“Edenstein’s finished.” Crowley said.

Behind him in the corridor, Franke jostled for a better view, blocked as the doorframe was by his partner’s bulk. “What makes you say that?”

Crowley stepped aside, and Franke tumbled into the study. Edenstein was face-down on his desk, blood spilled like ink over his papers, with a small neat hole in the glass behind him.

“Do you think I’m wrong?” said Crowley. “Shall we take him to a hospital?”

Franke glared, then approached the desk. Removing a fountain pen from a tweed pocket, he poked at the man’s body. It was stiff. “Three to twelve hours since death,” he muttered. “Locked up, alone, unarmed, no pistol, and yet, if we believe the exit wound, self-inflicted.”

“How’s that?”

“The gun had to have been inside his mouth,” said Franke.