“Alas! So it seems, Captain,” Vance sighed.
Pitts grinned and, stepping forward, held out his hand.
“Glad to meet you, sir. Heard the Sergeant speak of you often.”
“Mr. Vance is helping us unofficially with the Robin case, Captain,” explained Markham; “and since this man Sprigg was killed in the same neighborhood we thought we’d like to hear your preliminary report on the affair.” He took out a box of Corona Perfectos, and pushed it across the desk.
“You needn’t put the request that way, sir.” The Captain smiled, and selecting a cigar held it to his nose with a kind of voluptuous satisfaction. “The Inspector told me you had some ideas about this new case, and wanted to take it on. To tell you the truth, I’m glad to get rid of it.” He sat down leisurely, and lighted his cigar. “What would you like to know, sir?”
“Let us have the whole story,” said Markham.
Pitts settled himself comfortably.
“Well, I happened to be on hand when the case came through—a little after eight this morning—and I took a couple of the boys and beat it up-town. The local men were on the job, and an assistant Medical Examiner arrived the same time I did. . . .”
“Did you hear his report, Captain?” asked Vance.
“Sure. Sprigg was shot through the top of the head with a .32. No signs of a struggle—no bruises or anything. Nothing fancy. Just a straight shooting.”