Culligore pursed his lips and chewed a dead cigar. There was a slow twinkle in his eyes which seemed to say that life wasn’t quite so serious as it seemed, despite the sordid and ugly affairs with which he came in daily touch.
Helen did not know how it happened, but the house was almost empty when her turn to be questioned came. Her face showed no sign of the trepidation she felt as she stepped forward. She knew, as she turned her face toward the stout man, that three pairs of eyes were watching her with more than ordinary intentness—her father’s, Lieutenant Culligore’s, and Vincent Starr’s.
The stout man gave her a listless look as he inquired her name and address. She fancied he was sniffing inwardly, and that after looking her over he had decided that she probably could give no information beside what had already been brought out. At any rate, his questions were few and perfunctory and gave her no opportunity to practice the evasions she had mentally rehearsed while the others were being questioned. As she turned away, she saw a mildly reproachful look in her father’s face and one of amused understanding in Culligore’s.
“Well, doctor?” The stout man turned on the medical examiner, whose rubicund face wore a puzzled scowl. “What do you make of it?”
The examiner wagged his head. Being a man of science, he was strongly averse to forming hasty conclusions.
“There is an abrasion on the right arm that might have been caused by a hypodermic syringe,” he announced.
“And the laugh—how do you account for that?”
“I am not accounting for it, but there are certain drugs that produce exhilaration and laughter. Most of them have to be taken into the system by inhalation, however, in order to produce such an effect.”
“I see.” The stout man looked a bit impatient. “In plain words, then, it’s a case of murder?”
“I wouldn’t say that. It might prove a far-fetched guess.”