“What’s ailing our friend Crawford?”
He thrust Sydney Crawford aside with an arm that would have brooked no interference had there been any. He looked down at Crawford; then bent over him; and then, quickly, felt for the heart. His face darkened.
“This man is dead,” he said, straightening and turning toward Nadia Mdevani.
“Thank God!” Sydney cried, and Belknap swung to her.
“Another Strange Death of President Harding, is that it?”
“That’s for you to say, Mr. Detective,” Sydney answered with unexpected fire. “But this is the second time today you have accused me of murder; and I should have thought, unless you can make your point better than you made it this morning, you might exercise a greater professional restraint.”
By a blazing light in Sydney’s transparent face it was clear things no longer mattered a tinker’s dam: life, death, love, hatred were all one to her, which was nothing. Belknap regarded her with merciless, puckered eyes, and turned again to her husband. He touched a light forefinger to the powder on Crawford’s corroded lips.
“Poison is my guess,” he said. “We’ll find out where it came from soon enough. You’ve run it too close, Miss Mdevani. I shall have to examine the remainder of that sleeping drug you so kindly offered. If it’s still in your possession. Hmmm! No you don’t, lady—stand where you are.”
“I’m sorry to have frightened you,” Nadia drew back and spoke with slow venom. “I merely thought to assist you. You’ll find it in the middle compartment of my handbag.” With her eyes she indicated the bag on the dresser. “Are you—alone?” she added.
“Quite alone, Miss Mdevani. But not for long I assure you.” Belknap went to the telephone: (“Operator, give me 40. Thanks. Police Headquarters? Give me Sergeant Stebbins. Oh, that you, Stebbins? You’d better come up. Your catch has gone the way of all flesh—which, in this house, means he has been murdered. But I have a good substitute. So come along and help me. Right.”) He hung up.