Major George Cowley had seen many terrible things during a career that included active military service in several wars and command of CI5, an agency tasked to use any means necessary in combatting crimes that went beyond the capacity of the police; and he was a man who had done terrible things in the service of his country, up to and including cold-blooded murder. He had thought himself immune to the sight of blood, yet somehow the pitiful object in front of the fireplace touched a nerve and he felt sick.
It was a small flat, only two bedrooms, furnished with solid old-fashioned pieces selected more for comfort than appearance. Photographs of the victim in happier times with a little girl staring up at him adoringly testified to the quiet peaceful life the man had lived. Now he lay on a Persian rug that must have been magnificent when installed, yet was ruined by what had soaked into it. The man's head had been blown completely off by a shotgun blast full in the face and even the walls were stained with his blood and his brains.
Bodie and Doyle came in, looking keenly around the room. "This seems purely a police matter, sir," said Doyle.
"I thought so too," Cowley replied, "but the man was a friend of the police commissioner and I was asked to investigate."
"So we get called in?" Bodie shook his head. "Nothing like having connections."
Cowley gave him a hard look. "I rather think this poor devil would prefer being untouched and alive to all the connections in the world."
They glared at each other, and Doyle hastened to say, "We're here now, we might as well make ourselves useful. What're his vitals?"
"His name was Lawrence Robinson." Cowley read off a sheet, frowning at the next item. "He was a cataloger at Christie's."
"That seems a tame occupation for something like this," said Bodie, gesturing around the room.
"I agree." Cowley resumed reading in an abstracted tone. "A widower; one sister named Sarah residing here in London; one child, a daughter, Beth…" He was interrupted by a detective rushing into the room.
"Sir, come quick!" Cowley followed the man out of the room, Bodie and Doyle at his heels. The detective led them into the smaller bedroom and directed them to look under the bed. "I heard a whimper and, well, see here."
Cowley bent down, drew in his breath, and made way for Doyle. A little girl stared at him with terrified eyes, and the curly-haired man said gently, "Hullo, luv. Are you Beth?" He held out a hand and the child shrank back, moving her hands frantically.
"I tried talking to her," said the detective. "She won't even answer. I think," his voice dropped, "I think she might have seen what happened."
"Oh, my God." Doyle straightened up. "How are we going to get her out of there?"
The detective shrugged. "I suppose we could shift the bed."
Bodie had dropped to one knee to see the girl and now he said quietly, "Wait." He made some gestures with his hands, and the child crawled out, burying her face in his chest and sobbing bitterly.
Cowley, Doyle, and the detective stood dumbfounded, then the CI5 commander found his voice. "How did you do that?"
Bodie stood up, the child in his arms. "She's deaf, sir. She was using sign language, only no one understood her."
"You know sign language?" asked Doyle. When his partner nodded, he asked, "What did you say to her?"
"Can you see me talking?"