“Chief,” he said finally. “I didn’t slip—nor Wilkins or Smeed.”
“Someone did,” replied the big man, “and it wasn’t the Eye of Allah, either.”
The manager of the hotel was waiting to take them to the room. He unlocked the door with his pass key.
“Not a thing touched,” he assured the Secret Service men; “there he is, just the way we found him.”
In the doorway between the bedroom and bath a body was huddled. Doctor Brooks knelt quickly beside it. His hands worked swiftly for a moment, then he rose to his feet.
“Dead,” he announced.
“How long?” asked the Chief.
“Some time. Hours I should say—perhaps eight or ten.”
“Cause?” the query was brief.
“It will take an autopsy to determine that. There is no blood or wound to be seen.”