It was a diminutive machine, blue steel and mother of pearl, more like a plaything than a pistol.
The San Reve was on her knees beside the dead Storri, her left arm beneath his head and her face buried in the silken cushion that served as pillow.

There was a looseness of attitude that instantly struck Inspector Val; he stepped to the San Reve and lifted the free hand which hung by her side.

The hand was clammy and cold as ice.

The San Reve had died when Storri died, but there was none of the rigidity of death, the body was relaxed and limp.

Inspector Val sniffed the air inquisitively, and got just the faintest odor of bitter almonds.