“That won’t do,” said Recklow decisively. “Telephone for it.”
Cleves went to the telephone, but Recklow took the instrument out of his hand and called the number. The voice of one of his own agents answered.
Cleves was standing alone by the open window when Recklow hung up the telephone. Tressa, on the sofa, had been whispering with Benton. Selden, looking over the evening paper by the rose-shaded lamp, glanced up as Recklow went over to Cleves.
“Victor,” he said, “your man has been murdered. His throat was cut; his head was severed completely. Your luggage has been ransacked and so has your apartment. Three of my men are in possession, and the local police seem to comprehend the necessity of keeping the matter out of the newspapers. What was in your baggage?”
“Nothing,” said Cleves, ghastly pale.
“All right. We’ll have your effects packed up again and brought over here. Are you going to tell your wife?”
Cleves, still deathly pale, cast a swift glance toward her. She sat on the sofa in animated conversation with Benton. She laughed once, and Benton smiled at what she was saying.
“Is there any need to tell her, Recklow?”
“Not for a while, anyway.”
“All right. I suppose the Yezidees are responsible for this horrible business.”