4: She Looked So Startled
BACK IN CENTRE STREET, Thatcher Colt called for reports.
Half a dozen detectives were waiting on call in the reception room of our suite; the octagonal-shaped waiting-hall with its stained-glass windows and white-spooled woodwork was a-buzz with discreet murmurings, the low chatter of operatives who had worked on the box of bones mystery and now waited to report personally to the Commissioner, if he called for them.
Assistant Chief Inspector Flynn, honest, loyal, a product of the old strong-arm school, was summoned first.
"What did you get on the box, Flynn?"
"Nothing we can do about the box. Too far gone."
"I was afraid of that. No chance of finding any bloodstains on the wood?"
"They all say no."
"Well, that ought to be good enough for me—I've never yet
