“Sure. Hold it a moment, doctor, in the handkerchief, but don’t let it get out of your possession.” Mitchell thrust the handkerchief into McLane’s eager hand, and rushing back to the pantry, appeared a second later with Detective Sergeant Brown at his back, and hastened up the staircase.
“Describe the knife, Leonard,” directed Curtis, as McLane stepped closer to his side.
McLane did not reply at once. Anne, who stood watching the two men with eager eyes, was about to speak when McLane broke the pause.
“A curious weapon,” he said slowly, “but a most effective one, Dave. It is a scalpel.”
“A scalpel,” repeated Curtis.
“Yes, one manufactured by Meinicke.” McLane lowered his hand. “Where do you suppose John Meredith obtained a surgical knife?”
Curtis’ face was alight with interest. “A surgical knife,” he muttered. “Strange!” He paused, then spoke more quickly. “However, the fingerprints will tell us—”
“Of murder,” broke in Mitchell’s harsh voice behind them and they wheeled about. “Miss Meredith,” his eyes never left the young girl’s face, “you have led us to the weapon and thereby proved conclusively that your uncle did not commit suicide. It is a case of cold-blooded murder.”
“Explain your meaning,” directed Curtis, before either of his startled companions could speak.
Mitchell stepped back a few paces. “Look up there,” he pointed, as he spoke, to the next floor where Detective Sergeant Brown stood leaning over the railing gazing down at them. “The sergeant is standing exactly where John Meredith’s dead body was found by Doctor Curtis. Now,” he spoke with significant impressiveness, “if John Meredith carried that surgical knife, as you cleverly suggested, Miss Meredith, and it dropped out of his hand and fell between the posts of the banisters it would have alighted in that box of ferns,” indicating one further down the hall. “By no freak of chance or possibility could it have fallen from there into the box where I found it.”