the edges of the puncture I reasoned that the weapon had been forced deep into the tissues.
"Ritual, pardieu!" he murmured. "It is obvious. Of course, but"
"What's obvious?"
"That they hanged her on the door as part of some vile ceremony. She was dead before they touched a hammer to a spike. That drop of blood upon her tongue explains the manner of her death. They drove the lethal instrument clear through her spine, so deeply that it penetrated to her throat. She died instantly and silently; probably painlessly, as well. That accounts for the watchman's having heard no outcry, and also for the small amount of blood she shed when they pierced her hands and feet with nails."
"But why?" I asked. "If they'd already killed her, why should they hang her body up like this?"
"That is a question we must answer, but I fear we shall not answer it tonight," he replied as he stepped down from the chair. "Now, if"
A blustering bellow drowned his observation as Mike Caldes, flanked by two policemen, bustled through the vestibule.
"What's this?—what's all this?" he shouted. "Someone's broken in my place? Where's that dam' lazy watchman? I'll fire 'um! Sleepin' on th' job an' lettin'" Striding forward wrathfully and glowering about him, he was almost face to face with the girl's body before he saw it.
The change that swept across his fat and swarthy countenance would have been comic if it had not been so terrible. Perspiration spouted on his forehead, trickling down until it formed in little pools above his bushy brows. His jowls hung heavily, like the dewlaps of a hound, and his black eyes widened suddenly and shone with an unnatural brightness, as though they were reacting to a drug. His lips began to twist convulsively and his hands twitched in a perfect paroxysm of abysmal terror. For half a minute he stared mutely at the body; then a dreadful, choking cry retched from him.
"Santissima Maria!" he sobbed, bending an arm across his eyes to shut the vision out. "Not that—not here—they can't do this in my place! No—no—no!"
De Grandin bent a fixed, unwinking stare on him. "Be good enough to tell us more, Monsieur," he ordered. "Who is it that did this thing which could not be accomplished in your place? You were forewarned of this?"
"No!" Caldes gasped. "Not me! I didn't know—I didn't think"
The Frenchman nodded to Costello. "Take him to the office, sergent," he commanded. "We can talk with more convenience there."
Turning to an officer he bade: "Have them take her down with gentleness, my friend. Do not let them tear her hands and feet unnecessarily when they withdraw the nails.
"And now, Monsieur, we shall be grateful for such information as you have," he said to Caldes as we joined Costello in the office. "You may speak with freedom, but you must be truthful, too, for we are most unpleasant fellows to attempt the monkey business with."
Caldes' hands shook so that he had to make a number of attempts before he managed to set fire to his cigar. Finally, when he had drawn a deep whiff of pungent smoke into his lungs: "Read this," he ordered, drawing a sheet of paper from his pocket and thrusting it into de Grandin's hand.
"Hace abierto la ventana de su oficina mañana por la noche—leave your office window open tomorrow night,": the missive ordered. It was without signature,
