“I mighta known it,” grumbled Heath. “It was a professional job, all right.” He turned to the other expert. “Found anything, Bellamy?”
“Nothing to help,” was the grumpy reply. “A few old smears with dust over ’em.”
“Looks like a washout,” Heath commented irritably; “though I’m hoping for something in the other room.”
At this moment Doctor Doremus came into the bedroom and, taking a sheet from the bed, returned to the davenport and covered the body of the murdered girl. Then he snapped shut his case, and putting on his hat at a rakish angle, stepped forward with the air of a man in great haste to be on his way.
“Simple case of strangulation from behind,” he said, his words running together. “Digital bruises about the front of the throat; thumb bruises in the sub-occipital region. Attack must have been unexpected. A quick, competent job though deceased evidently battled a little.”
“How do you suppose her dress became torn, doctor?” asked Vance.
“Oh, that? Can’t tell. She may have done it herself—instinctive motions of clutching for air.”
“Not likely though, what?”
“Why not? The dress was torn and the bouquet was ripped off, and the fellow who was choking her had both hands on her throat. Who else could’ve done it?”
Vance shrugged his shoulders, and began lighting a cigarette.