“Ah!” The coroner paused. “Because he was in the grasp of his assailant?”
“Yes.”
“Yet he still had his strength left. Nealman was a man among men, wasn’t he, Fargo?”
“Indeed he was!” Fargo’s eyes snapped. “I’d like to see any one deny it.”
“He wasn’t a coward then. He’d fight as long as he had a chance, instead of giving all his energies to yelling for help—help that could not reach him short of many seconds. In other words, Nealman knew that he didn’t have the least kind of a fighting chance. He was in the grasp of his assailant so he couldn’t run. And his assailant was strong—and powerful enough—that there was no use to fight him.”
It was curious how his voice rang in that silent room. Fargo had leaned back in his chair, as if the words struck him like physical blows. A negro janitor at one side inhaled with a sharp, distinct sound.
“It might have been more than one man,” Fargo suggested uneasily.
“Do you believe it was?”
“I don’t know. It’s wholly a blank to me.”
“Have you any theory where the body is?”