in the throat with the brass paper-knife that was always kept on the table here. The front door was ajar.
“The police found bloody fingerprints on the knife, the table, and the front door; but so far they have not found the man who left the prints, which is why I am employing your agency. The physician who came with the police placed the time of father’s death at between eleven o’clock and midnight.
“Later, on Monday, we learned that father had drawn $10,000 in hundred-dollar bills from the bank Saturday morning. No trace of the money has been found. My fingerprints, as well as the servants’, were compared with the ones found by the police, but there was no similarity. I think that is all.”
“Do you know of any enemies your father had?”
He shook his head.
“I know of none, though he may have had them. You see, I really didn’t know my father very well. He was a very reticent man and, until his retirement, about five years ago, he spent most of his time in South America, where most of his mining interests were. He may have had dozens of enemies, though Barton—who probably knew more about him than anyone—seems to know of no one who hated father enough to kill him.”
“How about relatives?”
“I was his heir and only child, if that is what you are getting at. So far as I know he had no other living relatives.”
“I’ll talk to the servants,” I said.
The maid and the cook could tell me nothing, and I learned very little more from Barton. He had been with Henry Grover since 1912, had