“Sure?”
“It’s kind-a peculiar—at that.”
“Explain yourself—be clear!”
Delaney scratched his head. “I’d say, Chief, it was smokeless powder. It don’t smell like the ordinary kind.”
“I saw smoke when I came in!”
“That smokeless stuff smokes. It ain’t altogether what they call it. Remember the shootin’-gallery at Headquarters? There’s smoke there when the police are practicing with them steel-jacketed bullets.”
“You’re right,” said Drew. “Keep on looking about. I’m getting on. Stockbridge was shot at very close range behind and under the left ear. The weapon used was a small-caliber revolver. The bullet is undoubtedly lodged in the lower brain. Powder stains are in his hair. The opening is clotted shut. He fell forward. In falling he knocked over the little table with its load of ash-trays, match-boxes, telephone, cigar butts and the whisky bottle and the glass. He’s been dead some time.”
“I ’e’rd no shot!” cried the butler from the doorway.
Drew wheeled. “You wouldn’t,” he said sharply. “Delaney,” he added, “say, Delaney, get out your note book and pencil. I want to put down everything we can think of before I send for the coroner. We’ll take a complete record. This thing is diabolical. You see nothing?”
“Nothing,” echoed Delaney as he slammed a book-case door shut, dusted his fingers and reached in his pocket. “There’s nobody planted in this room—that’s a fact, Chief. That’s what gets me. How was the murder done?”