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don’t know,” said Laforet, looking down and pointing. “The twist to his body is rather curious. As if he turned, or tried to turn, mid-flight.”

      “Too late to change his mind.”

      “Did you see him go through the window?”

      “No, I didn’t.”

      “And yet you’re certain he wasn’t pushed?”

      “No one up there could have pushed him, and so far there’s no evidence of anyone else having been in the room at the time. I’m sorry; go on.”

      “Well, the twist in the body and the position of the arms suggests to me that he went out the window backwards, and then turned, perhaps instinctively bracing himself for the fall.”

      “Possibly. Or, like I said, maybe he changed his mind. It would have all happened in a matter of seconds.” Campbell took one last good look up and down and around the scene and then said, “All right, let’s go upstairs and I’ll introduce you to the cast. Top floor. I can fill you in along the way.”

      Laforet turned his gaze up to the third-floor gable.

      “You might even have time to read me the city directory.”

      In the apartment they found Bickerstaff straddling what had been Kaufman’s chair, now positioned in the middle of the floor, and eyeing the Yarmoloviches, who were still seated at the table. Campbell called in the direction of the beaded curtain. “Madame Zahra, would you come out here please?”

      She made her entrance.

      “Madame Zahra, Mr. and Mrs. Yarmolovich, this is Dr. Laforet, our city’s coroner and a colleague of mine.”

      The doctor removed his hat, walked over to Zahra, took her hand, which she had already extended, and gently grasped her fingers. He then nodded at the Yarmoloviches as he placed his hat on the table and unbuttoned his coat.

      Campbell turned to the constable. “Bickerstaff — go down and make sure they don’t need help with the body and then station yourself inside the vestibule. Give me a shout if there’s a problem.”

      Bickerstaff touched his hat and made his way back down through the opening in the floor.

      Campbell faced the trio but was speaking to Laforet. “Where we left off is with a domestic argument between the late Kaufman and his even later wife, Rose. But,” he said, glancing at the doctor, “there is evidence that Kaufman may have been pushed.”

      Madame Zahra remained stoic but the Yarmoloviches vehemently shook their heads. Campbell continued. “Was there anyone else — physically, that is — in this room this evening?” More head shakes. “Madame Zahra, who else lives in this building?”

      “Second floor is vacant; main floor is landlord.”

      “His name?”

      “Old Gravy.”

      “Come again?”

      “That’s what it sounds like. Old Gravy.”

      “O’Grady?” Campbell had no idea where he pulled that one from.

      Zahra’s eyes widened and she aimed a finger at Campbell. “Yes, O’Grady. That is his name.”

      “He must be a heavy sleeper.”

      “He is away. Visiting to Chicago, I think it was.”

      “All right,” said Campbell. He sighed and pocketed his pad and pencil. “Speaking of sleep, I think we all could use some.” They all seemed to be losing focus, even the medium.

      Laforet donned his wedge and began fastening the long row of buttons on his overcoat.

      “Madame Zahra,” said Campbell, “I’ll be back tomorrow morning. Mr. and Mrs. Yarmolovich, I’ll have Constable Bickerstaff escort you home. You can expect to hear from me tomorrow as well. Good night.”

      It was an abrupt ending to an abrupt start. Campbell and Laforet left Zahra’s first. Once back on the street, Campbell took a moment to re-examine the scene of Kaufman’s death. Snow was accumulating and the blood that had pooled was now covered in white.

      “Any further thoughts?” Campbell asked the doctor.

      Laforet was wrapping his muffler around his neck. “I agree that none of them could have propelled him, willingly or not, out of that window. It has to have been a suicide.”

      “I need to know more about this man,” said Campbell, looking up at the window. “Do sane people normally do things like this?”

      “In my experience, it’s always been sane people who do things like this.”

      “And what about this stuff about the spirit world?”

      “My spirits come from bottles, Campbell, not Ouija boards. Are you all right?”

      “I’m all right. I just need to finish my walk.”

      — Chapter 7 —

      PERSONA NON GRATA

      Morning

      ‘PURITY’ MAN IS ARRESTED

      Church Worker Charged With Rum-Running

      Constable John Smith, of River Rouge, church worker and a leading spirit in the movement to make River Rouge ‘pure,’ was arrested last night in his alleged house of ill-fame and booze joint, at 274 Kleinlow Street, by a squad of police raiders. Two girl inmates and six men habitués were said to have been engaged in a scene of gay revelry when raiders descended upon the place.

      Two cases of Canadian beer and a quantity of whisky were seized, it was reported.

      Smith was brought to the River Rouge police station and released on bond. He will come up this morning for hearing on the charge of violating the disorderly ordinance. The case will be heard before Justice Samuel Barron of River Rouge. Both offenses of keeping a bawdy house and selling liquor come under the disorderly ordinance, hence a double charge was not preferred against the peace officer, police explained.

      While the new police headquarters could accommodate a drill hall, a fully equipped gym, a police museum, and an identification branch, it could only afford Detective Henry Fields a broom closet of a room with a single window, one with bars on it no less, overlooking the parking lot in the rear. Apparently the room had been meant for some other purpose, but no one could remember what. Now it was all his.

      He was pinning an article he had just clipped from this morning’s Border Cities Star to a corkboard that he had to stand sideways on the floor because it was too big to fit on the wall. When the office manager had shown him the room, Fields looked around and asked the fellow if it had been built around the desk or if the desk was assembled in the room. He was only half-joking.

      “The top comes off and the legs are detachable. My advice is, don’t lean on it too hard.”

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