“But he doesn’t need to have been shot with the revolver that was in that desk,” she said. “Good Heavens, there are plenty of thirty-eight caliber revolvers...”
“No, there aren’t,” Holcomb said. “Our ballistics department has made micro-photographs of the bullet which killed your uncle and a test bullet fired from that gun. The bullets came from the same gun. Now then, what time did you and Lieutenant Ogilby return?”
“I think we got here at the house at about six o’clock.”
“Your friend didn’t stay for dinner?”
“No.”
Sergeant Holcomb said, “Let’s get that Jap in here.”
One of the men stepped into the kitchen and brought in the Japanese, who stood squat, poised and inscrutable, his lacquer-black eyes returning Sergeant Holcomb’s glowering scrutiny. “What’s your name?”
“Itsumo.”
“You have another name?”
“Yes, sir. Itsumo Shinahara.”