The tall, thin man nodded, and smiled blandly.
Taking something from his pocket, he handed it to the officer.
"My card, sir," he said, politely. "Name of Solomon Gloom. This is a case of smallpox. House has been quarantined. Here's my Health Board permit to remove the corpse. The rule is to take 'em at night."
He handed over a permit, but it was too dark for Old King Brady to read it.
"Well," said the officer, hesitatingly, "that part may be all right. Who is dead?"
"Albert Reid, the old cotton broker, sir. Got him in a metallic casket in this box. Going to take him to the crematory at Fresh Pond."
"Did he live here?"
"Yes, sir. You can get the particulars inside, if you like."
"How do you account for those yells for help?"
"Came from old Reid's crazy son. He didn't want us to cart away the body. Had a regular fight with him to drive him away. He yelled and fought like a tiger. Really, I thought he'd arouse the whole neighborhood. Had to lock him in a closet."