"Wait a minute, Radcliffe. Are you sure it's not murder by accident—unintentional manslaughter, as the police term it? Or it could be suicide. Had you thought of that?"
Radcliffe shook his head impatiently. He rose out of his chair, pacing the floor nervously. "It could not possibly be accident. You'll see that when you investigate the case. Suicide? It's possible. Anything is possible, I suppose, but I would lay any kind of odds against it. We had just been to the theater. We returned to our apartment at about five minutes to eleven.
"After undressing and showering, I started to turn in. I noticed a light on in her room—we sleep in separate rooms—and called to her, to see if anything was wrong. There was no answer.
"I figured that she had gone to sleep with the light on, and went into the room to turn it off. That was when I saw her on the floor." He stopped. Keller read grief, fear and love in his memory.
"How had she been killed?"
"It was a handgun, Mr. Keller. Her face was all blackened and charred. Barely recognizable. But I knew it must be her. Our rooms connect, you see. There are two other doors to each room; one to the outside hall, and one to each bathroom.
"When she was shot, my door was locked on the inside—triple-locked, I remember, because I felt like being left alone that night. It was locked by chain, bar and bolt. It's a fairly ancient apartment house. We like it that way. Her bathroom door was open and there was no one hiding inside. The same went for my bathroom. And both hall doors were locked and bolted.
"The windows were locked on the inside, and there is no opening to shoot through that would not leave traces. I checked.
"Even if the killer had gotten in some way or other, there was no way he could get out and still leave the doors and windows locked up tight."
Keller thought, there is one way, Mr. Radcliffe. But he kept it to himself for the moment.