‘After ordering coffee, Mr. Kewley locked himself in his library an hour ago, sir. When I rapped on the door just now, he didn’t answer.’
The two men forced the lock and found John Kewley on the floor, an empty strychnine bottle at his side. The terrace door was open. After a careful examination, Fordney returned home. A few hours later, Bob Kewley entered his living-room.
‘Thought I’d stop in on my way home. Don’t you think Uncle John looks worried?’
‘Your uncle, Bob, is dead. Strychnine. Your butler and I found him lying on the floor, but were too late to save him.’
‘How horrible, Fordney! Why was the library door locked, do you suppose?’
‘That puzzles me. Has your butler been with you long?’
‘For years,’ replied Bob, his head buried in his hands.
‘Well, you’re a wealthy man now.’
‘What of it? Uncle John meant more to me than all the money in the world.’
‘I wish I could believe that,’ replied Fordney. ‘You’ll need a better alibi than those,’ pointing to the ticket stubs Bob was nervously fingering.