“Well, take a cab and get down at once to 43 Terrington Square. Your old Reale was murdered last night.”
It was peculiar of Angel Esquire that nothing surprised him. He received the most tremendous tidings with polite interest, and now he merely said, “Dear me!” Later, as a swift hansom carried him along Whitehall he permitted himself to be “blessed.”
Outside No. 43 Terrington Square a small crowd of morbid sightseers stood in gloomy anticipation of some gruesome experience or other. A policeman admitted him, and the local inspector stopped in his interrogation of a white-faced butler to bid him a curt “Good morning.”
Angel’s preliminary inspection did not take any time. He saw the bodies, which had not yet been removed. He examined the pockets of both men, and ran his eye through the scattered papers on the floor of the room in which the tragedy had occurred. Then he came back to the big drawing-room and saw the inspector, who was sitting at a table writing his report.
“The chap on the top floor committed the murder, of course,” said Angel.
“I know that,” said Inspector Boyden brusquely.
“And was electrocuted by a current passing through the handle of the safe.”
“I gathered that,” the inspector replied as before, and went on with his work.
“The murderer’s name is Massey,” continued Angel patiently—“George Charles Massey.”
The inspector turned in his seat with a sarcastic smile.