“Seems to think you’re responsible for her troubles,” Holcomb said.
“Shut up!” Mason told him. “She’s nuts. Here, Virginia, drink some of this... Can’t you see, she’s having crazy hysterics.” She turned her head from side to side, fighting against the preferred whiskey. Mason said, ‘It’s the only way. Hold her on that side, Sergeant. It’s a good thing she has gloves on and can’t scratch.” Between them, they forced a generous draught of whiskey down her throat. She choked, sputtered, and started to cough. “Anyway,” Mason said, “that’ll make her quit screaming. Come on, Virginia, buck up. You’ve got to take it.” ‘
The janitor stood in the doorway. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
Holcomb said, “Take charge of this girl,” and half pushed Virginia Trent over to his arms. She clung to the janitor as she had clung to Sergeant Holcomb. Holcomb and Mason entered the shop and groped for the drop-cord, found it and switched an overhead incandescent into blazing brilliance.
Mason said, “I presume that’s George Trent. He’s evidently been dead for a while.”
Holcomb called to the janitor, “Hey, you! Come in here and take a look at this fellow and see if you can identify him.”
As the janitor moved toward the door, Virginia Trent released her hold, dropped into the stenographer’s chair at the typewriter desk, put her head on her arms and sobbed violently.
The janitor stared, open-mouthed. “That’s George Trent,” he said simply.
Holcomb moved toward the telephone, reached over the girl’s shaking shoulders to pick up the instrument, dialed headquarters and said, “Homicide... This is Holcomb. We have another one out here at nine thirteen South Marsh Street. This time it’s George Trent. Come on out.”
He hung up the telephone and said to Mason, “Show me where he was.”