They could have made it look like a tragic accident, Flint doesn't say. Instead, a sidelong look—what a pity, or maybe, that's a terrible fucking impression of him—, then he pockets the key, bends, and fetches a bottle from somewhere in the cabinet's cheap shit band. He's not walking out with the whole cabinet right this moment, but that doesn't mean he has to leave the office entirely empty handed.

Presumably a few servants will be along shortly who can be instructed to shift the liquor collection and the piece of furniture to the neighboring division office. This bottle, meanwhile, is set comfortably into the crook of his arm.

"I trust all your papers are in order."