“Where else would he be — in the basement ?” Adams said softly, and without looking at the patrolman he walked into the hall.
He paused to read the names on the mail boxes, then he gave a snorting grunt.
“A cat house,” he said under his breath. “The first murder in two years, and it’s got to be in a cat house.”
Adams was short, thin and dapper. The wings of his thick chalk-white hair looked dazzling against the black of his hat. His face was long and pinched, with deep hollows in his cheeks. His nose was sharp-pointed and long. When he was in a rage, which was often, his slate-grey eyes lit up as if an electric bulb inside his head had been switched on. His face never gave away what he was thinking. He was known to be a hard, ruthless, bitter man who was as heartily hated by his men as he was by the criminals who were unfortunate enough to cross his path.
But he was a first-rate police officer. His brain was four times as sharp as Donovan’s and Donovan knew it. The big man lived in perpetual fear of Adams, knowing that if he gave Adams the slightest excuse, Adams had enough influence to have Donovan thrown back on a beat.
Walking slowly, Adams commenced the long climb to the top floor.
The house was silent. He met no one. It was as if the occupant of each apartment as he passed knew he was in the house and was crouching behind the shut door, breathless and frightened.
Jackson, a red-faced cop, was standing on the top-floor landing as Adams came slowly up. He saluted and waited. He knew Adams well enough not to speak to him unless he was spoken to.
Adams walked into the big, airy sitting-room where Fletcher, the fingerprint expert, was already at work.
Donovan was prowling around the room, his set, heavy face dark with concentration.