“He may have wandered in here.”
“How could he? The door was closed.”
“H’m, is that so?” Patsy murmured, as puzzled as the other and much more suspicious.
“He’s dead, all right, as a smelt.” Leary now turned the animal over. “But I’ll be hanged if I can see why the booze glass was smashed or why the cat should have died. Something must have killed him. Say, you don’t s’pose they gave him poison in that glass, then smashed it, do you?” he added, quickly turning to Patsy. “If I thought that, I’d go after those mongrels with a gun, by thunder, and stick till I got them!”
This possible fate was suggested to Leary by a momentary expression that had passed over Patsy’s face. He had detected a peculiar, shriveled appearance in the fur on the cat’s breast and neck, and it instantly recalled to his mind what his chief had said concerning the man found dead in the Waldmere Chambers two days before.
Patsy concealed his immediate misgivings, however, but pretended to be impressed with Leary’s suggestions.
“That may explain it, Mr. Leary, if they had any reason for wanting to kill the cat,” he replied. “The fellow you saw probably did not do it. More likely the old man was the one who killed him.”
“What old man?” Leary demanded, with a vengeful glare in his eyes.
“The one I saw in the motor car,” said Patsy, now aiming only to identify him, if possible. “He’s quite a stocky man, with gray hair and whiskers. He wore a plaid suit and soft felt hat. His chauffeur was bigger and broader, with dark hair and a pointed beard. I got a look at them when they flew by me.”
“I dunno any such men,” Leary earnestly protested. “The whole business beats me to a frazzle.”