Dr. Weston seemed rather startled by this abrupt dismissal, but the steel-blue eyes of Inspector Kerry were already bent again upon the dead man, and, murmuring “good night,” the doctor took his departure, followed by Whiteleaf.
“Shut this door,” snapped Kerry after the Inspector. “I will call when I want you. You stay, Coombes. Got it all down?”
Sergeant Coombes scratched his head with the end of a pencil, and:
“Yes,” he said, with hesitancy. “That is, except the word after ‘narrow-bladed weapon such as a’ I’ve got what looks like ‘steelhatto.’”
Kerry glared.
“Try taking the cotton-wool out of your ears,” he suggested. “The word was stiletto, s-t-i-l-e-t-t-o—stiletto.”
“Oh,” said Coombes, “thanks.”
Silence fell between the two men from Scotland Yard. Kerry stood awhile, chewing and staring at the ghastly face of Sir Lucien. Then:
“Go through all pockets,” he directed.
Sergeant Coombes placed his notebook and pencil upon the seat of the chair and set to work. Kerry entered the inside room or office. It contained a writing-table (upon which was a telephone and a pile of old newspapers), a cabinet, and two chairs. Upon one of the chairs lay a crush-hat, a cane, and an overcoat. He glanced at some of the newspapers, then opened the drawers of the writing-table. They were empty. The cabinet proved to be locked, and a door which he saw must open upon a narrow passage running beside the suite of rooms was locked also. There was nothing in the pockets of the overcoat, but inside the hat he found pasted the initials L. P. He rolled chewing-gum, stared reflectively at the little window immediately above the table, through which a glimpse might be obtained of the ebony chair, and went out again.