“No. Fernando claims that I never ordered him to tie a string on the door knob.” Curtis spoke more slowly than usual. “But after discovering Meredith lying dead in the hall, I went in search of my room and, finding a string hanging from a knob of a closed door, entered that bedroom, supposing it to be mine.”
“Whose was it?”
“John Meredith’s.”
McLane sat back and again rubbed his forehead with his handkerchief.
“I’m blessed if I see—” he exclaimed.
“Unhappily I don’t see—at any time.” Curtis covered his sigh with a slight cough. “This is the point, Leonard; a string was tied to John Meredith’s door knob and is still hanging there. A string was also hung on my door knob Sunday evening and cut off before I came upstairs.”
“What?”
Instead of replying Curtis rose and went over to his bureau. Taking his despatch box from the drawer he made his way to the bed and, turning the key in the lock, threw back the lid.
“This piece of string,” he said, holding it up, “has one end tied in a loop, which has been cut.” He handed the string to Leonard. “I found the string lying in front of my door, partly hidden under the hall carpet.”
McLane took the string and eyed it attentively. “Just a moment,” he exclaimed. “I’ll be back.” He stopped at the hall door, unlocked it and sped up the hall. During his absence Curtis stood by the bed, head bent in a listening attitude. Barely three minutes elapsed before McLane was beside him again.