The two had been used to work together, and Sinclair knew exactly when to leave matters to Collins and when to take charge himself.
As was usual in these cases, Collins thought aloud, and the other checked his statements.
He approached the dead man, moving still on the rugs.
“Clean bullet wound—no burning—fired from a distance—probably while he slept—entered right temple—bullet lodged in the brain—all straight forward—both hands limp, and peaceful expression—ergo unexpected attack and no resistance—now, let’s see—eyes shut—confirms first impression. Anything else about the body?”
Sinclair looked at it critically.
“No;” he said, “but from the way he lies the shot must have come from the doorway, or somewhere near that.”
“We are coming to that in a minute,” said the other.
“Now let’s have a look round. Observation only, no speculation. Table, with two glasses.” He took one up and then the other.
“Just whisky and soda. There’s the decanter and there’s the syphon.”
“Nothing very mysterious about that. But who was the visitor?... Cigar ash, I cannot tell five hundred kinds of ash,” said he with a smile, “still, they both smoked.”