He was studying the two impressions intensely. When he looked up from his examination, his face wore a peculiar expression.
“This is not the head which was placed so close to the glass of the door of Schloss’ office, peering through, on the night of the robbery, in order to see before picking the lock whether the office was empty and everything ready for the hasty attack on the safe.”
“That disposes of my theory that Schloss robbed himself,” remarked Winters reluctantly. “But the struggle here, the sleeve of the dress, the pistol—could he have been shot?”
“No, I think not,” considered Kennedy. “It looks to me more like a case of apoplexy.”
“What shall we do?” asked Winters. “Far from clearing anything up, this complicates it.”
“Where’s Muller?” asked Kennedy. “Does he know? Perhaps he can shed some light on it.”
The clang of an ambulance bell outside told that the aid summoned by Winters had arrived.
We left the body in charge of the surgeon and of a policeman who arrived about the same time, and followed Winters.
Muller lived in a cheap boarding house in a shabbily respectable street downtown, and without announcing ourselves we climbed the stairs to his room. He looked up surprised but not disconcerted as we entered.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.