“So what?” Mason asked.
“Draw your own conclusions,” Holcomb said.
“I suppose,” Mason told him, “you’ve performed a postmortem?”
Holcomb nodded.
“All right,” Mason said, “let’s go at the thing sensibly. George Trent was killed some time Saturday afternoon.”
“How do you know?”
Mason said, “I haven’t found out just what the autopsy surgeon has to say on the subject, but the body was dressed as it had been dressed on Saturday. There wasn’t much of a stubble, the shirt was not particularly soiled. Moreover, the body had been placed in a packing case and lifted to a place of concealment on the top of a pile of packing cases. George Trent was a big man. His niece could no more have placed the body up there than she could have lifted a corner of the office building.”
“An accomplice could have done it for her,” Sergeant Holcomb said.
Mason nodded. “What’s more,” Sergeant Holcomb told him, “don’t forget that this man had started out to get drunk. He’d taken his car down and parked it in a zone which is restricted to thirty-minute parking during the daytime. He’d taken out the car keys, put them in an envelope and mailed them to himself at the office. Then he’d gone out to get drunk and gamble.”
“Exactly,” Mason said, “and something happened to make him return to his office. Now, what was it?”