“Dix?” questioned Peret, straining to catch the man’s words. “You mean ten, eh?”
With his glazing eyes fixed on the detective, Berjet made a desperate effort to reply, but the effort was in vain. The ghost of a sigh escaped from his lips, a slight tremor shook his frame, and, with a gurgling sound in his throat, he died.
“Peste! What did he mean by that?” muttered Peret, getting to his feet. (Dix is the French word for “ten”.) “Did he mean he was attacked by ten assassins? The devil! It does not take an army to kill a single man.”
“What’s the matter, old chap?” It was the pedestrian whom Peret had observed lighting a cigarette near the corner lamp a few minutes previously. “The old boy looks as if he had had a shot of bootlegger’s private stock.”
“He has been murdered,” returned Peret shortly, after giving the man a keen scrutiny. Then: “Be so kind as to run to the drug store across the street and ask the druggist to send for a physician. Also request him to notify police headquarters that a murder has been committed. Have the notification sent in the name of Jules Peret. Hurry, my friend!”
Without waiting to reply, the man spun on his heel and dashed across the street. Dropping to his knees again, Peret made a hasty but thorough search of the dead man’s clothing, but beyond a few stray coins in the pockets of his trousers, found nothing. As he was finishing his examination, the stranger returned, accompanied by the druggist and a physician who had chanced to be in the drug store.
Peret rose to his feet and stepped back to make room for the doctor.
“What’s the trouble?” asked Dr. Sprague, a large, swarthy-faced man with a gray Vandyke beard.
“Murder, I’m afraid,” replied Peret, pointing at Berjet’s motionless body.
Dr. Sprague bent over the inert form of the scientist and made a brief examination.