"It was La Carconte. The gunshot I'd heard had been fired at her. The bullet had torn through her throat horribly, leaving two gaping wounds that poured blood. She was dead.
I stepped over her and climbed to the bedroom, which looked like a war zone. Furniture was knocked over from the deadly struggle. The sheets, which the jeweler must have grabbed onto desperately, were dragged halfway across the room.
The murdered man lay on the floor, his head against the wall, in a pool of his own blood. Three large wounds gaped in his chest. A fourth wound had a long kitchen knife plunged into it up to the handle.
I stumbled over something, the second pistol, which hadn't fired. Probably the gunpowder got wet.
I approached the jeweler. He wasn't quite dead yet. At the sound of my footsteps and the creaking floor, he opened his eyes and looked at me with an anxious, questioning gaze. His lips moved as if trying to speak, but the effort was too much. He fell back and died.
