As we entered he turned up the light and glanced about the room. A whisky-bottle was on the table, with a siphon, a tumbler and a biscuit-box. Pointing to the latter, Thorndyke said to the inspector: “See what is in that box.”
The inspector raised the lid and peeped in, the station master peered over his shoulder, and then both stared at Thorndyke.
“How in the name of goodness did you know that there were whole-meal biscuits in the house, sir?” exclaimed the station-master.
“You’d be disappointed if I told you,” replied Thorndyke. “But look at this.” He pointed to the hearth, where lay a flattened, half-smoked cigarette and a round wooden vesta. The inspector gazed at these objects in silent wonder, while, as to the station-master, he continued to stare at Thorndyke with what I can only describe as superstitious awe.
“You have the dead man’s property with you, I believe?” said my colleague.
“Yes,” replied the inspector; “I put the things in my pocket for safety.”
“Then,” said Thorndyke, picking up the flattened cigarette, “let us have a look at his tobacco-pouch.”
As the officer produced and opened the pouch, Thorndyke neatly cut open the cigarette with his sharp pocket-knife. “Now,” said he, “what kind of tobacco is in the pouch?”
The inspector took out a pinch, looked at it and smelt it distastefully. “It’s one of those stinking tobaccos,” he said, “that they put in mixtures—Latakia, I think.”
“And what is this?” asked Thorndyke, pointing to the open cigarette.