Sperry eyed the spot with indifference. “Not essential,” he said. “Shows good housekeeping. That’s all. The point is, are there other spots?”
And, after a time, we found what we were after. The upper hall was carpeted, and my penknife came into requisition to lift the tacks. They came up rather easily, as if but recently put in. That, indeed, proved to be the case.
Just outside the dressing-room door the boards for an area of two square feet or more beneath the carpet had been scraped and scrubbed. With the lifting of the carpet came, too, a strong odor, as of ammonia. But the stain of blood had absolutely disappeared.
Sperry, kneeling on the floor with the candle held close, examined the wood. “Not only scrubbed,” he said, “but scraped down, probably with a floor-scraper. It’s pretty clear, Horace. The poor devil fell here. There was a struggle, and he went down. He lay there for a while, too, until some plan was thought out. A man does not usually kill himself in a hallway. It’s a sort of solitary deed. He fell here, and was dragged into the room. The angle of the bullet in the ceiling would probably show it came from here, too, and went through the doorway.”
We were startled at that moment by a loud banging below. Sperry leaped to his feet and caught up his hat.
“The watchman,” he said. “We’d better get out. He’ll have all the neighbors in at that rate.”
He was still hammering on the door as we went down the rear stairs, and Sperry stood outside the door and to one side.
“Keep out of range, Horace,” he cautioned me. And to the watchman:
“Now, George, we will put the key under the door, and in ten minutes you may come out. Don’t come sooner. I’ve warned you.”
By the faint light from outside I could see him stooping, not in front of the door, but behind it. And it was well he did, for the moment the key was on the other side, a shot zipped through one of the lower panels. I had not expected it and it set me to shivering.