Cardona paused to give Burke time to reflect. The reporter was pondering, but his thoughts were far different from what Cardona supposed.
Clyde was thinking of a thin white line — an almost invisible mark — that had girdled the neck of Charles Blefken. He was also recalling a dim spot on the dead man’s forehead.
Clyde Burke had observed both of these, because he was looking for them; but it was evident that Joe Cardona had not seen them.
“The thumb prints,” repeated Cardona expressively. “Pretty deep, weren’t they? Lots of pressure, wasn’t there? Now just figure it out. Middleton was in that little room. When he left, I followed—”
“I got you, Joe!” cried Clyde, a sudden intelligence dawning. “Middleton had only one minute to get out in that hall, murder Charles Blefken, and make his get-away—”
“You’ve got it! Give him half a minute at the most to choke Blefken. He couldn’t have done it, Burke. Impossible.
“Furthermore, it was more than five minutes — closer, maybe, to ten — from the time that Blefken left the cardroom until his body was found. Where was he all that time? He was due back in the lounge. There was nowhere else that he could go.”
“Then some killer was waiting for him—”
“That’s it, exactly.”
“In the little passageway.” Burke was picturing the scene. He had been to Blefken’s house that morning.