We shook the desk. Hale took his big palm and pounded on the back. “I guess that’s all.”
We righted the desk and looked down at the pile of stuff on the floor. There were old letters, yellowed newspaper clippings, and the heavy object.
Hale and I stood staring at that heavy object.
It was a .38 caliber revolver.
I picked it up and looked at it. Four chambers of the cylinder were loaded. Two of them held exploded cartridges. There were some spots of rust on the gun, but, for the most part, it was in good condition.
Hale said, “Someone must have put that gun in the desk drawer on top of some papers, then as he opened the drawer hurriedly the gun dropped down behind, and—”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Let’s take a look at the way that drawer fits.”
I fitted the drawer into the groove and looked at the space behind it.
“No dice,” I told him. “That gun couldn’t have dropped down behind there accidentally. The space is too small. That gun must have been deliberately dropped down there after someone had taken the drawer out. In other words, that was used, not as a place of storage but as a place of concealment.”
Hale got down on his knees and struck two matches to verify my conclusions; then he said, “You’re right, Lam! You really are a detective! Let’s see what the letters have to say.”