“Burnham sat there, almost with his back to the window.”
“And Mr. Palmer sat facing Mr. Burnham.” Mitchell laid his hand on a chair and looked from where he stood across the room. “Surely, Mr. Palmer, you had a good view of the window; you must have caught a glimpse of any one standing in the window.”
“But I wasn’t facing the window,” protested Palmer. “I left the table a little before the shooting.”
“Where did you go?” asked Mitchell.
“Over to the window.” Palmer joined the group about the table. “It was an overcast foggy night and I did not see any one on the balcony. I had just turned my back to the window when the shot was fired at Burnham.”
Mitchell thought for a moment, then walked over to the window and looked out. The balcony in effect was an Italian loggia, shaded with Venetian blinds from the glare of the sun, and ran the length of the living room and on past the French window opening into the hall of Palmer’s apartment. The balcony was fairly wide and Palmer had fitted it up with wicker lounging chairs, a canvas couch, a number of pretty mats, and a table. Several artistic wicker bird-cage swinging electric lamps added to the attractiveness of the cool little retreat.
“And none of you heard a sound?” asked Mitchell.
“We heard no sound.” Palmer had suddenly become the spokesman. “The man evidently used a Maxim silencer. Thugs do, you know,” he commented as Mitchell raised his eyebrows.
“Yes, thugs do,” admitted Mitchell. “But how about Captain La Montagne? Where does he come in?”
“He didn’t come in.” Palmer, as he spoke, strolled over to the door and into the reception hall. “When Burnham and I rushed out here we found La Montagne standing in the corridor just outside my door. The door was open as well as the hall window opening on the balcony.”