Mitchell listened with fixed attention and then turned abruptly to Hayden. “Suppose you tell me exactly what occurred here on Thursday night,” he suggested.
“Palmer can answer that better than I,” replied Hayden, but as Palmer remained silent he added, “I found Palmer and Burnham playing chess when I got back after dinner, and being fagged out I took a nap on the lounge and only woke up when Maynard arrived.”
“Then we had supper,” concluded Palmer, breaking his long silence. “That’s our dining table. We had just about finished when a bullet whistled by Burnham and struck the wall there.”
Springing to his feet, Mitchell went over and inspected the hole.
“Where’s the bullet?” he asked.
“Palmer pried it out,” remarked Hayden, rising. “Where did you put it?”
Palmer leaned forward and tipped up a small bronze vase which stood on the table and out rolled the bullet. “It’s chipped and mushroomed out of shape,” he said as Mitchell pounced on it. “But a gunsmith told me that it was undoubtedly of thirty-two caliber.”
Maynard kept his face expressionless but his heart sank; the bullet, safely tucked in his pocket, which he had dug out of the outer wall of La Montage’s apartment, was also of thirty-two caliber. Could it be that that also was merely a coincidence? Shaking off his depression with an effort, he joined the others about the dining table just as Mitchell asked:
“Exactly where were you sitting on Thursday night?”
Hayden and Maynard indicated their seats, and the former added: