Berry produced the bullet of a 22 calibre Colt automatic from his vest pocket—a bullet apparently identical to the one found in the table that morning.
“May I inquire?” Belknap asked gravely, taking the pellet on the palm of his hand and crossing it from one to the other.
“In my meticulous, persnickety way,” Berry said with his little twisted smile, “I made a cleaner sweep of the dining-room tonight than you and I and the Sergeant did this morning when working in unison.” Berry had been known to strip a freshly papered wall in his thoroughness! “And this article is the net result. Found in the sideboard—you noticed that Chippendale thing between the windows—inside, deep in the back board, with the doors closed and no hole in the doors. Meaning the doors were standing open when the shot was fired, which, incidentally, means nothing.”
“Exactly; nothing at all. And of course it may have been in hiding there for years, the relic of some earlier shooting picnic at the Whittaker mansion! But I congratulate you on the find, for it is a find. We must get it to the ballistician, who has Exhibit A, and let him determine which, if either, came from our captured weapon. We know only one shot could have come from it.”
“Certainly. I’ll take charge of it. You get in touch with Miss Mowbray. I’ll continue with Miss Video’s room while I’m about it, and you go mix with the gang. The more I hear about them the less I like them unchaperoned. See you later.”
On either side the door each drew a long breath that being translated meant “I guess I gave him my facts fair enough. Conclusions? No.”
XX
Sydney had been wandering the house like one possessed. From her room where she stood inanimate motionless beside Neil’s bed, to the East Room where she mechanically extended her hands to the fire Nadia had herself built on the enormous hearth, to the kitchens where she blindly prepared things for Neil’s comfort, she made the rounds with frozen face and rigid body. The spirit was stricken—only the form of Sydney went on living and doing. Meeting far too many emotional crises within far too short a space of time had destroyed her receptivities; whether temporarily or permanently remained to be seen.
Nadia was in the East Room, smoking furiously, picking up and laying down bric-a-brac, books, pictures, a glass of water, with indiscriminate and hasty distraction. Seeing the ghost of Sydney pass through for the sixth time her nerves were stung to remonstrance.
“For Christ’s sake, what’s the matter, Mrs. Crawford? One would think you were the only one in trouble around here. Is it as bad as all that with your husband? Can’t he buck up?”