RANSVES

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storage room. Another door, with a small grill at eye level, led out of the room. A sign on the door said, 'Boilers-Keep Out.' "There's no way out that way," said Buchanan, nodding at the door. "Gantsby was up here first and he marked the position." He pointed at the red chalk outline on the floor. "It was lying face down. Only one stab wound."

Hamilton stroked his chin thoughtfully. "Time?” he asked.

"Two thirty in the morning," said the other. "Winter apparently does a check of the camp with his dog in case there are intruders in. It was the dog's whining, he says, that brought him in."

—―

"How much strength does it take to drive a knife clear into someone's heart?" Hamilton was still pensive, hardly glancing at the marks on the floor.

Buchanan shrugged. "A lot, I guess," he said.

"Yeah," said Hamilton. He was still holding the passageway door slightly open. "What's out that way?" he asked, pointing to the door at the end of the passage.

"A courtyard, garbage pickup, deliveries, wide open to the rest of the camp," grunted Buchanan, still staring at the floor and the dark stain that had interrupted the left side of the chalk outline.

"Did the Medical Examiner give the time of death?" queried Hamilton.

"Two o'clock, Thursday morning," said Buchanan promptly.

"Witnesses?"

Buchanan shook his head, and consulted again with his book for a few moments. "Last show was just over at one o'clock. Draper got off quickly and changed into street clothes." He looked up at Bud Hamilton. "That means ordinary women's clothes." He was having a hard time being matter-of-fact. "The other Conway Sisters thought he had a date, 'cause he left so fast. He was still wearing stage makeup when he was killed."

Bud nodded. "And Mrs. Ewell?" he asked.

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