“A curious weapon,” he said slowly, “but a most effective one, Dave. It is a scalpel.”
“Yes, one manufactured by Meinicke.” McLane lowered his hand. “Where do you suppose John Meredith obtained a surgical knife?”
Curtis’ face was alight with interest. “A surgical knife,” he muttered. “Strange!” He paused, then spoke more quickly. “However, the fingerprints will tell us—”
“Of murder,” broke in Mitchell’s harsh voice behind them and they wheeled about. “Miss Meredith,” his eyes never left the young girl’s face, “you have led us to the weapon and thereby proved conclusively that your uncle did not commit suicide. It is a case of cold-blooded murder.”
“Explain your meaning,” directed Curtis, before either of his startled companions could speak.
Mitchell stepped back a few paces. “Look up there,” he pointed, as he spoke, to the next floor where Detective Sergeant Brown stood leaning over the railing gazing down at them. “The sergeant is standing exactly where John Meredith’s dead body was found by Doctor Curtis. Now,” he spoke with significant impressiveness, “if John Meredith carried that surgical knife, as you cleverly suggested, Miss Meredith, and it dropped out of his hand and fell between the posts of the banisters it would have alighted in that box of ferns,” indicating one further down the hall. “By no freak of chance or possibility could it have fallen from there into the box where I found it.”
Anne gazed dazedly at the Inspector. “I don’t understand,” she faltered. “You found the knife—”
“In the wrong place to establish your theory—of suicide.” Mitchell’s covert smile was ominous, and Anne shivered involuntarily.
“One moment.” Curtis changed his cane from one hand to the other, and stepped closer to the Inspector. “Mitchell, suppose you have the sergeant drop a penknife or ordinary knife through the banisters.”
Mitchell looked at him keenly. “You mean—?”
“To reenact the scene of Sunday night, or rather Monday morning,” replied Curtis. “Tell the sergeant to stagger and fall. As he does so we will see if the knife flies out of his hand, and through the banisters, and thus know,” his voice deepened, “exactly where it falls.”
“A capital idea!” declared McLane. “Go to it, Mitchell. I’ll stay here and you watch the proceedings from above. Wait, though,” as Mitchell started for the staircase. “To make the test as complete as possible I’ll give you a scalpel from my surgical bag. It’s here with my hat. First, however, take this,” and he handed the handkerchief and the discolored scalpel, which Mitchell had found concealed among the ferns, back to the Inspector.