“Let us suppose, for instance, that this is the brain of Horace Chatham. Can you see anything that would indicate a mind for murder?”
There was a daring challenge in Palermo’s voice. Burke suddenly remembered the words of George Clarendon — that unended sentence which had led to the supposition that Chatham had suffered ill at Palermo’s hands.
Burke became suddenly tense, and suspicion surged through him. Then he caught Palermo’s steady gaze.
Burke laughed.
“The police would like to have Chatham’s brain in a glass jar,” he said. “If they ever catch him, and give him the third degree, his brain won’t be much use to him after they are through.
“By the way, doctor”—Burke was artful as he changed the subject— “where do you obtain all these brains?”
“From various sources,” replied the physician quietly, “but those that I prize most highly are willed to me.”
“Willed to you!”
“Yes. By patients whom I have benefited. I have often made that bargain with them.
“Their brains are useful to them when they are alive. I have enabled them to overcome mental disorders.