“On the other hand,” he digressed suddenly, “why should anybody shoot down the whole length of the room at Mr. Harrison? Why not slip in the door there and shoot him at his desk? He was sitting there just before he was killed.”
“How do you know that?”
“Miss Mount came in and spoke to him a few minutes before the gong sounded.”
“We-ell,” drawled Bernard, “a man at a desk and sideways on is no easy target for a fatal shot with an arrow. Perhaps Harrison knew the murderer by sight. If the first arrow merely wounded him—and there’d be no time for a second—he might turn his head and recognize his assailant—from the desk. On the other hand, if Harrison reached the far end of the room and had his back turned, the murderer had a better chance to slip out again unseen, supposing his shot failed to kill. Do you get the idea?”
“Since you’ve explained it, I do,” nodded Graham with a laugh.
Landis hung up the receiver and joined them.
“Sorry to keep you waiting so long, Doctor!” he said cheerfully. “Now, let’s have a look at the body.”
CHAPTER III
THE BROKEN ARROW
In the brightly lighted reception-room the local policeman had helped himself to a chair, a delicate, gilded affair that looked too small and spindling to support his generous bulk. Bolt upright, he maintained an uncomfortable but stolid watch over the body of the dead millionaire.