"Or maybe they know the blighter at Gatti's."
"That's an idea. I've met him there several times. Tell you what, I'll go along there and make inquiries, and if they don't know him, I'll make a point of lunching there pretty regularly. He's almost bound to turn up again."
"Right. You do that. And meanwhile, do you mind if I have a look round the flat?"
"Rather not. D'you want me? Or would you rather have Woodward? He really knows a lot more about things."
"Thanks. I'll have Woodward. Don't mind me. I shall just be fussing about."
"Carry on by all means. I've got one or two drawers full of papers to go through. If I come across anything bearing on the Oliver bloke I'll yell out to you."
"Right."
Wimsey went out, leaving him to it, and joined Woodward and Bunter, who were conversing in the next room. A glance told Wimsey that this was the General's bedroom.
On a table beside the narrow iron bedstead was an old-fashioned writing-desk. Wimsey took it up, weighed it in his hands a moment and then took it to Robert Fentiman in the other room. "Have you opened this?" he asked.
"Yes—only old letters and things."