“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 precis 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?”

Inspector Kerry moved his shoulders restlessly.

“Rashid is his name.  Many of the people in the neighborhood knew him by sight, and at five o’clock this morning one of my assistants had the good luck to find out, from an Arab coffee-house keeper named Abdulla, where Rashid lived.  He paid a visit to the place—­it’s off the West India Dock Road—­half an hour later.  But Rashid had gone.  I regret to report that all traces of him have been lost.”

“Ah—­considering this circumstance side by side with the facts that no scrap of evidence has come to light in the Kazmah premises and that the late Sir Lucien’s private books and papers cannot be found, what do you deduce, Chief Inspector?”

“My report indicates what I deduce, sir!  An accomplice of Kazmah’s must have been in Sir Lucien’s household!  Kazmah and Mrs. Irvin can only have left the premises by going up to the roof and across the leads to Sir Lucien’s flat in Albemarle Street.  I shall charge the man Juan Mareno.”