Duff stood. “If you’re going to investigate, I could leave a plan of the house. And some notes on the lock on the box. How to open it, I mean. And my door key.”
Higgins grinned. “Right. Would help.”
The following Sunday when they came home from church, Duff tried to find evidence that the FBI had entered and examined the house. There wasn’t any such evidence.
On Monday, however, Duff was called from a class to talk to a Mr. Higgins who
“insisted,” according to a girl from the front office, “that the call was important and you should be disturbed.”
“In a few days,” Higgins said, when he had identified Duff, “we will call on your friend at your place. Ostensibly, we’ll be checking another matter. Actually, we’ll make ourselves an opportunity to take a look at the matter we’ve discussed. You aren’t to give away the fact that we may have seen it previously. On some pretext, we’ll call you up. We want you to see it again and tell us, if you can, whether it’s what you originally— sampled.”
“Did you see — the matter?” Duff asked breathlessly.
“Yeah. And don’t act astonished when you learn what it is!” Mr. Higgins hesitated.
“You might tip off the rest of the family, since you’ve discussed it with them.”
It was curt, perfunctory, unsatisfying. He told Eleanor and her mother exactly what he had done, precisely what he had been advised to do. A few more days passed. There was no change in the behavior of Harry Ellings. The graying, inconspicuous boarder played bridge with his postman pals, went out to practice with his casting rod on an illuminated target range, did his work, and said nothing unusual until the end of the week.