The Mystery Megapack

clues outside the house, the finding of the idol and the finger marks where its loser had made a hurried hunt for it.
    “Well, I’ll be—this trick is yours, Professor,” the young doctor agreed. “I’m still holding to the hypothesis of suicide, but we’ll impanel no jury tonight, or until I’ve had time to perform an autopsy on the body. Can I reach you by phone if I need you?”
    “Of course,” the Professor assured him.
    “All right. I’ll take the names and addresses of everyone present, and dismiss ’em, pending the inquest. Whether you’re right or wrong, Professor, you’ve given me more mental gymnastics this evening than I’ve had since I attended the University.” He held out his hand with a genial smile. “Good-night, sir.”
    * * * *
    “Lambert Nesbit speaking, Professor,” a cheerful voice announced at the telephone, shortly after noon the following day. “Pick up the marbles; you win.”
    “Eh, how’s that—” Professor Forrester began, but the coroner was bursting with information and refused to be interrupted.
    “I autopsied Milsted’s body this morning,” he continued, “and everything points to your theory of murder. In fact, it couldn’t have been suicide. When I removed the skull cap I found a bullet had passed through the frontal bone slightly to the left of the frontal suture, penetrating the left superior frontal lobe of the brain, piercing the proecentral fissure with a downward course, and traveling almost to the horizontal fissure of Sylvinus. Do you get me, or am I too technical?”
    “Not at all,” Forrester assured him. “Remember, Nesbit, I was studying comparative anatomy, putting in six hours a week in the dissecting room, when you were learning to spin a top and play marbles for keeps. Go on, what else did you find?”
    “Well, first off, I realized that it would have been impossible for a man to shoot himself in that manner unless he held the stock of the pistol above the level of his head—I experimented on myself by holding a gun with the muzzle touching my forehead where the wound in Milsted’s head was. He might have done it by bracing the barrel against his head and pulling the trigger with his thumb, but, as you demonstrated last night, Milsted was clutching the pistol with the rigidity of a cadaveric spasm, which must have occurred at the moment of death, and his forefinger was on the trigger. There wasn’t a Chinaman’s chance of his shifting his grip on the stock between the shot and the time death ensued, for he must have died instantly from that wound.”
    “My boy,” Forrester assured him, “I’m beginning to have hopes of you. It was hard to convince you last night, but I’ll admit you’re not one of those thick-headed zanies who persist in error just for the sake of making fools of themselves.”
    “Thanks,” the coroner replied dryly. “But you ain’t heard nothin’ yet. When I compared the bullet in Milsted’s brain with a cartridge from the magazine of his pistol, I found the lethal missile was a soft lead, conical bullet of about 20-20 caliber, while Milsted’s gun is a Lüger and shoots a .25 cupro-nickel-coated bullet. I was talkin’ with a lieutenant in the State Constabulary about it today, and he told me those guns have a muzzle velocity of about twelve hundred feet a second, and if Milsted had shot himself with his own gun the bullet would have gone clear through his head and probably through the wall behind him, as well.”
    “I could have told you that,” Forrester replied. “Have you any other information?”
    “Not right now; but there’s not much doubt Milsted was murdered. What sticks in my craw, though, is who did it, and why, and why the devil didn’t anyone hear a second shot? D’ye reckon both parties could have fired at once, so the two reports sounded like one?”
    “Um; that’s possible,” Forrester agreed, “but you’ll remember that five of the six witnesses to the tragedy fail to recall seeing anything resembling a man at the window when Milsted died, and they’d not have been apt to miss seeing a pistol flash. No, I don’t think—here, wait a minute! How long can you postpone the inquest?”
    “Well, there’s no limit prescribed by law, but the jury has to be sworn super visum corporis—on viewing the body, you know—and we can’t keep poor old Milsted above ground indefinitely, waiting to swear in the jury. Tell you what I’ll do, if you say. I’ll impanel a jury, swear