“Was he lying on his back when found?”
“That’s right. Stretched out nice and pretty, right in the middle of the walk.”
“And wasn’t his skull fractured where he’d fallen on the asphalt?” The question was put negligently.
Pitts took his cigar from his mouth and gave Vance a sly look.
“I guess maybe you fellows over here do know something about this case.” He nodded his head sagaciously. “Yes, the back of the guy’s skull was all bashed in. He sure had a tough fall. But I guess he didn’t feel it—not with that bullet in his brain. . . .”
“Speaking of the shot, Captain, didn’t anything about it strike you as peculiar?”
“Well . . . yes,” Pitts admitted, rolling his cigar meditatively between his thumb and forefinger. “The top of a guy’s head isn’t where I’d ordinarily look for a bullet-hole. And his hat wasn’t touched,—it must have fallen off before he was potted. You might call those facts peculiar, Mr. Vance.”
“Yes, Captain, they’re dashed peculiar. . . . And I take it the pistol was held at close range.”
“Not more’n a couple of inches away. The hair was singed round the hole.” He made a broad gesture of inconsequence. “Still and all, the guy might have seen the other fellow draw the gun, and ducked forward, spilling his hat. That would account for his getting the shot at close range in the top of the head.”
“Quite, quite. Except that, in that case, he wouldn’t have fallen over back, but would have pitched forward on his face. . . . But go on with the story, Captain.”