“Every paper is in the exact place I found it,” McManus answered sharply. “My profession has taught me some things!”
“And this door?”
“It was closed and locked. Here is the key.”
Trafford opened the door, revealing packages of letters, filling about half the space above the small drawer which was at the lowest portion.
“You have examined these letters?”
“Only sufficiently to be able to identify them. They relate to certain logging interests of firms employing Mr. Wing.”
“And the drawer?”
“You have the key: there’s nothing there but trinkets and a little personal jewelry.” There was a personal tone of resentment over the failure to recognise the distance between a detective and an attorney.
Trafford opened the drawer mechanically, then closed it and took out indifferently one of the packages of letters. These he returned and closed and locked the door, which he examined again with care. Then he pushed to the heavy outer door, turning the knob slowly and as if he was studying the fall of the wards.
“If it had been planned to leave no trace,” he said, as if to himself, “it would be a success. Have you a suspicion of the motive for this murder, Mr. McManus?”