With professional briskness, the two began the ghastly job of dragging forth the contents of the man’s pockets. A cheap watch with the picture of an adenoidal girl in its case--a pocket knife, two Yale keys, a tattered New York automobile license, a clipping of a poem by Eddie Guest, a wallet. Smith expertly turned it inside out. It was a cheap wallet, the kind usually accompanied by the yellow printed card: “My name--height--weight-- In case of accident, notify-- The size of my collar is--” He had laboriously filled out the card. The Y. M. C. A. of Olean was to be notified of accident. From the folds of the wallet Smith dragged forward a letter. He looked at it hastily, and then held it in his hand. He turned to the Russian. “Look at this!” he invited. “Dear Louis,” the handwriting was stiff and angular, obviously written by an illiterate man. “I been thinking it over, and I think you’re a darn fool. We can clean up if you let me handle it. Why don’t you come and see me like you use to. Yours, Charlie.” “No return address,” Smith said, examining the envelope. “Mailed in Havana. We might trace it.” “But who is Charlie?” demanded the Russian. “It may or may not be relevant--this letter. Perhaps our friend had an invention. You remember the man was a mechanic. Charlie is advising him to capitalize it in characteristic American fashion.” “No,” said Smith, “this letter smells blackmail to me. I’ve handled enough of those cases to know.” “Yes,” conceded the Russian. “I see. Trenholm knew who killed Mrs. Breese and told Charlie. Charlie said ‘Get money.’ Quite likely. That is a feasible interpretation. I admit I did not think of it, Mr. Smith. It’s decidedly worth looking into.” They pawed over a few trinkets and odds and ends and then decided that their task was done. “We’ll go down to his berth and look into that,” said Smith. “Can’t tell what we may stumble on. He may have other letters from Charlie.” We rang for the steward, who guided us to the narrow cabin that the operator shared with the third mate. The latter was sound asleep when we entered. He rubbed his eyes as Smith explained our purpose. “Damn shame,” he said, indicating the battered trunk under the berth that had been occupied by Trenholm. “Nice quiet chap, he was. How did it happen?” Smith was uncommunicative. He bent down to open the trunk. It was locked. “Give me a knife!” begged the Russian. “I have a knack with these objects.” Smith gave him a pen-knife and in a few moments the Russian threw the lid back. The trunk was empty. “That’s funny,” muttered the young officer. “He always had his trunk crammed with stuff--plans, tools, all kinds of junk. I remember kidding him about it. He had a lot of blue prints.” “When did you last see this trunk open?” asked Smith. The young man stopped to think. “Wait a minute,” he said suddenly. “Just this evening! I almost forgot. Trenholm came in here as I was turning in. He was putting something away.” “And the trunk was full?”