“I’ll stake my life the shot was from somewhere outside,” avouched Crofts.
“I’m sure it was,” said Belvoir quietly.
“The point I wish to make,” said Ludlow, “is that the revolver is outside. He’s put his hand right through.”
It was so. Concealed by the fact that the body pressed close to the window, the right arm half-way to the elbow had been thrust through the glass and the wrist was supported by one of the cross-bars between the small panes. The weapon was tightly clutched in the hand, and its nose pointed upward!
“What in the name of reason could he have fired at up there?”
It was when we laid the dead detective, stiff in the original posture, revolver clamped in hand, on the carpet spread over the Brocade de Lyons creation that we looked beyond that article of elegance and saw what had been concealed behind it.
Splashes of blood from Heatheringham’s wound were on the floor at our feet, between the body and the couch. Now we beheld more blood, a trail of it across the floor in drops that led in a long, irregular, parabolic curve from the couch to the open door by the clock-corner, and so out into the corridor. There the track ceased abruptly.
“Hm,” said Aire, standing at the spot. “Here’s where the assailant tucked his bludgeon away.” He looked up and down the gallery. “Friend Crofts, why not have another search and see if one of these priceless paintings doesn’t conceal a door?”
“There has never been, and is not any secret passage in the House,” said Crofts decisively. “You can say amen to that.”
Aire shrugged his shoulders. Lord Ludlow shook his head several times, though what at no one could tell. Belvoir stared at the last drop of blood where it stained the blue-carpeted floor as if he were fascinated by it. Bob Cullen pursed his lips and whistled a ditty of no tone. Crofts kept putting his hands in his pockets and taking them out again.