"After that, we heard nothing more. . . . The night passed. . . . I fell asleep from exhaustion. . . . So did Edwards. . . . And it was not until this morning . . ."
"Yes, I know. . . . There, it's not going badly . . . it all fits in. . . ."
And, marking off the stages of his investigation, in a tone as though he were enumerating so many victories over the stranger, he muttered thoughtfully:
"The accomplice . . . the telephone . . . the time of the murder . . . the sounds that were heard. . . . Good. . . . Very good. . . . We have still to establish the motive of the crime. . . . In this case, as we have Lupin to deal with, the motive is obvious. M. Lenormand, have you noticed the least sign of anything being broken open?"
"No."
"Then the robbery must have been effected upon the person of the victim himself. Has his pocket-book been found?"
"I left it in the pocket of his jacket," said Gourel.
They all went into the sitting-room, where M. Formerie discovered that the pocket-book contained nothing but visiting-cards and papers establishing the murdered man's identity.
"That's odd. Mr. Chapman, can you tell us if Mr. Kesselbach had any money on him?"
"Yes. On the previous day—that is, on Monday, the day before yesterday—we went to the Crédit Lyonnais, where Mr. Kesselbach hired a safe . . ."
"A safe at the Crédit Lyonnais? Good. . . . We must look into that."
"And, before we left, Mr. Kesselbach opened an account and drew out five or six thousand francs in bank-notes."
"Excellent . . . that tells us just what we want to know."
Chapman continued:
"There is another point, Monsieur le Juge d'Instruction. Mr. Kesselbach, who for some days had been very uneasy in his mind—I have told you the reason: a scheme to which he attached the utmost importance—Mr. Kesselbach seemed particularly anxious about two things. There was, first, a little ebony box, which he put away safely at the Crédit Lyonnais; and, next, a little black morocco note-case, in which he kept a few papers."
"And where is that?"
"Before Lupin's arrival, he put it, in my presence, into that travelling-bag."
M. Formerie took the bag and felt about in it. The note-case was not there. He rubbed his hands:
"Ah, everything fits in! . . . We know the culprit, the conditions and the motive of the crime. This case won't take long. Are we quite agreed upon everything, M. Lenormand?"
"Upon not one single thing."
There was a moment of stupefaction. The commissary of police had arrived: and, behind him, in spite of the constables keeping the door, a troop of journalists, and the hotel staff had forced their way in and were standing in the entrance-lobby.
Notorious though the old fellow was for his bluntness—a bluntness which was not without a certain discourtesy and which had already procured him an occasional reprimand in high quarters—the abruptness of this reply took every one aback. And M. Formerie in particular appeared utterly nonplussed:
"Still," he said, "I can see nothing that isn't quite simple. Lupin is the thief. . . ."
"Why did he commit the murder?" M. Lenormand flung at him.
"In order to commit the theft."
"I beg your pardon; the witnesses' story proves that the theft took place before the murder. Mr. Kesselbach was first bound and gagged, then robbed. Why should Lupin, who has never resorted to murder, choose this time to kill a man whom he had rendered helpless and whom he had already robbed?"
The examining-magistrate stroked his long, fair whiskers, with the gesture customary to him when a question seemed incapable of solution. He replied in a thoughtful tone:
"There are several answers to that. . . ."
"What are they?"
"It depends . . . it depends upon a number of facts as yet unknown. . . . And, moreover, the objection applies only to the nature of the motives. We are agreed as to the remainder."
"No."
This time, again, the denial was flat, blunt, almost impolite; so much so that the magistrate was absolutely nonplussed, dared not even raise a protest, and remained abashed in the presence of this strange collaborator. At last he said:
"We all have our theories. I should like to know yours."
"I have none."
The chief detective rose and, leaning on his stick, took a few steps through the room. All the people around him were silent. . . . And it was rather curious, in a group in which, after all, his position was only that of an auxiliary, a subordinate, to see this ailing, decrepit, elderly man dominate the others by the sheer force of an authority which they had to feel, even though they did not accept it. After a long pause he said:
"I should like to inspect the rooms which adjoin this suite."
The manager showed him the plan of the hotel. The only way out of the right-hand bedroom, which was Mr. Kesselbach's, was through the little entrance-hall of the suite. But the bedroom on the left, the room occupied by the secretary, communicated with another apartment.
"Let us inspect it," said M. Lenormand.
M. Formerie could not help shrugging his shoulders and growling:
"But the communicating door is bolted and the window locked."
"Let us inspect it," repeated M. Lenormand.
He was taken into the apartment, which was the first of the five rooms reserved for Mrs. Kesselbach. Then, at his request, he was taken to the rooms leading out of it. All the communicating doors were bolted on both sides.
"Are not any of these rooms occupied?" he asked.
"No."
"Where are the keys?"
"The keys are always kept in the office."
"Then no one can have got in? . . ."
"No one, except the floor-waiter who airs and dusts the rooms."
"Send for him, please."
The man, whose name was Gustave Beudot, replied that he had closed the windows of five rooms on the previous day in accordance with his general instructions.
"At what time?"
"At six o'clock in the evening."
"And you noticed nothing?"
"No, sir."
"And, this morning . . . ?"
"This morning, I opened the windows at eight o'clock exactly."
"And you found nothing?"
He hesitated. He was pressed with questions and ended by admitting:
"Well, I picked up a cigarette-case near the fireplace in 420. . . . I intended to take it to the office this evening."
"Have you it on you?"
"No, it is in my room. It is a gun-metal case. It has a space for tobacco and cigarette-papers on one side and for matches on the other. There are two initials in gold: an L and an M. . . ."
"What's that?"
Chapman had stepped forward. He seemed greatly surprised and, questioning the servant:
"A gun-metal cigarette-case, you say?"
"Yes."
"With three compartments—for tobacco, cigarette-papers, and matches. . . . Russian tobacco, wasn't it, very fine and light?"
"Yes."