He went down on a knee and looked at the profile of the figure in the chair. He knew this man. He almost choked on his words. “Mr. Howard,” he whispered. The private detective sat in the great chair; even in death he wore an expression of anguish. The top of Mr. Howard’s head had been torn off. Mr. Howard had been scalped; the skin near the top had curled and slipped. Malone shivered at the gray horror of exposed skull. Malone’s hand found the revolver in its shoulder holster. Black Tom stood over Robert Suydam. The razor was still in his right hand,
