well. It occurred to him that if he lived there he wouldn’t have kept his door open any longer, either.
They made their way up the creaking, uncovered stairs, with the aid of the invaluable flashlight. A musty, filthy smell, the fetid, odorous accumulation of many years’ cooking, a composite smell of perhaps thirty years standing, greeted their nostrils. On the wall, to the left of the stairs, the plaster had come off in great gobs, exposing the bare lath underneath. At the head of the stairs, to the left, they found the door they were looking for.
“This must be it, sir,” whispered Eddie.
“Correct,” whispered Val. He knocked softly. There was no answer, as he had expected.
He knocked again, louder this time. Still no answer.
“Where’s that cold chisel?” he asked in a whisper. Eddie produced it silently and handed it to him.
“Now for a little plain and fancy burgling,” announced Val. “A moving picture entitled ‘Breaking the Law’ in six parts.” The door did not fit well. Probably, at the beginning, many years before, it had fitted snugly, but that day was long years agone. It was badly warped by now and it was a simple matter to find room for the chisel. There was a sharp straining of wood against iron, a dull rasping sound, another push, and the door swung open.
“If this is the burglar’s art,” said Val, “it’s very easy. “They entered the room silently, and the flashlight showed them that it was a fairly large living room, with another smaller room, probably a bedroom, on one side. In a moment or two he made certain that there was nobody in the apartment.
He located the gaslight in the center of the room.
