Biscayne pointed to a table in the front corner of the room. Along with other crudely fashioned subjects was a bust of somewhat less than life-size.
It bore a striking resemblance to the dead man by the window. It was evidently an attempt at a likeness of Silas Harshaw, made by the old man himself. All the modelings were formed of hard clay, as Weston discovered by inspection.
The commissioner turned around to speak to Biscayne, and noted that the professor and Cardona had gone to look at the dead man.
Before Weston could join them, Detective Mayhew entered, accompanied by a stout, middle-aged man.
The newcomer was Doctor George Fredericks. He had already seen Harshaw’s body that afternoon, but had been forced to leave when the police surgeon arrived.
Fredericks had been at a Long Island hospital until an hour ago. He had hurried back to the city.
“Tell us what you knew about Silas Harshaw, doctor,” said Cardona.
“He was a sick man,” said Fredericks solemnly. “His heart was bad; his blood pressure was high. He was in poor condition, generally. I advised him to take a trip South; to stay away from his laboratory and forget his experiments for a while.
“He called me up, two nights ago, to say that he was leaving the next day. I told him to call at my office for a prescription.”
“That explains the eight-o’clock phone call,” interposed Cardona.