Mason lowered his eyes to the floor on which were several Navajo rugs.
He pointed to a red splotch on one of the Navajo rugs. A few inches farther on was another. Then there was a spattering drop with irregular edges on the floor, another on the rug nearest the bedroom door on the left.
Mason followed the trail directly to the closed door of the bedroom.
Drake hung back. “Going in?” he asked.
By way of answer, Mason turned the knob and opened the door.
A blast of hot, fetid air rushed out of the bedroom to assail their nostrils. It was the oxygen-exhausted air of a room tightly closed in which gas heat has been generated, and it was an atmosphere which held the suggestion of death.
It needed only a glance at the fully clothed figure lying on the bed to confirm the message of that superheated, lifeless air.
Mason turned back to Paul Drake. “Call Homicide, Paul,” he said. “There’s a phone.”
The detective whirled to the telephone.
Mason stepped into the room and gave a quick look around.