“I don’t know why Caldwell should have kept all these odds and ends,” said the detective superintendent. “There is stuff here, that I can identify, from six different burglaries—and not a conviction among the six.”
Thorndyke looked over the collection with languid interest; he was evidently disappointed at finding the room so completely turned out.
“Have you any idea what has been taken?” he asked.
“Not the least. We don’t even know if the safe was opened. The keys were on the writing-table, so I suppose he went through everything, though I don’t see why he left these things if he did. We found them all in the safe.”
“Have you powdered the jemmy?”
The superintendent turned very red. “Yes,” he growled, “but some half-dozen blithering idiots had handled the thing before I saw it—been trying it on the window, the blighters—so, of course, it showed nothing but the marks of their beastly paws.”
“The window had not really been forced, I suppose?” said Thorndyke.
“No,” replied Miller, with a glance of surprise at my colleague, “that was a plant; so were the footprints. He must have put on a pair of Caldwell’s boots and gone out and made them—unless Caldwell made them himself, which isn’t likely.”
“Have you found any letter or telegram?”
“A letter making an appointment for nine o’clock on the night of the murder. No signature or address, and the handwriting evidently disguised.”