“I would like to get on,” Reggie yawned.
“That’s right,” said the Superintendent, and took the Inspector aside.
Mr. Gordon, following Reggie to the boudoir, was distressed by the sight of the dead body, and said so. Reggie went on with his photography—first the stab in the throat, then the minor wounds, then the bruise on the shoulder. At which last Inspector Mordan found him.
“Taking the wrong side, aren’t you?” he sneered.
“Oh, I’m taking all sides. Ever try it?” Reggie said.
“Well, have you done, doctor?” the little Jew broke in. “Can’t we have her covered up?”
“I’ll have the body removed, sir. If the doctor has quite done.” said the Inspector.
And so at last the body of Birdie Bolton was taken away to the mortuary, and Mr. Gordon, much relieved, flung open the windows and turned to his business, the secretaire and its papers. He worked quickly. . . . “Nothing there but love-letters. Wonder where she kept her will?”
“There’s a safe in the bedroom, I think,” Reggie said.
“You bet there is. She had all her jewels in the house, I know, and she had some good stuff, poor old girl. Well, come on; here’s her keys.”