Winters had been found in his overturned chair, and the studio in his immediate vicinity was somewhat messy. His head had been almost torn from his body. Indeed, the coroner was quite puzzled.
"Strangled," he murmured gravely. "Um—handprints like those of a small ape. Or possibly those—of a child."
Manwell was extremely shocked.
"Yes," he explained. "I came out here to see the poor chap about a statue he intended to sell. Any idea how it happened?"
The coroner had no idea.
As he turned to leave, Manwell caught sight of the closet door at the back of the room. The lock was ripped away, and the door hung loose on its hinges. Manwell frowned, puzzled.
"Winters mentioned the closet," he murmured under his breath. On sudden impulse, Manwell looked around to see if he were being observed. Everyone's interest was focused upon what lay in the center of the room. Manwell went slowly to the closet door. He opened it. He drew a slow deep breath of awe.
"Superb," he breathed.
The Dawn Child stood on tiptoe, both arms stretching high, its face smiling in contentment. Manwell looked at it for a long minute. Quite suddenly he stiffened.
He glanced back toward where Winters lay.
He looked again at the statue.
Then, his face very white, and his hands shaking, he shut the closet door softly. His lips were a jagged thin line, as he strode slowly outside. He recalled again, the words of the coroner.
"Very tiny handprints. . . ."
He remembered Winters' frantic shrieking over the phone.
And on the soft pink of the statue's hands, he had seen a deeper, more ominous stain of red.
After an Air Raid
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They met on the top of a flower-strewn hill
Where the soft clear air was cool, was still.
They looked at each other with glad surprise
And a new sweet light was in their eyes.
They stretched out their hands and their fingers met;
They renounced the world without regret
For they knew, in that instant, they were one,
And a new existence had just begun.
So it did not matter, the two ghosts said,
That the world they'd left would call them dead.
