Doremus glared passionately at the Sergeant.
“What does it look like? A black-hand bombing?” Then he became professional. “The weapon was in his hand. Powder marks on the temple. Hole the right size for the gun, and in the right place. Position of the body natural. Can’t see anything suspicious.—Why? Got any doubts?”
It was Markham who answered.
“To the contrary, doctor. Everything from our angle of the case points to suicide.”
“It’s suicide all right, then. I’ll check up a little further, though.—Here, Sergeant, give me a hand.”
When Heath had helped to lift Pardee’s body to the divan for a more detailed examination, we went to the drawing-room where we were joined shortly by Arnesson.
“What’s the verdict?” he asked, dropping into the nearest chair. “I suppose there’s no question that the chap committed the act himself.”
“Why should you raise the point, Mr. Arnesson?” Vance parried.
“No reason. An idle comment. Lots of queer things going on hereabouts.”
“Oh, obviously.” Vance blew a wreath of smoke upward. “No; the Medical Examiner seems to think there’s no doubt in the matter. Did Pardee, by the by, impress you as bent on self-destruction last night?”