There was a small Medici print hanging by the side of the window. The glass was shattered. A round bullet-hole showed on the white shoulder of Beatrice D’Este.
Carver fingered the hole carefully.
“That looks to me like an automatic,” he said. “He is getting quite modern. The last time he killed a man he used a type of revolver which was issued by the Chinese government to its officers some fifteen years ago. We know that from the shape of the bullet,” he went on unconcerned. “There is somebody at the door, Tab. You had better go and explain we have had another attack of burglaritis.”
Tab was gone some ten minutes, quieting the tenants of the flats. When he returned he found Carver examining the track of the second bullet, which had struck the lower window sash and which had drilled a neat little hole.
“Probably hit the wall opposite,” said Carver, squinting through.
“The man below found this on the stairs,” said Tab.
It was a small green-handled knife in a lacquered scabbard.
“Pseudo-Chinese,” said Carver. “It may even be the genuine article.” He pulled out the knife, tested the razor-like edge, “And sharp,” he said. “I had an idea he didn’t mean to use his gun.”
“Now,” said Tab, facing the detective squarely, “we will dispense with all light and airy persiflage and come down to sober affidavits. You expected this attack. That is why you came tonight with your fake story of a literary-minded nephew.”
“I did and I didn’t,” said Carver frankly. “When I told you that the attack would be made on me, I half believed it, but as I couldn’t find an excuse for getting you to stay with me, and, moreover, as I have no accommodation for a man of your luxurious habits, I decided on the whole I’d take a chance by staying here.” He looked at his watch. “Two o’clock,” he said. “He must have come about a quarter of an hour ago, and I will give him this credit, that I did not hear the door open. Fortunately there was a clothes hook behind the door and sometime or other you hung an old hat there. It was hearing this hat fall that made me realise that either I was growing deaf, or else the stealthy personage was unusually soft-footed. He must have seen first my cigar, and then my outline as I rose, for like a fool, I hadn’t pulled the settee away from the window. He was back in the lobby in a flash and before I knew what had happened he had fired twice, slammed the door and gone. He was still in the hall when I went out, but it was so dark that I could see nothing.”