“I see the point,” Chick replied.
“Gee! that point is plain enough,” put in Patsy. “But, holy smoke, it must be a case of suicide. How else can you size it up, chief? Darling had been in the dumps for two or three months, as down in the mouth as a sick horse, according to his wife’s story. Crooks could not have forced him to feign despondency for that length of time. In my opinion, chief, he just about blew in all of his money with some other woman, and blew out his brains when his bundle was gone. That’s how I size it up.”
“Really?” queried Nick dryly.
“That’s what. He certainly shot himself, chief, if what Doctor Lyons told you is true.”
“If what Doctor Lyons told me is true, Patsy, you probably are entirely wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“It’s a hundred to one.”
“Why so, chief?”
“Because in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred a person who commits suicide with a revolver shoots himself in the head,” said Nick. “That is the most natural spot for a suicide to select. He knows that a bullet in the brain will instantly render him insensible and preclude conscious suffering. Even if he does not stop to reason about it, he instinctively selects his head in which to send the fatal bullet. The records corroborate me. How often do you hear of a man shooting himself in the heart or lungs?”
“Very seldom, indeed,” Chick agreed. “I don’t know that I ever heard of a case.”