Two white-coated ambulance attendants moved toward the rear of the ambulance carrying the sheet-draped body on a stretcher, while some of the men went back to their parked cars and drove away. Others fanned out on foot in both directions from the doctor’s house, and Shayne, who knew the routine well, knew they would be ringing neighborhood doorbells for the next few hours, arousing neighbors who were not already aroused, taking statements and gathering as much information on the private life of the Ambroses as possible. Chief Painter came back across the grass carrying a .32 automatic dangling by the trigger-guard from his forefinger. He stopped in front of Rourke and held the weapon up to him and demanded, “Ever see this before?” The reporter stared at the gun and said, “Hell, I don’t know. All automatics look alike to me. That what killed him?” “What I mean is,” said Painter silkily, “since you were such buddies with the doctor, did you ever see a gun like this in his possession?”
