#7: Failed Forensics.

Drake sighed. Of course she’d gotten away. Well, at least he had her revolver, from which he could obtain fingerprints. He headed back to the house and went downstairs to the laboratory.

Three hours later, his tests had yielded nothing. Aside from Drake’s own prints, the gun was clean. He found no trace of human hair, oil residue from her hands and no skin fragments. The serial numbers had been filed off, but there were no other scratches or similar marks to indicate that the firearm had been used previously. Obviously his would-be assassin had known what she was doing.

The conundrum irked him, yet he worked at it tirelessly, leaving his breakfast untouched on the bench behind him. He hadn’t even emerged when the Police arrived, leaving his butler to apologize for wasting their time and send them on their way.

Around midday, Nickelby buzzed him over the intercom.
“Telephone for you, Master Drake,” he said. “It’s your brother.”
Drake rolled his eyes. Ordinarily, he’d just ignore the call, but his mother had made him promise to answer ANY call from his brother, no matter what. Being a staunch believer in one’s word being bond, Nickelby ensured that Drake kept that promise.

“Fine, I’ll be up in a moment.”