Left to himself, Detective Griffith walked about the room; then returned to the table. He studied both the notes, and the sheet of paper.
Then he put them back in the envelope, and picked up the money. It consisted of three twenty-dollar bills, and two tens. The tens were old, and worn. The twenty-dollar bills were crisp.
“Not important!” grunted Griffith. “Valuable. Worth twenty dollars apiece?” — he held one of the crisp bills to the light — “not worth twenty cents each! Phony mazuma. On Jarnow, the murdered man. Passed on him? Planted on him? Or—” Griffith shrugged his shoulders significantly.
The detective studied both the door, and the window. Then he sat at the table, where Windsor had been. Suddenly he stood up, and bumped his head against the hanging study lamp.
He stepped back, and pointed an imaginary pistol toward the spot where Jarnow had been seated. He repeated the experiment, avoiding the lamp.
“So Windsor was here,” observed Griffith. “He stood up, and shot downward. Funny, wasn’t it? The light was right in front of his eyes — green shade and all!”
The detective pulled a notebook from his pocket, and began to mark details. He arranged events on a schedule, and studied the times that intervened. When he had finished, he talked aloud — though softly — in order to make each finding clear.
“After Henry Windsor entered,” he said, “Frank Jarnow locks the door but does not lock the window. That might be all right — still—” he paused doubtfully.
“Then,” he added, “Windsor shoots Jarnow from an almost impossible position. Funny that Jarnow let him do it. When they crashed the door, they took the gun away from Windsor.
“What was Windsor’s motive, anyway? He certainly didn’t plan well. He had about five minutes to get away; but he didn’t go — not even through that window. Sober enough to shoot Jarnow; too drunk to put up a fight, or to escape. Doesn’t sound right, does it?”