‘He had a big party last night,’ said Graves, the valet.
‘Certainly looks like it,’ retorted Professor Fordney, as he surveyed the crazily balanced glasses, overflowing ash-trays, and liquor rings on the small, fragile antique table at which Carlton Dawes sat.
‘It was awful, sir. Just as I turned to say “good night” to him, he lifted his revolver, fired and toppled over.’
‘Funny,’ mused Fordney. ‘He had everything to live for.’
‘Everything but the thing he wanted,’ replied the valet. ‘Madeline, his former wife, was here last night. He is always despondent after seeing her.’
‘Well, Graves, pretty nice for you, eh? How much did he leave you?’
‘Ten thousand dollars, sir.’
Fordney leaned over to examine the wound in Dawes’s left temple. His head rested on the edge of the table, his right hand on his knee and his left hung lifelessly at his side.
‘Anything been touched since the tragedy?’
‘No, sir.’
Fordney picked up Dawes’s revolver where it had apparently fallen from his hand. After examining it and finding only the dead man’s finger-prints, he laid it on the table. As he did so, Madeline entered the room. She stopped, horrified.
‘What—what—has happened?’
‘Where did you come from?’ demanded Fordney.
‘I’ve been upstairs. I didn’t leave with the guests.’
‘Humph—you should have,’ as he shot her a quizzical look. ‘Your presence may prove embarrassing. Your ex-husband was murdered.’
