“That is true. Perfectly true.” Hoffbein’s words were enunciated with a finality, though Cub Sterling thought he hated to say them.
“And in view of the paper I found upon my desk when I returned at two o’clock such an examination would seriously hinder our apprehension of her ... if she is the murderer.”
“What paper, Dr. MacArthur?”
“Haven’t I told you? I’m sorry. A typewritten sheet ... here it is ... which states, Dr. Hoffbein ... that because of two low marks she received in a course in which Ethridge was lecturing last month, she has dropped from seven to seventeenth in her class and will not be in line for a staff job upon graduation. She cried straight through for three nights afterward.”
The paper was still shielding the pudgy faces of Doctors Paton and Peters, so Barton, the man furthest from them asked, “Who brought it?”
“I don’t know. My door was open and I found it upon my desk. It is signed ... also upon the typewriter ... ‘A Student Nurse.’ Gentlemen, we will never accomplish anything ... unless we come to some conclusions. Will you please give us your opinion, Dr. Hoffbein?”
Dr. Hoffbein’s eyes turned a liquid black. He folded his precise head on one side and each word settled itself upon the air before its successor was spoken.
“Gentlemen, I am not in favor of the police. A mental criminal is a mental case. A murder of this type is undoubtedly a mental criminal. A very clever, otherwise normal and possibly brilliant intellect. A man ... er ... a person quite out of scope of ... a police.”
He shrugged the police, with a final hiss, off his thin shoulders.
“What are your personal impressions, Dr. Hoffbein?” Bear Sterling rumbled.