"Shouldn't we close his eyes?" asked a second voice.
Sanders knew that voice, too. It was the voice of young Gowans, Asman's assistant.
"It makes no difference," Asman replied. "The undertaker will take care of that when he comes."
"But," insisted Gowans, "rigor mortis might set in by that time."
"I don't think so. He's been here only two hours. The undertaker will arrive within an hour. There's plenty of time."
"Maybe, but Sanders had worked hard all day. When a man talks a jury out of burning a rat like Padullo, he uses up a lot of energy. And such enervation would bring on rigor mortis plenty fast."
"Well, let's have a look at him."
The two men approached.
Sanders lay dazed. He wasn't in a hospital. He was in the morgue. And these men thought he was dead! He, Sanders, dead? Impossible! He must show them that he was alive. Anything would do—the flutter of an eyelash, the twitching of his fingers—anything. In a panic he exerted all his will to make some small movement. He tried to form words with his lips, to double his fingers. But this was quite impossible—it was as if he had forgotten how to move.
He had a picture of himself lying there—naked, of course. So many times he had come here to look indifferently at the white bodies of the victims of the murderers he had been employed to defend. This thought, at the same time horrifying, was in one respect encouraging. Any movement that he might make would be noticed. He tried again. This time he would move his toes—certainly it would not be asking too much, just to wiggle his toes. Yet they did not move. Sanders struggled now, not to convince Asman and Gowans that he was alive, but to convince himself.
The two physicians were feeling of his body now. He could not feel their hands, but he could catch part of their movements as they came within the range of his eyes. Now Asman was chucking him under the chin.
"See how readily his mouth closes? Look at this."
And Sanders' gaze swept the ceiling and came to rest on a shrouded figure close by as his head was turned. He could catch a glimpse of another white object beyond. "Third from the left." That was he, Sanders. He pictured himself as he must be, lying there, one member of a row of corpses. One of the corpses? Sanders was now taking this for granted.
"I'll admit he's in pretty good shape right now, but you wait a few minutes. I've seen it happen too often. When a man's as mentally and physically exhausted as Sanders was when he was killed, rigor mortis is bound to come fast—and violently."
"But not that fast. The undertaker will be here in plenty of time. He should congratulate himself on this job. Very neat; no mess. Did you ever see a cleaner hole? Right through the heart. Sanders was dead before he hit the ground."
"Yes. He still looks surprized."
"Even so, his face is still intelligent. A wonderful brain there, strong, wilful."
"Yes," conceded Gowans, "but it doesn't mean a thing now. He'll never have another murderer acquitted. He's fooled his last jury."
Asman sighed.
"The Costello boy killed the only lawyer in town who could get him off. I understand he's hired Billy Williams to defend him. Well, Billy's a bright young fellow, but he's no Jason Sanders."
"I'm afraid not. You know, I'd kind of like to see the Costello kid get off. If
