Explore "The Problem of Cell 13" by Jacques Futrelle on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
The Thinking Machine drew Detective Mallory and Hatch to one side, out of immediate range of any person who might rush out, then pulled the closet door open. A cloud of suffocating fumes -- the sweet, sickening odor of chloroform -- gushed out, but there was no sound from inside. The detective looked at The Thinking Machine inquiringly.
Carefully, almost gingerly, the scientist peered around the edge of the door. What he saw did not startle him, because it was what he expected. It was Constans St. George lying prone on the floor as if dead, with a blood-spattered revolver clasped loosely in one hand; the other hand grasped the throat of a woman, a woman of superb physical beauty, who also lay with face upturned, staring glassily.