He took two steps forward and groped for the light switch. As the light went on, he drew a deep breath of expectancy, but there were no bodies, no blood, no murder weapons: just a small, box-like room with an iron bedstead, a chest of drawers, a chair and a pinewood cupboard.- It looked as comfortable and as homely as a Holy man’s bed of nails.
He stood looking round for a moment or so, then he moved forward and opened one of the cupboard’s doors. Except for a far-away smell of lavender the cupboard was empty. He frowned, reached for one of the drawers in the chest and pulled it open. That, too, was empty.
He scratched the back of his neck with a forefinger, stared around some more, then lifted his shoulders and walked out into the passage.
He turned off the light and then walked down the stairs, slowly and thoughtfully. Back again in the hall, he inspected Miss Coleman’s mail-box. It was unlocked and empty.
A notice on the wall caught his attention. It read: Janitor. Basement.
“What have I got to lose?” he thought, and went along a passage and down a flight of dirty stairs into darkness.
At the foot of the stairs he collided with something hard and he swore under his breath.
“Anyone at home?” he called.
A door swung open and the light of a naked electric lamp flowed out, making him blink.
“No vacancies, pally,” a mild oily voice oozed from the doorway. “This joint’s fuller than a dog with fleas.”