The inspector turned to him. “I want Mr. Amos Thompson.”
The old man pointed to the door just in front of them.
“That is his door, but I doubt if you will find him in. I haven't seen him since yesterday morning. I don't think he slept here.”
“Do you often see him?” the inspector questioned as he applied his knuckles to the door.
The old man looked surprised at the question. “Why, yes, sir, I have only been here a month, but I have found Mr. Thompson a remarkably pleasant gentleman. He always passes the time of day with me and often stops for a word over the day's news. An uncommonly nice man is Mr. Thompson. It has often crossed my mind to wonder why he stayed here, where there is no comfort to speak of for the likes of him.”
The inspector and Mr. Steadman wondered too, as they waited there, while no answer came to the former's repeated knocking.
A room in No. 10 Brooklyn Terrace certainly seemed no fitting home for Amos Thompson with his handsome salary.
“We must get in somehow,” the inspector said to Mr. Steadman. Then he turned to the old man opposite who was watching them with frightened eyes. “Has anyone else a key to these rooms, a charwoman or anybody?”
The man shook his head.
“We all do for ourselves, here, sir. We don't afford charwomen and such-like. As for getting in—well, I expect the landlord has keys. He is on the first floor. But I do not think he would open Mr. Thompson's door without——”