“There wasn't much about the case in the papers this morning,” he said, replying indirectly to the barrister's question, “but the one that comes out at ten o'clock—Racing Special they call it: selections on the back page, don't you know—in almost every case gives a large space on its front page to ‘The Murder of a Solicitor in his Office,’ and every one of them mentions the disappearance of his managing clerk. The inference, though the paragraphs are naturally guarded in the extreme, is unmistakable.”
Mr. Steadman reached over for one of the papers.
“Don't take any notice of these things myself; they have to write up the sensation. Um! Yes! No doubt what they're hinting at, but they're generally wrong. What should Thompson want to kill his employer for, unless——”
“Ay, exactly; unless——” the inspector said dryly. “That was one of my first thoughts, sir. John Walls is going through the books with an auditor this morning. And Mr. Turner, who was in the firm until last year, is going over the contents of the safe. When we get their reports we shall know more.”
The barrister nodded. “Thompson had been with the firm for many years.”
“Eighteen, I believe,” assented the inspector. “He seems to have been a great favourite with Mr. Bechcombe, but it is astonishing how little his fellow-clerks know of him. Only two of them have ever seen him out of the office, and none of them appear to have the least idea where he lives.”
Mr. Steadman did not speak for a moment, then he said slowly:
“The fact that so little is known seems in itself curious. Is there no way of ascertaining his address?”
“One would imagine that there must be a note of it somewhere at the office,” the inspector remarked, “but so far we have not been able to find it.”
“How about the woman visitor?” the barrister inquired, changing the subject suddenly.