He had fallen upon his back and was lying with face upturned in the sunlight shed through one of the windows. There was a great bruise under one eye and a gash in his cheek.
He had been stabbed twice in the breast, and from the[Pg 7] second wound still protruded the weapon used by his assailant, a knife driven home to the victim’s heart with all the merciless energy of bitter vengefulness, or utter desperation.
He was a man in middle life and of powerful build, a smooth-shaven man of dark complexion, close-cut hair, and a hard, somewhat sinister cast of features.
“Do you know him?” asked Nick, after viewing the scene for several moments.
“No,” said Chick. “Do you?”
Nick stepped into the room and bent above the corpse. With the tip of his finger he lifted the dead man’s upper lip, revealing a quantity of gold bridgework on three of the teeth. He turned the left hand, also, and found that part of the third finger had been amputated.
“I thought I recognized him,” he remarked, rising and glancing again at the battered face. “We have his photograph in our album.”
“Who is he?” Chick questioned.
“Cornelius Taggart,” said Nick. “Better known to the police as Connie Taggart.”
“By Jove, you’re right,” Chick declared, gazing. “I recognize him, now. Connie Taggart, the yegg and cracksman.”