“I’ll come along and see the damage, though I don’t think it will help us much,” said Carver slowly. “So he tore up your photographs, did he? That is rather interesting.”
“I guess he didn’t like me,” said Tab. “I have been trying to remember all the crooks I have annoyed, Carver. It can’t be young Harry Bolton, because he must be still in prison and it can’t be Lew Sorki because, if I remember rightly, he got religion in prison and he is now conducting a mission to the submerged. They are the only two people who expressed their intention of cutting short my young life.”
“It is neither of these.” Carver was emphatic on this point. “Tell me again, Tab, from the moment you opened the door to the moment you lost interest in the proceedings, just what happened. First, did you close the flat door behind you?”
“Yes,” said Tab surprised.
“And then you went into the sitting-room and he caught you a whack with the chair? There were no lights?”
“None whatever.”
“No light on the landing outside the flat door?” asked Carver eagerly.
“None.”
“And he just rushed past you and was gone. You remember that very well, I suppose, although you were knocked out?”
“I remember his going and hearing the door slam,” said Tab wondering.