“I can only tell you that I was summoned about two o'clock this afternoon by a clerk—Winter, I fancy his name is. He told me that his employer was locked up in his office, that they thought he had had a fit and were breaking the door open, and wanted me to be there in readiness as soon as they had forced their way in. I hastily put a few things that I thought might be wanted into my bag and hurried here. I arrived just as the door gave way and found matters as you know.”
The inspector scratched the side of his nose reflectively with the handle of his fountain pen.
“Mr. Bechcombe was quite dead?”
“Quite dead. Had been dead at least two hours, I should say,” Dr. Hackett assented.
“And the cause?” the inspector continued, suspending his pen over the paper.
“You will understand that you will have to wait until after the post-mortem for a definitely full and detailed opinion. But, as far as I can tell you after the examination which was all I could make this afternoon, I feel no doubt that the cause of death was strangulation.”
“It seems inconceivable that a man should be strangled in his own office, within earshot of his own clerks,” debated the inspector. “Still, it is quite evident even at a casual glance that it has been done here. But I cannot understand why Mr. Bechcombe apparently offered no resistance. His hand-bell, his speaking-tube, the telephone—all were close at hand. It looks as though he had recognized his assassin and had no fear of him.”
“I think on the contrary that it was a sudden attack,” Dr. Hackett dissented. “Probably Mr. Bechcombe had no opportunity of recognizing his murderer. The assassin sprang forward and—did you notice a sweet sickly smell that seemed to emanate from the body?”
The inspector nodded.
“That was the first thing I noticed. Chloroform, I suppose?”