For a moment Jimmie Dale stood rigid and without movement, save that as
his eyes swept around the apartment his face grew hard and set, his lips
drooping in sharp, grim lines at the corners of his mouth.
"My God!" Jimmie Dale whispered.
There was a faint, almost imperceptible odour in the room, like the
smell of peach blossom--he noticed it now for the first time, as his
eyes fastened on a small, empty bottle that lay on the floor a few feet
away from the dead man's outstretched arm. Jimmie Dale stepped forward
abruptly now, and knelt down beside the man for a hurried; examination.
It was unnecessary--he knew that even before he performed the act.
Yes--the man was dead He reached out and picked up the bottle. The odour
was tell-tale evidence enough. The bottle had contained prussic, or
hydrocyanic acid, probably the moist deadly poison in existence, and the
swiftest in its action. He replaced the bottle on the spot where he had
found it, and stood up.
Again, Jimmie Dale's eyes swept his surroundings. The room in which he
stood was a sort of living room or den. There was a desk over by the far
wall, a couch near the door, and several comfortable lounging chairs.
Pages:
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306