At a quarter to eleven that night three men stood before the door of the Trasmere vault, and the shirt-sleeved workman inserting the key, the lock snapped back. He was pushing the door open when Carver caught his arm.
“Just leave it as it is,” he said and the locksmith, obviously disappointed that he should be denied a full view of the tragedy which he had only half glimpsed went back to gather up his tools.
“Now,” said Carver, drawing a long breath and pulling a pair of white gloves from his pocket, he put them on.
Tab followed him into the chamber of death.
“I’ve telephoned for the doctor. He’ll be here in a few seconds,” said Carver, looking down at the silent figure leaning against the table legs. He pointed to the table. In the exact centre lay a key, but what brought the exclamation to the detective’s lips, was the fact that the one half was stained red. The fluid which had run from it had soaked into the porous surface of the table.
“Blood,” whispered the detective and gingerly lifted the flat steel.
There was no doubt about it. Though the handle was clean, the lower wards appeared as though they had been dipped in blood.
“This disposes of the suicide theory,” said Carver.
His first search was for the pistol which had obviously slain the man. There was no sign of any weapon. He passed his hand under the limp body and Tab shivered to see the head drop wearily to the shoulder.
“Nothing there—shot through the body too. Suicides seldom do it that way.”