The Doors Open Read Online Free PDF Page A

night editor in an American film. He looked up from a ledger and said, “Yes – what do you want?” in no very pleasant tone of voice.
    “Mr Legate?”
    “Next door on your left. Have you got an appointment?”
    “You’ll excuse me saying so, I’m sure,” said Paddy, “but I can’t see what the hell that’s got to do with you.”
    The man stared at him for a moment, and then returned to his work. Paddy backed out and shut the door quickly.
    He knocked at the next door and opened it cautiously. This, he saw at once, was the right place. It was a larger room. Lighter, better furnished – from the grey pile carpet on the floor to the Mornon etching of the North-West Corner of Hyde Park over the mantelpiece. A shortish, square, middle-aged man rose to shake hands with him.
    “Mr Yeatman-Carter? Sit down, won’t you. I understand that you want to see me about Britten?”
    Paddy got several quick initial impressions of Mr Legate from the manner of his speech. He had the unmistakable tight-shaven “executive” face. The easy address of a man who spent his working hours coping with his fellows. He said “Britten” and not “Mr Britten” because he thought of the late cashier as a junior subordinate. But he said it naturally and without affectation. Also he refrained from saying “the late Mr Britten” – or worse “poor Britten”. He had no personal feelings in the matter and he pretended to none. On the whole Paddy liked him for it.
    “Yes,” said Paddy. He was within an ace of saying “Yes, sir,” but decided to cling to what little moral advantage he had. “Yes. I was with him the night he – the night he went into the river.”
    “Then you must be the young man who took him into the public house. The police called you ‘Mr Carter’. I wasn’t certain.”
    “You’ve heard all about it then?”
    “Of course,” said Mr Legate. “They phoned me immediately.”
    “Well, in some ways, that makes it easier.”
    Paddy embarked on his story and found Mr Legate a good listener. Fragments of his conversation with Mr Britten came back readily to his tongue. He had thought it over so often that he could reproduce it almost verbatim. When he came to the incident of the two slips of paper, Mr Legate interrupted him for the first time.
    “Can you describe them a little more fully, please?” he said.
    Paddy thought back. One of his assets was a good visual memory.
    “They were typewritten sheets,” he said. “They both looked identical to me – but apparently I was wrong – Britten said so, anyway. On each of them were three columns of numbers – all of them six-figure numbers, and I fancy consecutive, or nearly so.”
    “You’re certain of that?”
    “Almost certain. The first four figures were the same in each case. The last two I’m not so sure about.”
    “And were the columns the same length?”
    “Not quite. The middle column, I remember, was shorter. At a rough guess the right and left hand columns contained fifteen numbers each. The centre one, perhaps only a dozen.”
    “I see. And the numbers stood alone? I mean, they had no letters before or after them.”
    “No – yes. Wait a minute. There were letters – opposite the first number in each column. I can see them now. I remember what struck me about them. They weren’t written consecutively, but one above the other.”
    “Like this?” Mr Legate scribbled on his blotting-pad.
    “Yes – that’s it.”
    “Well, that’s one point cleared up. They were fire insurance policy numbers.” Mr Legate opened a drawer and took out a printed form – “That’s one of our trade marks,” he said.
    Paddy saw that the number was printed D/K 46702. “That’s right,” he said. “That’s how it was.”
    “Can you remember anything else about the papers?”
    “Only one thing. Each column was headed with three letters – but written in the ordinary way. The first two columns I happen to remember. One was headed ABC, and the other