“You mean with the telephone.”
“Certainly. It was directly in front of her. She must have seen it. Even if she could not rise, she could have tipped over the stand and got hold of the instrument. In half the time it would have taken her to dip her finger in blood and write these words, she could have told the whole story to a telephone operator, or even have called up the police.”
“By gracious, Nick, that admits of no argument,” said Chick emphatically. “She surely would have done so. The several circumstances combined leave no room for a doubt.”
“I think so, too,” Phelan nodded. “I guess you are right, Carter, after all. I blundered like a fool in getting after Gordon so quickly.”
Nick did not reply.
Crouching beside the corpse of the murdered woman, he took a lens from his pocket and examined her bloodstained finger tip, her hand and wrist, the several wounds in her matted hair, and then he surprised both of his observers by taking out his own handkerchief and dipping it in some of the partly congealed blood, afterward folding it and replacing it in his pocket.
“What’s that for?” Phelan inquired, with brows knit perplexedly.
“Further study,” Nick tersely replied, rising. “I am going to leave you, Phelan, to notify the coroner and take the necessary legal steps. Bear in mind, however, that all this is strictly confidential for the present. Publication might prove disastrous.”
“Trust me,” Phelan assured him. “I’m dumb, Nick, till you remove the seal of silence. You have something else up your sleeve, I infer.”
“Exactly.”