"Wait," I said, as he reached the door. "Do you by any chance own a gun?"
He turned, a frown spreading between his mousy brows. "No," he said, slowly, "I don't." Then he brightened. "But I could purchase one!"
"Fine," I said, tossing him a bill. "Buy a couple bullets for it, too."
He caught the money, smiled, nodded, and left—closing the door softly and respectfully behind him.
Humming a merry little tune, I turned to the papers upon my desk. The partnership contract between James Fidwell and T. J. Nelson. If one of the partners should die from any cause, the other partner would become sole owner of the Remey Company....
They seemed quite in order. I shuffled them into a neat pile and cut an intricate little dance step on my way to the files with them. The partnership was soon to reach a happy culmination.
Suicide has it all over murder, you know. No silly questions from the police. No mess to clean up. No body to get rid of. (The relatives usually take care of all that.) No bother at all, really.
I skipped back to the desk, flipped up the telephone, and began poking a finger into the little holes in the dial.
"Mr. Pasquamine?" I chimed, after hearing the faint click at the other end of the wire.
"Yes."