Descending the stone steps at the rear of the building, Griffith entered the chamber below. His footsteps echoed on the concrete floor of the low room as he walked to the truck on which lay the body of Frank Jarnow.
The room was well illuminated, and Griffith stood a few feet away from the corpse, studying every detail. With his left hand across his breast, and his right against his chin, the detective became as motionless as the form which he surveyed. He stood like a statue, in a room of silence.
After a time, he leaned forward, and looked at Frank Jarnow’s form from close range. He felt through the pockets of the murdered man, but found that Harrison had made a thorough search. Then he stood back, and resumed his first position, looking at the body of the murdered man.
His eyes rested on Jarnow’s face: the dead man’s eyes were staring; the mouth was half-open, as though some terrible realization had caught the man at the instant of death.
* * *
Footfalls came from the steps, and Griffith turned to see a young man of medium height enter the chamber. The critical eyes of the detective studied the newcomer.
The fellow was about thirty years of age; his face was sallow, and his eyes were sharp. The man stopped, openmouthed, and glanced about him.
“Well?” growled Griffith.
The man blinked his eyes, and looked at the detective with a foolish smile.
“I’m from the Gazette,” he said. “My name’s Bolton. Harry Bolton. You’re Detective Griffith, aren’t you?”