“How long after you let her in did you hear Miss Ballau scream?”
“It was only a minute or two, because I hadn’t started with the sandwiches. I was just beginning to cut them again when I heard her scream.”
“Thank you,” said the detective, “that will be all.”
Jane walked from the room, her eyes avoiding the figure of Ballau stretched at her feet as she passed.
“And now, doctor, and you, Mr. De Medici,” Norton resumed in his natural voice, “we’ll see, I think, that any further investigation will bear out my impression that Mr. Ballau killed himself.”
“Impossible,” murmured De Medici.
“Just a moment,” the detective smiled. “We can go over the obvious details of the case right here. Of course, there will be a further and thorough inquiry. But as it stands the case is rather simple. In the first place, we have here the signs of what seems to have been a terrific struggle between the dead man and some assailant. The struggle took place without attracting the attention of Jane. Pictures were ripped from the walls, pottery smashed, chairs overturned, books torn and thrown around in a fight between Mr. Ballau and, as I say, a possible assailant.
“You will notice, however”—and Norton’s impassive face warmed under the stimulus of his reasoning—“you will notice that Mr. Ballau’s attire is absolutely undisturbed. He had evidently dressed himself for the party tonight. It’s a fresh dress shirt he has on. I’ve looked at it through a glass. There isn’t a soil or a finger mark on it. The tie hasn’t been disarranged nor has the collar been touched. All fresh and clean as a daisy. The murderer might have straightened the dead man’s clothes, but he couldn’t remove the evidence his hands would have left—soils, wrinkles and the like on the linen—during a struggle.
“You’ll notice again that this table here seems to have been set for two. One peculiar thing about it is that there are no knives or forks and no evidences of food. Another peculiar thing is that the wine bottle is empty and has been empty for at least a year. You’ll find, if you look closely, that there is dust inside the neck of the bottle and that all odor of wine has long gone from it.”
De Medici was listening in amazement, thinking behind the words of the detective, “He’s clever. A man clever enough to piece together these observations would not be telling me all he knew or thought. He’s holding something back.... Yes ... it’s a ruse to disarm someone. Me, perhaps. He keeps looking at my fingers. I should have washed them.”