Chapter 2

We drew a stiff though courteous blank at the Waldron. Without being outstandingly eager to aid us, the club staff was polite and answered what questions Lavender had to put. This was natural, for we had said nothing about Miss Minor’s visit to us and the club attendants naturally wondered what our call portended. Lavender is a plausible person, however, and merely let it be known that he was anxious to get into touch with Cyril Minor, who was not to be found at his home.

Mr. Minor, it seemed, had not been seen about the club for a week. Yes, it was a bit unusual but not perhaps extraordinary. There was no mail waiting for him. He received very little mail at the club, however. None of his particular friends were in, at the moment. Perhaps Mr. Minor himself would be back before long. Who was he to be told had called?

As this latter suggestion was something more than a possibility Lavender penned a brief note, sealed it, and left it to await the return of the missing man. In it he advised Mr. Minor to get into immediate communication with his daughter who was at home and anxious about him.

“Whether the fellow is a good citizen or a scoundrel, I suppose he’s fond of his daughter,” remarked Lavender as we left the building. “I would be,” he added. “And now, Gilly, we are exactly where we began. I shall have to visit Miss Minor in her home apparently, and look over her father’s papers if she will permit it. Meanwhile we are in the general neighborhood of Morley’s difficulties, suppose we have a look at Vanderdonck’s office.”

“It’s a long way to two o’clock,” I reminded him.

“So it is,” agreed Lavender, stepping out briskly. “The absence of Sergeant Morley at the scene of his failure will greatly expedite our own investigation, I am sure.”

A few blocks lay between us and the building in part occupied by the picture broker’s establishment. We covered them rapidly. A dingy building it was, too, when we had found it. A building occupied for the most part by second-rate lawyers and booking agents, with one creaking elevator and four flights of toilsome, reminiscent stairs. We took the elevator for choice and ascended to the third story, where in time we came upon the dismal office of Peter Vanderdonck. The name was on the door. On the door also was a fly-specked card with the legend in black. “Back in an hour.” No doubt it had been used for years; it looked as if it were never taken down. No doubt also it had been put up on the occasion of Peter Vanderdonck’s last farewell to his office. Had he expected to be back in an hour, I wondered? Or had his going been voluntary and final? Or for the matter of that, had it been involuntary and final?

It was an old key-lock, typical of the building, and Lavender had hardly touched it with a little steel instrument that he carried when the door opened. Used to my friend and his ways, I was not at all shocked. I had watched him pick many a lock in my time, although I had never seen him pick one with greater ease.

There were two rooms within, an anteroom and an inner sanctum. The anteroom, into which we first penetrated, was soberly, even dingily, furnished with a table, a couch, three chairs, and a telephone. Some framed prints were on the walls, some books and magazines were on the table beside the telephone. It was all old but in good enough taste, and it reminded me of a small doctor’s anteroom more than anything else. I wondered why a picture broker should inhabit such a dull hole.