The body of Robin lay almost directly outside of the archery-room door. It was on its back, the arms extended, the legs slightly drawn up, the head pointing toward the 76th-Street end of the range. Robin had been a man of perhaps thirty-five, of medium height, and with an incipient corpulency. There was a rotund puffiness to his face, which was smooth-shaven except for a narrow blond moustache. He was clothed in a two-piece sport suit of light gray flannel, a pale-blue silk shirt, and tan Oxfords with thick rubber soles. His hat—a pearl-colored felt fedora—was lying near his feet.
Beside the body was a large pool of coagulated blood which had formed in the shape of a huge pointing hand. But the thing which held us all in a spell of fascinated horror was the slender shaft that extended vertically from the left side of the dead man’s breast. The arrow protruded perhaps twenty inches, and where it had entered the body there was the large dark stain of the hemorrhage. What made this strange murder seem even more incongruous were the beautifully fletched feathers on the arrow. They had been dyed a bright red; and about the shaftment were two stripes of turquoise blue—giving the arrow a gala appearance. I had a feeling of unreality about the tragedy, as though I were witnessing a scene in a sylvan play for children.
Vance stood looking down at the body with half-closed eyes, his hands in his coat pockets. Despite the apparent indolence of his attitude I could tell that he was keenly alert, and that his mind was busy co-ordinating the factors of the scene before him.
“Dashed queer, that arrow,” he commented. “Designed for big game; . . . undoubtedly belongs to that ethnological exhibit we just saw. And a clean hit—directly into the vital spot, between the ribs and without the slightest deflection. Extr’ordin’ry! . . . I say, Markham; such marksmanship isn’t human. A chance shot might have done it; but the slayer of this johnny wasn’t leaving anything to chance. That powerful hunting arrow, which was obviously wrenched from the panel inside, shows premeditation and design——” Suddenly he bent over the body. “Ah! Very interestin’. The nock of the arrow is broken down,—I doubt if it would even hold a taut string.” He turned to Heath. “Tell me, Sergeant: where did Professor Dillard find the bow?—not far from that club-room window, what?”
Heath gave a start.
“Right outside the window, in fact, Mr. Vance. It’s in on the piano now, waiting for the finger-print men.”
“The professor’s sign-manual is all they’ll find, I’m afraid.” Vance opened his case and selected another cigarette. “And I’m rather inclined to believe that the arrow itself is innocent of prints.”
Heath was scrutinizing Vance inquisitively.
“What made you think the bow was found near the window, Mr. Vance?” he asked.
“It seemed the logical place for it, in view of the position of Mr. Robin’s body, don’t y’ know.”