The disorder that met his eyes made him step quickly into the room and close the door.
The room looked as if it had been hit by a cyclone. Drawers were pulled out and their contents strewn over the floor. The bedding had been ripped: the mattress stuffing and the pillow feathers were all over the room. The two easy chairs had been ripped to pieces. Pictures had been taken down, and now lay on the floor, their backs torn off. The wardrobe door stood open: suits, shoes, shirts and underwear lay in a disordered heap before the wardrobe.
Someone had obviously been searching the room for something pretty important, Adams thought, and the search had been as thorough as it had been destructive.
He walked over to the telephone, lifted the receiver and, when he heard
Cutler’s voice, he said, “I want you. Come up.”
While he waited, he examined the room, but found nothing to interest him.
Cutler came in hurriedly. From the way he was breathing, Adams guessed he had run up the stairs.
When Cutler saw the disorder, he came to an abrupt standstill.
“For crying out loud!” he exclaimed.
“Why didn’t you tell me Yarde was out?” Adams asked acidly.