Prouty stared dreamily down at the body, plunging his hands into his pockets. “One bullet,” he continued, “entered the body directly in the center of the cardiac region. Nice jagged pericardial wound, Inspector. Smashed the sternum bone, pierced the pericardial septum, which is the membrane separating the pericardium from the main body cavity, then took the logical course through — first the fibrous layer of the pericardium, then the serous inner layer, and finally the anterior tip of the heart, where the great vessels are. Spilled quite a bit of the yellow pericardial fluid, too. Bullet entered the body at an angle and it’s left a fearful wound...”
“Then death was instantaneous?” asked Ellery. “The second bullet was unnecessary?”
“Quite,” said Prouty dryly. “Death would be instantaneous from either wound. As a matter of fact, the second bullet — maybe it’s not the second, though, I can’t tell of course which hit her first — bullet number two made a better job of it than even bullet number one. Because it penetrated the precordia, which is the region a little below the heart and above the abdomen. This is also a ragged wound, and since the precordial sector takes in muscles and blood-vessels of major importance, it’s as vital a spot as the heart itself...” Prouty stopped suddenly. His eyes strayed almost with irritation to the dead woman on the floor.
“Was the revolver fired close to the body?” put in the Inspector.
“No powder stains, Inspector,” said Prouty, still regarding the corpse with a frown.
“Were both bullets fired from the same spot?” asked Ellery.
“Hard to say. The lateral angles are similar, indicating that whoever fired both bullets stood to the right of the woman. But the downward course of the bullets disturbs me. They’re too much alike.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Ellery, leaning forward.
“Well,” growled Prouty, biting on his cigar, “if the woman were in exactly the same position when both shots were fired — assuming that both shots were fired almost simultaneously, of course — there should be a greater downward angle to the precordial wound than to the pericardial. Because the precordia is located below the heart, and the gun would have to be aimed lower... Well, perhaps I shouldn’t say these things at all. There are any number of explanations, I suppose, for that difference in angle. Ought to have Ken Knowles look over the bullets and the wounds, though.”
“He’ll get his chance,” said the Inspector with a sigh. “Is that all, Doc?”
Ellery looked up from another scrutiny of the two bullets. “How long has she been dead?”
Prouty replied promptly: “About twelve hours, I should say. I’ll be able to fix the time of death more accurately after the autopsy. But she certainly died no earlier than midnight and probably no later than two in the morning.”
“Through now?” asked Inspector Queen patiently.
“Yes. But there’s one thing that has me a little...” Prouty set his jaw. “There’s something queer here, Inspector. From what I know of precordial wounds I can’t believe that this one should have bled so little. You’ve noticed, I suppose, that the clothing above both wounds is stiff with coagulated blood, but not so much of it as you might expect. At least as a medical man might expect.”
“Why?”
“I’ve seen plenty of precordial wounds,” said Prouty calmly, “and they’re messy, Inspector. Bleed like hell. In fact, especially in this case, where the hole is blasted pretty large, due to the angle, there should be pools and pools of it. The pericardial would bleed freely, but not profusely. But the other — I say, there’s something queer here, and I thought I’d call it to your attention.”
Ellery shot his father a warning glance as the old man opened his mouth to reply. The Inspector clamped his lips together and dismissed Prouty with a nod. Ellery returned the two bullets to Prouty, who put them carefully into his bag.
The police doctor unhurriedly covered the body with a sheet from the hanging bed and departed, his last words a promise to hurry the morgue wagon.
“Is the store physician here?” Queen asked.
The small dark doctor stepped uncertainly forward from a corner. His teeth gleamed as he said, “Yes, sir?”
“Have you anything to add to Dr. Prouty’s analysis, Doctor?” questioned Queen, with disarming gentleness.
“Not a thing, not a thing, sir,” said the store physician, looking uneasily at Prouty’s retreating figure. “A precise if somewhat sketchy diagnosis. The bullets entered—”
“Thank you, Doctor.” Inspector Queen turned his back on the little physician and beckoned imperiously to the store detective.
“Crouther,” he asked in a low tone, “who’s your head nightwatchman?”
“O’Flaherty — Peter O’Flaherty, Inspector.”
“How many watchmen are on duty here at night?”
“Four. O’Flaherty tends the night-door on the 39th Street side, Ralska and Powers do the rounds, and Bloom is on duty at the 39th Street night freight-entrance.”
“Thanks.” The Inspector turned to Detective Ritter. “Get hold of this man MacKenzie, the store manager, find the home address of O’Flaherty, Ralska, Powers and Bloom, and get ’em down here as fast as a cab will carry them. Scoot!” Ritter lumbered away.
Ellery suddenly straightened, adjusted his pince-nez more firmly on his nose, and strode over to his father. They held a whispered colloquy for a moment, whereupon Ellery quietly retreated to his vantage-point near the bed and the Inspector crooked his finger at Westley Weaver.
“Mr. Weaver,” he asked, “I take it that you are Mr. French’s confidential secretary?”
“Yes, sir,” responded Weaver warily.
The Inspector glanced sidewise at Cyrus French, huddled exhausted in the chair. John Gray’s small white hand was solicitously patting French’s arm. “I’d rather not bother Mr. French at this time with questions. — You were with him all morning?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. French was not aware of Mrs. French’s presence in the store?”
“No, sir!” The response was immediate and sharp. Weaver regarded Queen with suspicious eyes.
“Were you?”
“I? No, sir!”
“Hmmm!” The Inspector’s chin sank on his chest, and he communed with himself for an instant. Suddenly his finger shot toward the group of directors on the other side of the room. “How about you gentlemen? Any of you know that Mrs. French was here — this morning or last night?”
There was a chorus of horrified noes. Cornelius Zorn’s face grew red. He began to protest angrily.
“Please!” The Inspector’s tone flung them back to silence. “Mr. Weaver. How is it that all these gentlemen are present in the store this morning? They’re not here every day, are they?”
Weaver’s frank face lightened, as if from relief. “All of our directors are active in the management of the store, Inspector. They’re here every day, if only for an hour or so. As for this morning, there was a directors’ meeting in Mr. French’s private apartment upstairs.”
“Eh?” Queen seemed pleased as well as startled. “A private apartment upstairs, you say? On what floor?”
“The sixth — that’s the top floor of the store.”
Ellery stirred into life. Again he crossed the floor, again he whispered to his father, and again the old man nodded.
“Mr. Weaver,” continued the Inspector, a note of eagerness in his voice, “how long were you and the Board in Mr. French’s private apartment this morning?”