“Not the foreigner then,” Robinson mused, “not yourself, Blackburn, but a woman, a devoted woman. That’s something to get after.”
“And if she lies, the impression of the heel will give her away,” the coroner suggested.
Robinson grinned.
“You’d make a rotten detective, Coroner. Women’s heels are cut to a pattern. There are thousands of shoes whose heels would fit this impression. We need the sole for identification, and that she hasn’t left us. But she’s done one favor. She’s advertised herself as a woman, and there are just three women in the house. One of those committed this serious offense, and the inference is obvious.”
Before Bobby could protest, the doctor broke in with his throaty rumble: “One of those, or the woman who cried about the house.”
Bobby started. The memory of that
