With a nod, Landis went to the telephone and put through the necessary call. Then he returned to the fire.
“It’s a real puzzler,” admitted Bernard slowly. “The murder is something entirely new to my experience—the sort of thing we ought to trace at once—if we knew where to start! What clues we have don’t point in any definite direction.”
“Such as which?”
“Joel and the Japanese bow; Allen’s walk; Anita’s lies about leaving her room; this handkerchief with Isabelle’s initials. What’s she doing now, by the way?”
“Playing bridge with Russell and Allen.”
“And her father dead in the next room! A rum family!”
“Why are those clues indefinite?” Landis persisted.
“Because no woman could have shot that arrow hard enough to go clean through a big man like Harrison. It isn’t likely one of his own daughters shot him, either.”
“What about the men?”
Bernard smiled.