“If these clues hold together,” observed Griffith. “It’s going to mean a lot to Henry Windsor. They’ve got the goods on him so far, and he’s an easy goat. It may be lucky for him that I begin where Harrison leaves off.”
So thinking, the detective continued his easy pace. These clues could wait a little while, locked in his brain, and recorded in his notebook.
For as yet, Harvey Griffith had not seen the body of the murdered man. After that had been inspected, he would be ready for action.
“Yes,” concluded the detective, “I have a hunch that this visit to the morgue will lead me to the murderer.”
CHAPTER III
IN THE MORGUE
The city morgue was located in an old brick building that stood on a side street. It had been erected many years before, in the days when windows were few; and the architect had apparently sought to make the structure as forbidding as possible.
Detective Harvey Griffith stepped into gloom the moment that he left the street. He entered a long, echoing hall, that was illuminated by two small electric lights.
Visitors to the morgue had often remarked upon the depression that seemed to grip them when they entered the portals of the ugly building, but Griffith had been there too often to sense this natural repulsion.
There was a door at the right of the hall; it was open, and it showed the dingy office, where an attendant sat at a dilapidated desk. The man glanced upward and waved his hand in recognition.