“You see,” he said, “that the victim has been butchered. The stroke was from left to right, by a firm hand which must be accustomed to handle this knife. But it is not only a strong and practised hand that has done this deed; it was guided by an intelligence that knew how to proceed to insure a quick, almost instantaneous death, and at the same time a silent one.”
“You think it was done by a butcher?”
“By a professional killer; the larynx has been cut above the glottis, and with the same stroke the two carotid arteries, with the jugular veins. As the assassin had to raise the head, the victim was not able to cry out; considerable blood has flowed, and death must have ensued in one or two minutes.”
“The scene appears to me very well reconstructed.”
“The blood should have burst out in this direction,” Saniel continued, pointing to the door. “But as this door was open, nothing is to be seen.”
While Saniel spoke, the commissioner threw a glance about the room—the glance of the police, which takes in everything.
“The safe is open,” he said. “The affair becomes clear; the assassination was followed by theft.”
There was a door opposite to the entrance, which the commissioner opened; it was that of Caffie’s bedroom.
“I will give you a man to help you carry the body into this room, where you can continue your examination more easily, while I will continue my investigations in this office.”
Saniel would have liked to remain in the office to assist at these investigations, but it was impossible to raise an objection. The chair was rolled into the bedroom, where two candles had been lighted on the mantel, and when the body was laid on the bed, the commissioner returned to the office.