10:32 p.m. —Pictures in Dust
Lieutenant Valcour stared for a puzzled instant at the white face.
“What do you mean, Cassidy?” he said.
“Honest to God, Lieutenant, I mean just what I say.”
“But that’s impossible.”
Cassidy went even further. “It’s sacrilege,” he said.
“Nonsense,” Lieutenant Valcour said sharply. “You have simply misunderstood Dr. Worth. It is possible that Mr. Endicott was not dead at all but in some state of catalepsy. No one, Cassidy, can bring back the dead.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so, sir.”
“Then let us go in.”
“Must I go back in there, too?”
“You must. Forget the fact that you’re a superstitious Irishman, Cassidy, and remember that you’re a cop. Cops, as you’ve been told more times than one, should be noble, firm, and perpetually cool, calm, and collected.”
“Sure now, you’re kidding.”
“Tut, tut.”
“Well, and I’ll try, Lieutenant—but cripes!”