“Hello, doctor.”
A middle-aged, medical-looking man with a bald head had entered the room. Norton introduced him.
“Dr. Greer,” he said.
The doctor greeted De Medici with a nod and leaned over the body on the floor. His fingers felt around the imbedded dagger for a moment, and then slowly withdrew the weapon. He straightened, holding the dripping blade to the light.
“Through the heart,” he commented briefly. “Death was almost instantaneous. An odd sort of knife.”
“We’ll call Miss Ballau,” declared Norton. He gave a direction to his assistant who had remained silent and motionless near the wall.
Florence arrived. De Medici, waiting nervously, his fists clenched on his knees, breathed deeply as she entered. Her vivid face was white. Her eyes were lowered. But behind the collapse of her manner De Medici sensed a tautness, a defiance.
“She’ll talk quietly,” he thought, “and tell nothing. Beautiful, how beautiful she is!”
The detective had started his questioning.
“What time did you come home, Miss Ballau?”