Whereupon O’Shane began to explore the closet. Strange, however, seemed to be in no hurry to follow the example set by his subordinate. He made several entries in his notebook, leisurely scratched his ear and looked at Peret from the corner of his eye. Though he would have died rather than admit it, the detective sergeant was one of the little Frenchman’s staunchest admirers.
He had been associated with Peret almost daily for several years, and had given up a good many hours to the study of the other’s methods in the hope that some day he would be able to emulate his friend’s success. He knew that, mentally at least, Peret was his superior, and he was ever ready to place himself under the other’s guidance when he could veil his real intentions sufficiently to make it appear that he himself was the leader.
“This case, at first glance, is the cat’s meow,” he said, tentatively. “It’s the most complicated murder mystery I ever had anything to do with. What do you make of it, Peret?”
As Peret was about to reply, the door opened and three men entered the room. The first of these, a tall, middle-aged man, with a gray mustache and a fine, upright carriage, was Major and Superintendent of Police Dobson. Immediately behind him came Coroner Rane, an elderly man with penetrating gray eyes, and Police Sergeant Alington, small, stoop-shouldered and addicted to big-rimmed spectacles.
“What’s all the trouble about, sergeant?” was Dobson’s greeting. He nodded to Peret, and continued: “I happened to be in my office when your call came, so I hurried over.”
“I’m mighty glad you came,” said Strange. “I’m afraid this case is going to prove troublesome. Did you view the bodies on the pavement.”
“Yes,” said the major. “I helped Rane examine them.”
“Well, here’s another one for you to examine,” said the detective grimly, and, stepping aside, he exposed to the view of the newcomers the body of the dead valet.
“This is not murder, it’s a massacre!” exclaimed the coroner.
He knelt beside the body, and scrutinized the valet’s face.