Free Calamity in Kent, A British Library Crime Classic by John Rowland

Certainly there was nothing about it that would enable one to come to any conclusions as to the type of man who had been living in it. There was, in fact, only one small indication that it had been occupied at all—a large studio portrait of Mrs. Skilbeck, which stood on the dressing table. This provided, at any rate, some superficial confirmation of her story.
    â€œWould his luggage be here?” I asked her.
    â€œThe empty cases, trunks, and so on, are taken down into the basement when they are unpacked,” she explained. “I imagine that all his personal possessions would be in the drawers of that chest, or of the dressing-table.” She pointed vaguely at the two pieces of furniture in question.
    I looked at her. She was still clearly holding herself in, not allowing any emotion to show itself. I thought that this must be a most difficult affair for her; she must, whether she showed it or not, be feeling very worried and almost distraught.
    â€œWould you rather leave me to do my investigations on my own?” I asked. “I know that all this must be trying and distressing to you, Mrs. Skilbeck.”
    â€œIf you don’t mind,” she said, “I think that I will go downstairs. If you find anything which you would like to question me about, ring that bell”—she indicated a bell-push in the wall, close to the dressing-table. “I will be up in a moment if you ring.”
    And silently as ever she glided from the room. I took a deep breath. Well, here I was! It was odd how I had managed to get right into the heart of this case, almost at the start of the job.
    I wondered what Shelley would do, faced with this room to be examined. I glanced around me. I supposed that the first thing he would look for would be papers of one sort or another. But where would papers be hidden?
    I made my way to the chest of drawers. Top drawer: handkerchiefs, collars, ties. No papers. Second drawer: shirts, underclothes. No papers. Third drawer: carefully folded flannel trousers. Nothing else; no papers. Fourth, bottom drawer: empty.
    That had taken me only a minute or two. Perhaps the most promising piece of furniture in the room, from the point of view of being a possible hiding-place for papers, and I had drawn a complete blank. Still, I was not despondent. There were other chances yet. After all, the man must have had personal papers of some sort. No one, in these complicated days, gets on without having some kind of papers about. Letters, identity cards, and all the other paraphernalia of a complex civilisation—they must be somewhere. And even if the man had merely been on holiday, leaving most of his stuff in London, the fact remained that he would almost certainly have some papers with him in Broadgate. If, as Mrs. Skilbeck had said, he had been a commission agent of some kind, he would probably be doing some deals, even on his holiday. That sort of man is usually in some degree an adventurer, and as such never omits any chance of making some money. That, at any rate, was my experience of the fellows of the kind whom I had come across from time to time.
    So the dressing table was the next thing to occupy my attention. It was a modern piece of furniture, with a huge curved mirror. There were two small drawers at the top, one on each side of the mirror, and a nest (if that’s the word) of three long drawers underneath.
    I glanced at the big drawers first. I didn’t really think that there would be anything of importance in them. And I was quite right. Two of them were completely empty, and the other had a few odd pieces of clothing—ties, a pair of braces, a belt, and some of those sundries which do not seem to be easy to classify, if you know what I mean.
    Nothing there to interest me. But the two small drawers were more promising. As I opened the first one I whistled gently to myself. The drawer was absolutely crammed with pound notes. I took them out. There was nothing in the