Wu looked him over again. “Who'd you say this guy's supposed to be?'
'I'm Gideon Oliver, Dr. Wu. I'm a physical anthropologist.'
'He's the Skeleton Detective,” John offered helpfully. Gideon managed not to wince.
'Never heard of him,” Wu said, “but it so happens he's right. The left superior cornu. Maybe the inferior too. And the third thing is, the rope's not right. Neither is the burlap on top of the partition.'
'What do you mean, not right?” John asked.
'The fraying runs the wrong way. Say a guy wants to hang himself. He ties a rope to a hook on a partition, okay? He runs it over the top of the partition, then ties it around his neck, stands on an overnight case, and kicks the case out from under him. He drops a few inches and
'Yeah,” John said peevishly, “I think so. The scraping on the rope is gonna be in the direction of the knot around the hook. And the burlap on the partition is gonna get scraped in the opposite direction when the rope pulls over it.'
'Give this guy a banana,” Wu said. “Well, in there, the fibers show signs of friction, all right, but in the wrong direction—which has got to mean someone tied the rope around his neck and
'Any idea where the rope came from?” John asked after a moment.
'Not a rope. Two thick bootlaces doubled and tied together. Looks like they came from a pair of hiking boots in the closet.'
'What about time of death?'
'Well, rigor's just beginning to recede; small muscles are starting to unstiffen. So I'd say, oh, maybe—'
'Six to ten last night?'
'Right. How'd you know that?'
'Doc here looked at the body.'
Wu glared at Gideon. “Skeleton Detective,” he muttered. “Jesus Christ.'
Gideon shrugged apologetically.
'I figure it'd be closer to ten than six,” John said.
'You do, huh?” Wu said, unimpressed. “Why's that?'
'The false teeth. They were already in the glass for the night.'
Wu's eyes rolled up. “Do you believe this?” he asked the ceiling. He finished the coffee, followed it with a final unappreciative grimace, and set the cup on a corner of a table which held a cautionary display of ruined cans, pots, and other food containers that had been savaged by bears. “I need to find someplace quiet and write up my report. The lab boys should be finished up with their tweezers inside of half an hour.” He opened the door and stepped out onto the porch. “You got a problem with our taking the stiff out with us, then? You get a full report in three days.'
'No problem,” John said. “Well, I think I'll go on up to Tremaine's room and see how they're doing.'
Wu looked disapprovingly up at him. “Try not to bother them, will you?” He rammed the door closed and headed decisively up the hill toward the lodge.
John looked at Gideon. “Friendly little guy, isn't he?'
Gideon smiled. “A little testy, but he seems to know what he's doing. I guess we really do have ourselves a murder here.'
'I guess we do. You want to come up with me and see what's happening?'
'No, thanks,” Gideon said. Not if Tremaine's unstiffening body was still there, he didn't.
'Okay. What do they do for lunch here?'
'They put out a buffet in the dining room from twelve to one-thirty.'
'I want to get in a couple of interviews before then. How about meeting me there at one?'
'You're on,” Gideon said.
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Chapter 12
* * * *
For fifteen minutes, comfortably occupying the largest armchair in the upstairs lounge, Walter Judd had snuffled, chortled, and suspender-snapped his way through John's questions. No, he hadn't seen Audley after the cocktail hour last night. Yes, he himself had gone directly to his room after dinner and remained there all night. No, there wasn't anyone who could confirm that; just what was Mr. Lau insinuating? (Chuckle, rumble, snap, snap.) Yes, his room was next to Tremaine's, but no, he hadn't heard anything unusual, or anything at all for that matter.
Now, at John's latest question he stopped with his thumb hooked in a suspender strap. “Would you mind
