Kavalov was lying on his back. His throat had been cut, a curving cut that paralleled the line of his jaw between points an inch under his ear lobes.
Where his blood had soaked into the blue pillow case and blue sheet it was purple as grape-juice. It was thick and sticky, already clotting.
Ringgo came in wearing a bathrobe like a cape.
“It’s happened,” I growled, using the valet’s words.
Ringgo looked dully, miserably, at the bed and began cursing in a choked, muffled, voice.
The red-faced blonde woman—Louella Qually, the housekeeper—came in, screamed, pushed past us, and ran to the bed, still screaming. I caught her arm when she reached for the covers.
“Let things alone,” I said.
“Cover him up. Cover him up, the poor man!” she cried.
I took her away from the bed. Four or five servants were in the room by now. I gave the housekeeper to a couple of them, telling them to take her out and quiet her down. She went away laughing and crying.
Ringgo was still staring at the bed.
“Where’s Mrs. Ringgo?” I asked.
He didn’t hear me. I tapped his good arm and repeated the question.
“She’s in her room. She—she didn’t have to see it to know what had happened.”
“Hadn’t you better look after her?”