"What about the men who were up here with Vaschetti?" he asked.
"I never saw anyone with him," responded the house dick promptly.
He had a broad beam and an advancing stomach, so that he had some of the air of a frog standing upright.
"I didn't get your name," he said. "Mine's Rowden."
"You didn't hear any commotion up here, Rowden?"
"I didn't hear a thing. Not until the crash Vaschetti made going through the marquee. I didn't even know he was back out of jail until just now. Where's Kinglake? He usually comes out on death cases."
"He'll be along," Simon promised, with conviction.
There was one fascinating detail to consider, Simon observed as he narrowed down the broad outlines of the scene. In the middle of the strewn junk on the floor there was an almost new gladstone bag, empty and open, lying on its side. He moved to examine it more closely.
"Anybody else been up here?" he inquired.
"Nope. You're the first. Funny I don't know you. I thought I'd met all the plainclothes men in Galveston."