He was gone half-an-hour and Tab, whose head was throbbing, was glad to see him when he returned.
Carver said nothing, walked out into the hall where the police constable was sitting.
“Nobody is to be allowed into this house unless they are accompanied by me,” he said.
He drove Tab to Doughty Street and went up to see the damage that the burglar had done. But he was less interested in the condition of Rex Lander’s wardrobe than he was in the torn photographs. He held their borders to the light.
“No finger-prints, he wore gloves, of course. I wondered if—yes, ah, here it is.” He pieced together a torn photograph; scrawled on the face was a heavy black cross. “Yes, I expected that,” he said to himself.
“If I were you, Tab, I should put the bolt on the door tonight. I don’t want to alarm you unduly but I rather think you should. The Man in Black is going to stop at nothing. Have you got a gun?”
Tab shook his head and Carver slipped the automatic from his pocket and laid it on the table.
“Borrow mine,” he said, “and take my considered advice—do not hesitate to shoot anybody you find in this flat, or in your room tonight.”
“You are a cheerful little soul, Carver!”
“Better be cheerful than dead,” said the detective cryptically, and left him to puzzle it out.