A few minutes past eleven o’clock the sound of voices came down the corridor, and in through the half-open door.
Bland, who had been waiting by the window, straightened his jacket and smoothed down his hair.
Hopper scowled and closed his book.
“Here they come.”
Four men came into the room. The first was obviously Dr. Jonathan Salzer: the most distinguished looking of the four; a tall, thin man with a Paderewski mop of hair, as white as a dove’s back. His tanned face was set in cold, serene lines; his eyes were deep-set and thoughtful. A man, I imagined, on the wrong side of fifty, still powerful, his body as straight and as upright as a cadet’s on passing-out parade. He was dressed in a black morning-coat, striped trousers and was as immaculate as a tailor’s dummy. After you had got over the shock of the mop of hair, the next thing you noticed about him was his hands. They were quite beautiful hands; long and narrow, with tapering fingers: a surgeon’s hands or a murderer’s hands: they could be good at either job.
Coroner Lessways followed him in. I recognized him from the occasional photographs I had seen of him in the press: a short, thickset man with a ball-like head, small eyes and a fussy, mean, little mouth. He looked what he was: a shyster who had spent all his life pulling fast ones.
His companion was another of the same breed, over-fed and tricky.
The fourth man hovered outside the door as if he wasn’t sure whether to come in or not. I didn’t bother to look his way. My attention was riveted on Salzer.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Salzer said in a deep, rich voice. “I hope I find you well. Coroner Lessways, Councilman Linkheimer and Mr. Strang, the well-known writer, have come to see you. They are here to ask you a few questions.” He glanced at Lessways. “Would you care to have a word with Mr. Hopper?”
While Lessways was gaping owlishly at Hopper and keeping at a safe distance, I turned to look at the fourth man whom Salzer had introduced as Strang.