MURDER
He appeared impetuously in the doorway, then stopped dead, his face very white. A hand put him aside, and Hector Blunt came past him into the room.
“My God!” said Raymond from behind him; “it’s true, then.”
Blunt came straight on till he reached the chair. He bent over the body, and I thought that, like Parker, he was going to lay hold of the dagger hilt. I drew him back with one hand.
“Nothing must be moved,” I explained. “The police must see him exactly as he is now.”
Blunt nodded in instant comprehension. His face was expressionless as ever, but I thought I detected signs of emotion beneath the stolid mask. Geoffrey Raymond had joined us now, and stood peering over Blunt’s shoulder at the body.
“This is terrible,” he said in a low voice.
He had regained his composure, but as he took off the pince-nez he habitually wore and polished them I observed that his hand was shaking.
“Robbery, I suppose,” he said. “How did the fellow get in? Through the window? Has anything been taken?”
He went towards the desk.
“You think it’s burglary?”’ I said slowly.
“What else could it be? There’s no question of suicide, I suppose?”
“No man could stab himself in such a way,” I said confidently, “It’s murder right enough. But with what motive?”
[53]
