The reporter walked about the room, as though to familiarize himself with the strange surroundings. White, blank walls on every side. He and the detective were the only living persons in this compartment where death reigned.
Bolton stopped, and then looked at Griffith, who was again studying the corpse. The reporter approached the detective, and also observed the lifeless figure.
“I don’t know what kind of a story you’re going to get here,” said Griffith. “The story happened last night. Seems like the papers always send men around after everything’s over.
“Guess they thought the experience would be good for a new man like you. Otherwise I can’t see what you’re going to learn.”
“Well,” replied the reporter, “they like to get the story from every angle. I’m kind of lucky at that, finding you here. Maybe you’ve got some new opinion on the case.”
“It isn’t my case,” laughed Griffith. “Detective Harrison is handling it. I’m just looking in on it, because it interests me.”
“The Gazette heard that you might take charge,” persisted the reporter. “The motive hasn’t been established yet. It’s an important case, even though the murderer is known — for Henry Windsor is well known in this town. So if you have any opinion—”
“None at all,” snapped Griffith. “I keep my opinion to myself, young fellow. Harrison has the facts. See him.”
“It couldn’t have been premeditated,” observed the reporter, ignoring the detective’s antagonistic air. “When Windsor fired that gun he gave it all away.
“Funny thing to do — use a gun up there. If he had intended to kill Jarnow, he could have stabbed him better — but he would have had to use a knife — from in back—”