“Has that message ... has any letter been found?”
He shook his head wisely. “No: nor there won’t be. The final examination is this morning. That’s why the body ain’t yet been removed. But there won’t be. That letter was mere pretext.”
“This looks a simple case to you?”
“Plain motive. Theft. How do you know what Mr. LaMotte was carryin’ in his pocket just last night? The butler knew. Mebbe a jewel for a girl. Or a bundle of securities. Surely a wad of bills, and he preparin’ for a journey.”
“Oh, he was preparing for a journey?”
Gavegan gave me a gentle look of pity.
“Come over here,” he beckoned with his head. On a small teak-wood desk between the windows, lay a diary pad bound in black levant. It was open to this day. There was one note, scrawled small in pencil:
“Gr Ct M 10.30”
I fingered the pad. There were almost no other entries.
“What do you think that means?”