The Tragedy of Z Read Online Free PDF Page B

suicide?”
    â€œDead certain. Angles and directions of both wounds make the conclusion inevitable. There’s something else, though, that you’ll want to see. Damned interesting.”
    Dr. Bull pattered around the desk and stood over the still figure, like a lecturer over an objet d’art. Quite impersonally he raised the dead man’s right arm, which was already stiffening in rigor mortis. The skin was pallid, and the long hairs of the forearm were hideous in their glossy luxuriance. And then I forgot that this was a corpse.…
    For on the forearm were two peculiar marks. One of them was a sharp thin gash just above the wrist, from which blood had oozed. The other was four inches farther up the arm; a queer fuzzy ragged scratch which puzzled me.
    â€œNow,” said the medical examiner jovially, “this gash just above the wrist. No question but that it was made by the paper-knife. At least,” he added hastily, “by something as sharp as the letter-knife.”
    â€œAnd the other one?” demanded father, frowning.
    â€œYour guess is as good as mine. There’s only one thing I’ll say positively, and that is that the ragged scratch wasn’t made by the murder-weapon.”
    I moistened my lips; an idea was whispering. “Have you any way of fixing the time both wounds were made on the arm, Doctor?”
    They all turned sharply toward me. Hume checked a remark, and father grew thoughtful. The medical examiner smiled. “That’s a good question, young lady. Yes, I have. Both scratches were made very recently—in the general period of the murder—and I should say at the same approximate time.”
    The detective who had been experimenting with the bloody weapon straightened up with a look of disgust. “No fingerprints on the knife,” he announced. “Tough.”
    â€œWell,” said Dr. Bull pleasantly, “that’s the end of my job. You’ll want an autopsy, of course, although I’m sure I’ll find nothing to cast doubt on the dope I’ve already given you. One of you men, get the Public Welfare boys in here to cart the stiff away.”
    He closed his medical kit. Two men in uniform trooped in. One of them was masticating something vigorously, and other sniffled—his nose was damp and red. These details have always stood out in my mind; it would be impossible to forget the utter callousness of the proceedings. I turned away slightly.… The two men approached the desk, deposited a large basket-like contrivance with four handles on the floor, seized the dead man by the armpits, lifted him with loud grunts out of the chair, dumped him into the crate, shoved a wicker lid over him, stooped, and—the one still chewing his gum, the other still sniffling—carried their burden away.
    I found breathing less difficult, and sighed with relief; although it was some minutes before I could muster courage enough to approach the desk and the empty chair. It was at this time that I remarked with a little feeling of surprise the tall figure of Jeremy Clay in the hall, leaning by the side of a policeman against the door-jamb. He was watching me intently.
    â€œBy the way,” growled father, as the medical examiner picked up his bag and trotted to the door, “when was this bird killed?” There was disapproval in his eyes; I gathered that there was something slipshod in the conduct of this murder investigation, and that his city-trained, orderly soul rebelled at the complete indifference of Kenyon, who was wandering idly about the study, and Dr. Bull, who was whistling a joyous little tune.
    â€œOh! That’s right; I forgot. I can fix the time of death pretty exactly,” said Dr. Bull. “Ten-twenty tonight, I’d say. Ten-twenty. Yes. Not a minute more or less. Ten-twenty …” He smacked his lips, bobbed his head, and disappeared through the door.
    Father grunted and looked at his watch. It