"Maxwell Grant - The Shadow - 319 - Murder on Main Street" - читать интересную книгу автора (Grant Maxwell)

the opening in the trap.

But the dust ruled that out.

Scrutinizing the room more closely, the sheriff understood the dust. It was everywhere. This room had
been young Archer's. Only too clearly it had remained untouched since that time over a year ago when
the War Department had sent the telegram that had spelled the end of all the Archer's plans for their son.

Only such a reason would account for the condition of this room. To a housekeeper of Mrs. Archer's
reputation, dust in any other room would have been as bad as the scarlet letter in colonial history.

Bending over, the sheriff could see two sets of foot prints. One set were his own, the others must be
those of the doctor. The sheriff followed the doctor's prints. They led to the center of the room. Clearly,
the doctor had stood there and looked about him. Then he had walked to each of the two windows and
looked at them. That done, he had walked to the Japanese box and... the sheriff looked at the box. The
doctor must have seated himself on the box while he tried to puzzle things out. There was no dust on the
top of the box.

From the box a set of foot prints led back to the door.

The killer, thought the sheriff, had not even come into this room! His examination was futile.

He closed the door behind him and walked out of the rumpus room; that room, dedicated to pleasure,
which now was a funeral memorial.

He went through the other two rooms on the floor. Here was proof of Mrs. Archer's housecleaning
proclivities. Not a speck of dust, not an article out of place. The rooms were like displays in a
department store window.

All the windows were locked and bolted on the inside. The sheriff walked heavily, favoring his game leg,
down the flight of stairs that led to the ground floor.

His men were busily at work. The corpse was gone. The photographer was finished with his work.
Discarded flash bulbs lay in a heap near the chair where the body had been.

His fingerprint man was busily pulling the insuflater that spread white powder all over Mrs. Archer's
polished furniture. Doc Ender sat with his little black bag between his feet in a corner out of the way. His
face was set. His eyes were closed. He looked tired and old.

The sheriff settled down into a chair next to the doctor. The doctor forced his eyes open. He said,
"Well?"

"There has been no one in the room that has the trap door but you and me."

"That's what I thought." The doctor eyed the sheriff. "What now?"

"The outside of the house, I suppose..." The sheriff turned to one of his men. "Looked around?"

The man, a heavy red faced middle aged man, said, "Yop."