“I’ll make a search of the house,” said Carver. “Come along, Tab, you are in this case now and you had better stay with it.”
The search did not take a very long time. There were two rooms used by Mr. Trasmere, the remainder were locked up and apparently unused. A passage-way led to Walters’ sleeping apartment, which had originally been designed as a guest room and was larger than servants’ quarters usually are. The room was meagrely furnished and there was evidence that Mr. Walters had not anticipated so hurried a flight. Some of his clothing hung on pegs behind the door, others were found in a wardrobe, whilst a cup filled with coffee stood on the table. Carver dipped his little finger into the liquid. It was still warm.
A cloth had been thrown hurriedly over some bulky object at one end of the table, and this the detective removed. He whistled. Clamped to the edge of the table was a small vice and scattered about were a number of files and other tools. Carver turned the screw of the vice and released the object in its grip. It was a small key of peculiar shape, and the man must have been working upon it recently, for steel filings covered the base of the tool.
“Then friend Walters was making a key,” said Carver. “Look at that plaster cast! That is an old dodge of his. I suppose he got an impression of the key on soap or wax and has been working at it ever since.” He looked at the thing in his palm curiously. “This may save us a great deal of trouble,” he said, “for unless I am mistaken, this is the key of the strong-room.”
A few minutes later the house was filled with detectives, police photographers and coroner’s officers. They came on a useless errand, for the door remained locked. Tab took advantage of their arrival to escort his friend home.
Before he went, Carver drew him aside.
“We shall have to keep in touch with Mr. Lander,” he said. “He may be able to throw a great deal of light upon this murder. In the meantime I have sent out all station calls to pull in Felling—who is Wellington Brown?”
“Wellington Brown? That is the man who has been threatening Trasmere—I told you about him at lunch.”
Carver pulled an old pair of gloves from his pocket.
“Mr. Wellington Brown was in that underground corridor,” he said quietly, “and was sufficiently indiscreet to leave his gloves behind—his name is written inside!”