“Er—Chief Inspector,” he said, “I fully recognize the difficulties which—you follow me? But the Press is the Press. Neither you nor I could hope to battle against such an institution even if we desired to do so. Where active resistance is useless, a little tact—you quite understand?”
“Quite, sir. Rely upon me,” replied Kerry. “But I didn’t mean to open my mouth until I had reported to you. Now, sir, here is a précis of evidence, nearly complete, written out clearly by Sergeant Coombes. You would probably prefer to read it?”
“Yes, yes, I will read it. But has Sergeant Coombes been on duty all night?”
“He has, sir, and so have I. Sergeant Coombes went home an hour ago.”
“Ah,” murmured the Assistant Commissioner
He took the notebook from Kerry, and resting his head upon his hand began to read. Kerry sat very upright in his chair, chewing slowly and watching the profile of the reader with his unwavering steel-blue eyes. The reading was twice punctuated by telephone messages, but the Assistant Commissioner apparently possessed the Napoleonic faculty of doing two things at once, for his gaze travelled uninterruptedly along the lines of the report throughout the time that he issued telephonic instructions.
When he had arrived at the final page of Coombes’ neat, schoolboy writing, he did not look up for a minute or more, continuing to rest his head in the palm of his hand. Then:
“So far you have not succeeded in establishing the identity of the missing man, Kazmah?” he said.
“Not so far, sir,” replied Kerry, enunciating the words with characteristic swift precision, each syllable distinct as the rap of a typewriter. “Inspector Whiteleaf, of Vine Street, has questioned all constables in the Piccadilly area, and we have seen members of the staffs of many shops and offices in the neighborhood, but no one is familiar with the appearance of the missing man.”
“Ah—now, the Egyptian servant?”