The Philo Vance Megapack. S.S. Van Dine

think I’ll be going,” Moran added. “They had me out of bed at seven thirty, and I haven’t had any breakfast yet. I won’t be needed anyway now that you’re here.… Good morning.” And again he shook hands.

      When he had gone, Markham turned to the assistant district attorney.

      “Look after these two gentlemen, will you, Dinwiddie? They’re babes in the wood and want to see how these affairs work. Explain things to them while I have a little confab with Sergeant Heath.”

      Dinwiddie accepted the assignment eagerly. I think he was glad of the opportunity to have someone to talk to by way of venting his pent-up excitement.

      As the three of us turned rather instinctively toward the body of the murdered man—he was, after all, the hub of this tragic drama—I heard Heath say in a sullen voice:

      “I suppose you’ll take charge now, Mr. Markham.”

      Dinwiddie and Vance were talking together, and I watched Markham with interest after what he had told us of the rivalry between the police department and the district attorney’s office.

      Markham looked at Heath with a slow, gracious smile and shook his head. “No, Sergeant,” he replied. “I’m here to work with you, and I want that relationship understood from the outset. In fact, I wouldn’t be here now if Major Benson hadn’t phoned me and asked me to lend a hand. And I particularly want my name kept out of it. It’s pretty generally known—and if it isn’t, it will be—that the major is an old friend of mine; so, it will be better all round if my connection with the case is kept quiet.”

      Heath murmured something I did not catch, but I could see that he had, in large measure, been placated. He, in common with all other men who were acquainted with Markham, knew his word was good; and he personally liked the district attorney.

      “If there’s any credit coming from this affair,” Markham went on, “the police department is to get it; therefore I think it best for you to see the report.… And, by the way,” he added good-naturedly, “if there’s any blame coming, you fellows will have to bear that, too.”

      “Fair enough,” assented Heath.

      “And now, Sergeant, let’s get to work,” said Markham.

      CHAPTER 3

      A LADY’S HANDBAG

      (Friday, June 14; 9:30 A.M.)

      The district attorney and Heath walked up to the body and stood regarding it.

      “You see,” Heath explained; “he was shot directly from the front. A pretty powerful shot, too, for the bullet passed through the head and struck the woodwork over there by the window.” He pointed to a place on the wainscot a short distance from the floor near the drapery of the window nearest the hallway. “We found the expelled shell, and Captain Hagedorn’s got the bullet.”

      He turned to the firearms expert. “How about it, Captain? Anything special?”

      Hagedorn raised his head slowly and gave Heath a myopic frown. Then, after a few awkward movements, he answered with unhurried precision. “A .45 army bullet—Colt automatic.”

      “Any idea how close to Benson the gun was held?” asked Markham.

      “Yes, sir, I have,” Hagedorn replied, in his ponderous monotone. “Between five and six feet—probably.”

      Heath snorted. “‘Probably,’” he repeated to Markham with good-natured contempt. “You can bank on it if the captain says so.… You see, sir, nothing smaller than a .44 or .45 will stop a man, and these steel-capped army bullets go through a human skull like it was cheese. But in order to carry straight to the woodwork the gun had to be held pretty close; and, as there aren’t any powder marks on the face, it’s a safe bet to take the captain’s figures as to distance.”

      At this point we heard the front door open and close, and Dr. Doremus, the chief medical examiner, accompanied by his assistant, bustled in. He shook hands with Markham and Inspector O’Brien, and gave Heath a friendly salutation.

      “Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner,” he apologized.

      He was a nervous man with a heavily seamed face and the manner of a real estate salesman.

      “What have we got here?” he asked, in the same breath, making a wry face at the body in the chair.

      “You tell us, Doc,” retorted Heath.

      Dr. Doremus approached the murdered man with a callous indifference indicative of a long process of hardening. He first inspected the face closely. He was, I imagine, looking for powder marks. Then he glanced at the bullet hole in the forehead and at the ragged wound in the back of the head. Next he moved the dead man’s arm, bent the fingers, and pushed the head a little to the side. Having satisfied himself as to the state of rigor mortis, he turned to Heath.

      “Can we get him on the settee there?”

      Heath looked at Markham inquiringly. “All through, sir?”

      Markham nodded, and Heath beckoned to the two men at the front windows and ordered the body placed on the davenport. It retained its sitting posture, due to the hardening of the muscles after death, until the doctor and his assistant straightened out the limbs. The body was then undressed, and Dr. Doremus examined it carefully for other wounds. He paid particular attention to the arms; and he opened both hands wide and scrutinized the palms. At length he straightened up and wiped his hands on a large colored silk handkerchief.

      “Shot through the left frontal,” he announced. “Direct angle of fire. Bullet passed completely through the skull. Exit wound in the left occipital region—base of skull. You found the bullet, didn’t you? He was awake when shot, and death was immediate—probably never knew what hit him.… He’s been dead about—well, I should judge, eight hours, maybe longer.”

      “How about twelve thirty for the exact time?” asked Heath.

      The doctor looked at his watch.

      “Fits O.K.… Anything else?”

      No one answered, and after a slight pause the chief inspector spoke. “We’d like a postmortem report today, Doctor.”

      “That’ll be all right,” Dr. Doremus answered, snapping shut his medical case and handing it to his assistant. “But get the body to the mortuary as soon as you can.”

      After a brief handshaking ceremony, he went out hurriedly.

      Heath turned to the detective who had been standing by the table when we entered. “Burke, you phone headquarters to call for the body, and tell ’em to get a move on. Then go back to the office and wait for me.”

      Burke saluted and disappeared.

      Heath then addressed one of the two men who had been inspecting the grilles of the front windows. “How about that ironwork, Snitkin?”

      “No chance, Sergeant,” was the answer. “Strong as a jail—both of ’em. Nobody never got in through those windows.”

      “Very good,” Heath told him. “Now you two fellows chase along with Burke.”

      When they had gone, the dapper man in the blue serge suit and derby, whose sphere of activity had seemed to be the fireplace, laid two cigarette butts on the table.

      “I found these under the gas logs, Sergeant,” he explained unenthusiastically. “Not much, but there’s nothing else laying around.”

      “All right, Emery.” Heath gave the butts a disgruntled look. “You needn’t wait, either. I’ll see you at the office later.”

      Hagedorn came ponderously forward. “I guess I’ll be getting along, too,” he rumbled. “But I’m going to keep this bullet awhile. It’s got some peculiar rifling marks on it. You don’t want it specially, do you, Sergeant?”

      Heath smiled tolerantly. “What’ll I do with it, Captain? You keep it.