The detective jerked open the splintered door. He hesitated and listened. He pressed aside the portières with his left hand as his right fingers coiled over the ugly hilt of a police regulation .44. He advanced into the library, foot by foot. His fingers still coiled the gun’s butt. He stood rigid as he reached the fringe of the splendid rug which was under the great table. His sweeping, close-lidded eyes took in the details of the room. He saw the magpie in its cage. The bird’s feathers were ruffled. Its head darted in and out the bars with great excitement.
Drew frowned as he noticed a wreath of pale-blue smoke curling under the dome of the rose-light. He sniffed the air with a shrewd intake. A powder explosion of some kind had left a trace. The air, so close and warm, was filled with acrid menace.
The detective removed his hand from the revolver’s butt and waved it behind him as a signal to Delaney and the servants to stay where they were. He took one step forward. The white writing paper and envelope from the cemetery company were upon the table. The stump of a half-smoked cigar draped over this table’s edge like a gun on a parapet. It was cold and without ash.
The smaller of the two tables was overturned. The whisky bottle and glass lay at the edge of the rug nearest the wall. The telephone transmitter and receiver were upon the hardwood floor, where they had fallen with the butts of two Havana cigars and the ash trays and match boxes.
Stockbridge was crumpled into a twisted knot against the rich wainscoting. His head was half under his left shoulder. His iron-gray hair was singed black over the left ear.
Drew leaned with one hand on the corner of the table and peered downward. He called the magnate’s name. He repeated it. He turned toward the doorway. His hand raised. His finger pressed against his lips.
“Stockbridge is dead,” he told Delaney, who glided to his side. “He is dead. He was shot to death in this sealed room. I wonder who did it?”
“Ah, Sing!” shrieked the magpie. “Ah, Sing! Ah, Sing!”