“Looks like someone’s been going over the joint,” he said, producing his little ivory comb. He combed his hair thoughtfully. “That’s good liquor of Tim’s,” he went on. “I think I’ll have another shot. My nerves are kind of unsteady.”
I tapped, broke a small section of glass near the window catch, opened the window.
“Hey,” Davis said, his eyes round. “What do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m going in there to take a look,” I said.
“I’ll stick around and toot on the horn if any buttons show,” Davis said, moving towards the car.
“And leave that bottle alone,” I said.
I had a look round the room. Someone had gone over it carefully. There wasn’t anything in one piece. Even the stuffing in the chairs and settee had been hauled out and sifted through.
I went over the house. Each room had been treated in the same way.
Upstairs in the front bedroom I came upon a man in white pyjamas. He was lying half across the bed, the back of his head had been smashed in. I touched his hand. He was still warm; but he was dead. It looked as if the killer had surprised him in bed, and had bust him before he could raise the alarm.
I went down the stairs, opened the front door, called Davis.