What was it?
It wasn’t connected with that wretched premonition of danger which was nagging at him with increasing insistence. But it was something just as intangible …
Elusive as a shadow …
Yes, that was it—the thing that he had forgotten: he had intended to trace to its source that faint scent which was so curiously reminiscent of some place—some thing. It had come, he remembered, from the aperture from which he had taken the drawer. He shoved a hand inside and felt around. Wedged far in the back was a crumpled letter written on heavy notepaper. He pulled it out, and the scent became more penetrating.
It came back to him quite clearly now. It was the same perfume that had drenched the note left by Marge for Madame Velasquez up at the apartment. He took the letter from its envelope, smoothed it, and then turned to the signature. Yes, it was signed “Marge.”
A knock on the hall door interrupted him, and he placed the letter on the desk. Hansen came in.
“Yes, Hansen?”
“I have searched all the yards you told me to, sir.”
“Well?”
“There wasn’t any gun, Lieutenant, that I could see.”
“Did you look through all the shrubbery? There are some evergreens down there that I noticed.”
“Yes, sir, I looked through and beneath every one of them.”