Free Death on the Lizard by Robin Paige

it’s designed to reduce interference and secure messages from interception.” Bradford gave Charles a sidewise glance. “And of course, it’s all quite hush-hush, because Marconi hopes that the Admiralty will be interested. I don’t mind telling you, we’re pinning our hopes on this thing.”
    At the hotel, the key was obtained from the desk clerk, who took it off a numbered rack on the wall. Bradford led the way to a second-floor room. “It’s impossible to hold any meetings in the transmitting station because of the noise and lack of privacy,” he said as they went down the hall, “so we rented these rooms for an office and laboratory. We needed more security, too. Over there, workmen and operators and electricians are coming and going all the time. Hard to work on a secret project when you’ve got people looking over your shoulder.” He unlocked the door.
    The office was a large, well-lighted space from which the bed and other domestic furnishings had been removed. There was a roll-top desk in one corner and a conference table and several chairs in front of the windows, as well as a sideboard stocked with brandy, port, and whiskey. There were neat stacks of papers on the table, the walls were covered with maps dotted with brightly colored flags, and wooden shelves held reference volumes and boxes of spare equipment. The door to another room stood open, and Charles could see a work table, littered with pieces of equipment, wires, and small parts—the laboratory, where Gerard had been working on his secret device. Why, Charles wondered, had the laboratory door not been kept locked?
    Bradford pointed to the desk. “The diary’s in the top drawer. You’ll find the key in the empty inkwell.”
    But when Charles approached the desk, he saw that there was no need of the key. The top drawer had been pried open, apparently with a sharp instrument. He bent closer, frowning intently. The desk was old, and the thick varnish was crazed and rough, like the skin of an alligator. Not the kind of surface where one was likely to find fingerprints, unfortunately. 2
    He straightened and said, over his shoulder, “Look here, Marsden. The drawer’s been forced.”
    â€œForced?” Bradford looked up from the work table in the laboratory, where he seemed to be searching for something. “Let me have a look.” He stopped what he was doing and came to the desk. “By Jove, you’re right.” His voice was heavy with unease. “Perhaps Gerard lost the key and had to pry it open. It’s a red leather diary. It ought to be easy to find.”
    But it wasn’t. After looking through the entire desk, they had to conclude that there was no diary. And a moment later, when Charles and Bradford went into the laboratory, it was equally clear that the tuner—the project Gerard had been working on for the past several months, the project the Admiralty was especially interested in—was not to be found.
    Bradford’s expression was grim. “This is bad,” he said, shaking his head, “ very bad. That tuner—why, it’s priceless! And the diary contains valuable proprietary information, which any of our rivals would be delighted to get his hands on. The outer door is kept locked at all times, and when the tuner was removed for testing, Gerard kept it under his tightest personal control. So what the devil did he do with it? And where is the bloody diary?”
    â€œPerhaps,” Charles said, “he didn’t do anything with them.”
    Bradford scowled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œThat they’ve been stolen.”
    â€œBut the door was locked,” Bradford protested. “There was no sign of a forced entry.”
    Charles laughed shortly. “Think, man! The key was hanging in plain sight behind the hotel desk. Anyone could have taken it.”
    Bradford stared at him for a moment.