They were silent for some time. Bill had relaxed somewhat, and Jim was filling his pipe.

“You were present at the autopsy, Bill,” he said. “What about those marks on the body?”

“One or two old bruises on his back. A bruise on his forehead where he was probably stunned. But there was one odd thing: the scar on his chest.”

Jim looked up. “What about it?”

“He always claimed to have been struck by a piece of shrapnel during the war. You’ve probably seen it, Jim. He used to bathe in the club pool. I don’t happen to think it was shrapnel, that’s all. It looks to me—and the coroner says so too—as if it was only skin-deep.”

“And what would that mean?”

For almost the first time that day Bill Sterling smiled.

“You never knew Don well, did you? You were pretty young when he left. Well, he was a great one for women. Rather more than that; and this looks as if he’d had a girl’s name tattooed across his chest at some time or other. Then it became embarrassing, so he had it cut out.”

“Must have been a kid when it was done. It’s a kid trick.”

“Probably. There’s a long vertical cut, and a transverse one from it, as if the first letter of the name had a loop to it below the line. It might have been a J. Not many letters have a loop, especially in script.” He hesitated. “There’s something else too, Jim. Those bruises on his back. How do you think he got them? I’ve asked Lydia. She doesn’t know about them. She says he hasn’t fallen since he came home. He spent most of his time in bed or in a chair.”

“What do you think?”

“I was wondering if he was the man Pat fell on, the night she dropped down the elevator shaft.”

“Good Godamighty,” said Jim, exasperated. “First he hits Evans and steals his pants and keys as well as his gun. Then he stands in the bottom of an elevator shaft and lets Pat Abbott fall on him. I didn’t know much about Morgan, but what the hell would he be doing in the Cloisters? So far as I know he was never there in his life.”

He got up. He was tired mentally and physically and showed it. “All right, Bill,” he said. “Better go and make your calls. That’s all for today.”

“You’re not holding me?”

“What on?” said Jim Conway, ungrammatically. “Maybe the district attorney will see something I don’t. He’s off somewhere for a weekend. Just now all I’ve got on you is that you didn’t like Don Morgan and you haven’t got an alibi. The key is out. There were two of them, and I don’t think you’re fool enough to hand that ring to me if you’re guilty; or smart enough, if it comes to that.” He smiled wryly. “I suppose I’m a hell of a police chief, but what I want just now is my dinner.”