutation was “Dear Brother Dave,” and the letter itself dealt with the fortunes of common relatives. Then there were a few short letters from one who signed himself “George.”
There was nothing of particular interest. Mostly they were notifications of arrivals and departures in various cities, and they seemed to concern various business ventures. “I’ve got a good lead,” one of them said, “but it may turn out like the rest.” “Things are brightening up,” another went. “I believe I see a rift in the clouds.”
“George” was unquestionably a traveler. One of the notes had been written from Washington, D. C., one from Tampa, the third from some obscure port in Brazil. They were written in a rather bold, rugged, but not unattractive hand.
The only document that gave any kind of a key to the mystery was a half-finished letter that protruded beneath the blotter pad on his desk. It was addressed “My dear Sister,” and was undoubtedly in answer to the “Mrs. Noyes” letter. The sheriff read it aloud:
My dear Sister: