“Open the door,” the commissioner said to the locksmith.
The latter examined the lock, looked among his keys, selected one, and unlocked the door.
“Let no one enter,” the commissioner said. “Doctor, have the goodness to follow me.”
And, going ahead, he entered the first office, that of the clerk, followed by Saniel. Two little rills of blood, already thickened, starting from Caffie’s chair, and running across the tiled floor, which sloped a little toward the side of the staircase, joined in the stain which caused the discovery of the crime. The commissioner and Saniel took care not to step in it.
“The unfortunate man has had his throat cut,” Saniel said. “Death must have occurred two or three hours ago. There is nothing to do.”
“Speak for yourself, doctor.”
And, stooping, he picked up the knife.
“Is it not a butcher’s knife?” asked Saniel, who could only use this word.
“It looks like it.”
He had raised Caffie’s head and examined the wound.