“The bonds were under a shirt—in the folds of a shirt. At first glance they wouldn’t seem to be there.”
Jamison puffed thoughtfully for a moment.
“Ever use your firm’s stationery here?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Just thinking,” said Jamison. “You see, if you dropped a letter-head in a waste-basket, whoever cleaned up the room might connect you up.... Say, your firm is a bank. You come through every so often. Suppose you leave a letter-head. Banks sometimes send currency from one place to another by messenger. A chambermaid or bell-hop might notice....”
Craig’s face brightened. Jamison wore an air of innocent pride.
“You have to think of those things,” he said modestly. “I’ll tell you. You go down and get the desk-clerk and a cop. Tell the desk-clerk to have the darkies that clean up this floor come in, one by one. Come back with the clerk and the cop.”
Craig obediently started for the door, hesitated, glanced back, and then went out. Jamison allowed himself the luxury of a grunt when the door closed, and the expression of innocent pride vanished utterly from his features, leaving them somewhat bored and entirely disgusted.
“Sloppy work,” he commented gloomily, to himself. “I wonder where he keeps his shaving-soap. That’s the answer, ten to one.”
He began to rummage in Craig’s suit-case.