He picked her up and carried her inside, laid her on a divan. He did not ask about her grandfather. He could hear the detectives on the floor above. They had stopped racing through the house, jerking open doors. They were all gathered in one room and they weren't saying much.
Then Kennedy came down the stairs, with one of his men. "Malone," he called softly.
"Here," Rocks answered. Kennedy came in. His eyes were black agates in a mask of dough. He slipped his gun back into its holster and said to the man who followed him, "You stay here with the girl. Malone, will you come upstairs with me?"
Rocks nodded. The detective led the way upstairs.
McCumber lay on the floor. The skin of his face was a blotch of red. His clothing had fallen away into dust. He had been working at his desk. When death struck him he had fallen to the floor.
Kennedy took a sheet from the bed and placed it over the still form.
Penny, very pale but very resolute, came into the room.
"Are you strong enough to tell us what happened?" Kennedy asked gently.
"I came in to kiss him goodnight," she answered. "He was lying there on the floor. I started to run to the telephone—then I heard something." She shuddered. "It was—I didn't hear anything. You can't hear silence, I suppose. But I did hear it. My feet didn't make any sound on the floor. I know I screamed, but I couldn't ever hear the sound of my own voice. I ran to call the museum, then I ran outside to call for help."
"Did you see anything in the room?"