“Covered over with black paper,” he said.
“Who was it?”
“A Chinaman and a woman,” said the other.
“Why in hell didn’t you stop them?” snapped Carver.
“A Chinaman and a woman,” repeated Stott miserably.
“What was she like?”
“I didn’t get near enough to see,” Mr. Stott made the confession without shame. “There ought to have been police here—lots of police—. It is disgraceful. I am going to write to the—”
They left him quivering threats. Carver ran across the concrete garden, unlocked the door and switched on all the lights in the hall. Nothing, so far as he could see, had been disturbed. The door to the vault was locked, and had not been tampered with. Apparently the dining-room had. The fireplace of the house was a broad deep cavity lined with red brick, and pointed with a yellow cement. An electric radiator had replaced the stove, and Carter had made a very thorough examination both of the recess and of the wide chimney above. But he saw at a glance that his inspection had been short of perfect. One of the bricks had been taken out. It lay on the table, with its steel lid open, and Carver surveyed it thoughtfully.
“That is one on me,” he said. “It looks like the face of a brick, doesn’t it? Look at that artistic cement pointing all round the edge? It isn’t cement at all, but steel. In fact, this must be about the only secret drawer in the house. I ought to have made more thorough enquiries from the builders.”
The box was empty except for a tiny rubber band. They found its fellow on the table.