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.
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