Outside it had gone quite dark.
Those two busy officials of colonial administration whose duty it was to gather up and to sort out the threads of local crime in that far Eastern port wasted no time and few words about their work. They had been on many cases together. Moreover, this particular case offered a bare simplicity in its few apparent details. Also, since it concerned the death of a white, it called for urgent action, and they went at it with precision and dispatch while the police guard held the entrance against a wondering throng.
"How long has he been dead?" asked the assistant inspector.
"Some ten minutes, I should say," returned the medical examiner. "He's still warm."
"Instantaneous?"
"As nearly as possible. His heart's been split in half, you might say, with this dah." The doctor indicated a short iron dagger buried to its iron handle in the victim's left breast. "One jab, and no bungling about it."
"Done by a native," remarked the inspector, bending over.
"Evidently. But what kind of a Buddhist was he, giving himself to the frozen Buddhist hell by taking a life?"
"Not much of a Buddhist. That's a hill weapon. They're hardly what you'd call orthodox in the hills."
"Quite true," agreed the doctor. "Buddhism is a modern novelty to the hills. What's a matter of three thousand years? They've got a system rather older."