The wound in her throat puzzled him. It was evident from the quantity of blood that the jugular had been severed with one vicious blow, but the cut was jagged, gaping in the center. The killer had either used a dull instrument, or a sharp one had been fiendishly twisted before it was removed.

He stood up abruptly and went to the front door. The inside latch was bolted. That meant that however the killer had entered the room, he had left through the connecting bathroom.

He turned and carefully surveyed the room through bleak, narrowed eyes. Everything was in order except the one rumpled bed where she had probably tried to relax while tensely awaiting his phone call. There was no sign of a struggle. Sara Morton had either been taken unawares by her murderer entering through the bathroom from 1420, or she had unlocked her door and admitted him with no thought of personal danger.

Yet, if her note meant what it seemed to imply, she felt herself to be in the gravest danger when she typed and mailed it, a fact that was borne out by her refusal to unlock her door even for her secretary at six o’clock.

There was a small metal typewriter table with an open portable close to a window across the room. He moved slowly toward it and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, studying the articles on the table. The box of heavy white stationery with the blue signature at the top was open beside the typewriter. On the other side was a folded copy of the previous day’s Miami Herald, and on top of it was a pair of shears with long tapering blades such as editors use for clipping copy.

But these were no ordinary shears. The handles were of gold, ornately designed and chased by a master craftsman. The points of the blades were very sharp, and he shuddered inwardly as he glanced from them to the gaping wound in Sara Morton’s throat. They were clean and shining, but if the murderer had used the shears as a weapon, the homicide boys would determine the fact with chemical tests.