“Oh, Chief Inspector!”
Kerry turned, his hand on the door-knob.
“Sir?”
“I—er—what was I going to say? Oh, yes! The social importance of the murdered man raises the case from the—er—you follow me? Public interest will become acute, no doubt. I have therefore selected you for your well known discretion. I met Sir Lucien once. Very sad. Good night.”
“Good night, sir.”
Kerry passed out into the corridor, closing the door quietly. The Assistant Commissioner was a man for whom he entertained the highest respect. Despite the bewildered air and wandering manner, he knew this big, tired-looking soldier for an administrator of infinite capacity and inexhaustive energy.
Proceeding to a room further along the corridor, Chief Inspector Kerry opened the door and looked in.
“Detective-Sergeant Coombes.” he snapped, and rolled chewing-gum from side to side of his mouth.
Detective-Sergeant Coombes, a plump, short man having lank black hair and a smile of sly contentment perpetually adorning his round face, rose hurriedly from the chair upon which he had been seated. Another man who was in the room rose also, as if galvanized by the glare of the fierce blue eyes.
“I’m going to Vine Street,” said Kerry succinctly; “you’re coming with me,” turned, and went on his way.