smooth, polished handle of the poker. He held the objects gingerly by their edges, and, placing a jeweler’s glass in his eye, flashed his pocket light on every square inch of them. At length he put them down, scowling.
“No fingerprints here,” he announced. “Wiped clean.”
“I mighta known it,” grumbled Heath. “It was a professional job, all right.” He turned to the other expert. “Found anything, Bellamy?”
“Nothing to help,” was the grumpy reply. “A few old smears with dust over ’em.”
“Looks like a washout,” Heath commented irritably; “though I’m hoping for something in the other room.”
At this moment Doctor Doremus came into the bedroom and, taking a sheet from the bed, returned to the davenport and covered the body of the murdered girl. Then he snapped shut his case and, putting on his hat at a rakish angle, stepped forward with the air of a man in great haste to be on his way.
“Simple case of strangulation from behind,” he said, his words running together. “Digital bruises about the front of the throat; thumb bruises in the suboccipital region. Attack must have been unexpected. A quick, competent job though deceased evidently battled a little.”
“How do you suppose her dress became torn, Doctor?” asked Vance.
“Oh, that? Can’t tell. She may have done it herself—instinctive motions of clutching for air.”
“Not likely though, what?”
“Why not? The dress was torn and the bouquet was ripped off, and the fellow who was choking her had both hands on her throat. Who else could’ve done it?”
Vance shrugged his shoulders and began lighting a cigarette.
Heath, annoyed by his apparently inconsequential interruption, put the next question.
“Don’t those marks on the fingers mean that her rings were stripped off?”
“Possibly. They’re fresh abrasions. Also, there’s a couple of lacerations on the left wrist and slight contusions on the thenar eminence, indicating that a bracelet may have been forcibly pulled over her hand.”
“That fits O.K.,” pronounced Heath, with satisfaction. “And it looks like they snatched a pendant of some kind off her neck.”
“Probably,” indifferently agreed Doctor Doremus. “The piece of chain had cut into her flesh a little behind the right shoulder.”
“And the time?”
“Nine or ten hours ago. Say, about eleven thirty—maybe a little before. Not after midnight, anyway.” He had been teetering restlessly on his toes. “Anything else?”
Heath pondered.
“I guess that’s all, doc,” he decided. “I’ll get the body to the mortuary right away. Let’s have the postmortem as soon as you can.”
“You’ll get a report in the morning.” And despite his apparent eagerness to be off, Doctor Doremus stepped into the bedroom and shook hands with Heath and Markham and Inspector Moran before he hurried out.
Heath followed him to the door, and I heard him direct the officer outside to telephone the Department of Public Welfare to send an ambulance at once for the girl’s body.
“I positively adore that official archiater of yours,” Vance said to Markham. “Such detachment! Here are you stewing most distressingly over the passing of one damsel fair and frail, and that blithe medicus is worrying only over a sluggish liver brought on by early rising.”
“What has he to be upset over?” complained Markham. “The newspapers are not riding him with spurs.… And by the way, what was the point of your questions about the torn dress?”
Vance lazily inspected the tip of his cigarette. “Consider,” he said. “The lady was evidently taken by surprise; for, had there been a struggle beforehand, she would not have been strangled from behind while sitting down. Therefore, her gown and corsage were undoubtedly intact at the time she was seized. But, despite the conclusion of your dashing Paracelsus, the damage to her toilet was not of a nature that could have been self-inflicted in her struggle for air. If she had felt the constriction of the gown across her breast, she would have snatched the bodice itself by putting her fingers inside the band. But, if you noticed, her bodice was intact; the only thing that had been torn was the deep lace flounce on the outside; and it had been torn, or rather ripped, by a strong lateral pull; whereas, in the circumstances, any wrench on her part would have been downward or outward.”
Inspector Moran was listening intently, but Heath seemed restless and impatient; apparently he regarded the torn gown as irrelevant to the simple main issue.
“Moreover,” Vance went on, “there is the corsage. If she herself had torn it off while being strangled, it would doubtless have fallen to the floor; for, remember, she offered considerable resistance. Her body was twisted sidewise; her knee was drawn up, and one slipper had been kicked off. Now, no bunch of silken posies is going to remain in a lady’s lap during such a commotion. Even when ladies sit still, their gloves and handbags and handkerchiefs and programs and serviettes are forever sliding off of their laps onto the floor, don’t y’ know.”
“But if your argument’s correct,” protested Markham, “then, the tearing of the lace and the snatching off of the corsage could have been done only after she was dead. And I can’t see any object in such senseless vandalism.”
“Neither can I,” sighed Vance. “It’s all devilish queer.”
Heath looked up at him sharply. “That’s the second time you’ve said that. But there’s nothing what you’d call queer about this mess. It is a straightaway case.” He spoke with an overtone of insistence, like a man arguing against his own insecurity of opinion. “The dress might’ve been torn almost anytime,” he went on stubbornly. “And the flower might’ve got caught in the lace of her skirt so it couldn’t roll off.”
“And how would you explain the jewel case, Sergeant?” asked Vance.
“Well, the fellow might’ve tried the poker and then, finding it wouldn’t work, used his jimmy.”
“If he had the efficient jimmy,” countered Vance, “why did he go to the trouble of bringing the silly poker from the living room?”
The sergeant shook his head perplexedly.
“You never can tell why some of these crooks act the way they do.”
“Tut, tut!” Vance chided him. “There should be no such word as never in the bright lexicon of detecting.”
Heath regarded him sharply. “Was there anything else that struck you as queer?” His subtle doubts were welling up again.
“Well, there’s the lamp on the table in the other room.”
We were standing near the archway between the two rooms, and Heath turned quickly and looked blankly at the fallen lamp.
“I don t see anything queer about that.”
“It has been upset—eh, what?”
