CHAPTER TWOThe Door
“Open a door?” Gamadge looked at her, his cigarette half-way to his mouth. And as she said nothing, he asked: “Do you mean the door of a safe, Mrs. Leeder? I hope my friends didn’t tell you I could do that! I don’t even know an obliging cracksman!”
“It isn’t a safe; it’s a room.” She added as if reluctantly: “It’s been shut for twenty years.”
Gamadge, watching her downcast face, offered a short monologue: “I hate them too—attics full of family relics. Some delight in them; to me they represent stuffiness, and they’re full of gadgets you can’t guess the use of. And moulting stuffed birds are grisly; so are creased garments and pressed flowers.”
“I wish it were an attic. It’s just a room that’s been sealed since my grandmother died.”
“By her orders?”
“No; we sealed
