As for the emotional jungle of warped and sunless growths through which Endicott, his wife, Marge Myles, and Hollander had all groped their illusion-drugged way to this unhappy end—that lay beyond the punishment or acquittal of earthbound law. The proper tribunal for that must be found seated within their separate souls. Lies—evasions—fetid depths …
But had she lied?
Had there truly been no one on the balcony, as Mrs. Endicott had said?
The shot had assuredly been fired from the direction of that window above the large mahogany chest.
Above?
Presentiments were banished before the lash of fact. The lid of that chest was not quite closed . And the object that was holding it open, for the space of perhaps a half of an inch, was the small black muzzle of a gun.
Lieutenant Valcour’s hand moved indolently toward the upper left pocket of his vest, in which there rested a flat, efficient little automatic of small calibre. He knew what had happened—that owing to his stillness for the last five minutes the murderer had thought the room was empty and was attempting to escape. His hand moved more quickly, but not quickly enough. The lid opened wider—eyes—a face—a little shock of alarm, of terror—all ever so much more quickly accomplished than told. The lid slammed up.
“Quit it, Lieutenant, and put your hands down flat on the top of that desk.”
“You’re Marge Myles, of course,” he said.
He flattened his hands on the desk’s mahogany surface and stared curiously at her sultry beauty as she sat on the rim of the open chest.