“Yes. I’ve got the notes here — things I figured you’d want to know.” He drew a folded sheet of paper from his pocket and read aloud:
“Struck one lick. With a smooth rock or brick. Died instantly before being doused in the water. Post-mortem bruises on body indicate she was washed some distance downstream before lodging against the stump. Death occurred between four and seven hours ago. That’s timed from two o’clock,” he explained, “meaning she was killed some time between seven and ten o’clock.”
“Not later than ten?” Shayne asked.
“That’s right. I asked particular. The doc figured around eight-thirty or nine, but wouldn’t say closer without an autopsy — knowing when she ate dinner and things like that.”
“Ten is pretty good for us,” Shayne told him grimly. “You and I saw her alive at eight-thirty. What else have you?”
“That’s about all. Doc doesn’t think she fought any before getting hit on the head. But I thought of something else, Mr. Shayne. There’s a government gauge here in the creek. It works automatic, making a record of the rise and fall with the exact time. From looking at it we can tell how high Clear Creek rose tonight — and when.”
“That’s good stuff,” Shayne commended. “When can you get hold of that record?”
“Not till we can get the government man to come up from Denver to unlock it. Sometime this morning.”
“With that, and with what Joe Meade tells when he comes out of it — if he does — we might almost hope to begin to get a faint glimmering of the truth. Call me when you get the dope.”