Sucks books

Mr. Pitts, it seemed, had wanted an early breakfast and had sent
Edward to order it. The valet had found the kitchen a veritable
slaughter-house, with, the negro chef, Sam, lying dead on the
floor. Sam had been dead, apparently, since the night before.
As she hurried away, Kennedy pushed open the door. It was a
marvellous place, that antiseptic or rather aseptic kitchen, with
its white tiling and enamel, its huge ice-box, and cooking-
utensils for every purpose, all of the most expensive and modern
make.
There were marks everywhere of a struggle, and by the side of the
chef, whose body now lay in the next room awaiting the coroner,
lay a long carving-knife with which he had evidently defended
himself. On its blade and haft were huge coagulated spots of
blood. The body of Sam bore marks of his having been clutched
violently by the throat, and in his head was a single, deep wound
that penetrated the skull in a most peculiar manner. It did not
seem possible that a blow from a knife could have done it.


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