The gaunt man had taken back his knife, but it had done its work well. The man with the little black beard must have died almost instantly. His face was almost shockingly composed and disinterested when they turned him over.
“The briefcase which you say they took from him,” said the policeman, in French. “What happened to it?”
Simon shrugged.
“I suppose the fellow I tackled got away with it.”
“And so we shall not know the motive for the attack,” observed the round man thoughtfully.
“Without wanting to play Sherlock Holmes,” said the Saint, with a trace of sarcasm, “I should guess that it might have been robbery.”
The policeman was searching the pockets of the body. With a light touch on the arm, the moon-faced man drew the Saint a little aside.
“Restrain yourself, my friend. The police don’t like to be teased. May I introduce myself? My name is Oscar Kleinhaus. I’m fairly well known here. I’ll try to see that you have no trouble.”
“Thank you,” said the Saint curiously.
The policeman was holding an Italian passport. “Filippo Ravenna,” he read from it. “Of Venice. Married. Fifty-one years old. Director of companies.”