“I don’t care a hang, sir, for your customers! My duty comes before everything; and my duty is at all costs to arrest. …”
“So you believe …” the examining-magistrate ventured to interpolate.
“I don’t believe, monsieur … I am sure that the perpetrator of both the murders is still in the hotel.”
“But then Chapman …”
“At this moment, I cannot guarantee that Chapman is still alive. In any case, it is only a question of minutes, of seconds. … Gourel, take two men and search all the rooms on the fourth floor. … Mr. Manager, send one of your clerks with them. … As for the other floors, I shall proceed as soon as we are reinforced. Come, Gourel, off with you, and keep your eyes open. … It’s big game you’re hunting!”
Gourel and his men hurried away. M. Lenormand himself remained in the hall, near the office. This time, he did not think of sitting down, as his custom was. He walked from the main entrance to the door in the Rue Orvieto and returned to the point from which he had started. At intervals he gave instructions:
“Mr. Manager, see that the kitchens are watched. They may try to escape that way. … Mr. Manager, instruct your young lady at the telephone not to put any of the people in the hotel into communication with outside subscribers. If a call comes from the outside, she can connect the caller with the person asked for, but she must take a note of that person’s name. … Mr. Manager, have a list made out of all your visitors whose name begins with an L or an M.”
The tension caught the spectators by the throat, as they stood clustered in the middle of the hall, silent and gasping for breath, shaking with fear at the least sound, obsessed by the infernal image of the murderer. Where was he hiding? Would he show himself? Was he not one of themselves: this one, perhaps … or that one? …
And all eyes were turned on the gray-haired gentleman in spectacles, an olive-green frock-coat and a maroon-colored neckerchief, who was walking about, with his bent back, on a pair of shaky legs.
At times, one of the waiters accompanying Sergeant Gourel on his search would come running up.
“Any news?” asked M. Lenormand.
“No, sir, we’ve found nothing.”
The manager made two attempts to induce him to relax his orders regarding the doors. The situation was becoming intolerable. The office was filled with loudly-protesting visitors, who had business outside, or who had arranged to leave Paris.
“I don’t care a hang!” said M. Lenormand again.
“But I know them all.”
“I congratulate you.”
“You are exceeding your powers.”
“I know.”
“The law will decide against you.”
“I’m convinced of that.”
“Monsieur le Juge d’Instruction himself. …”
“M. Formerie had better not interfere. He can mind his own business, which is to examine the servants, as he is doing now. Besides, it has nothing to do with the examining-magistrate, it has to do with the police. It’s my affair.”
Just then a squad of police burst into the hotel. The chief detective divided them into several sections which he sent up to the third floor. Then, addressing the commissary of police:
“My dear commissary, I leave the task of watching the doors to you. No weakness, I entreat you. I will take the responsibility for anything that happens.”
And, turning to the lift, he had himself conveyed to the second floor.
It was a difficult business and a long one, for they had to open the doors of the sixty bedrooms, to inspect all the bathrooms, all the recesses, all the cupboards, every nook and corner.
And it was also fruitless. An hour later, on the stroke of twelve, M. Lenormand had just done the second floor; the other parties had not yet finished the upper floors; and no discovery had been made.
M. Lenormand hesitated: had the murderer retreated to the attics?
He was deciding, however, to go downstairs, when he was told that Mrs. Kesselbach had just arrived with her lady-companion. Edwards, the old confidential manservant, had accepted the task of informing her of Mr. Kesselbach’s death.
M. Lenormand found her in one of the drawing rooms, overcome by the unexpected shock, dry-eyed, but with her features wrung with grief and her body trembling all over, as though convulsed with fever. She was a rather tall, dark woman; and her black and exceedingly beautiful eyes were filled with gold, with little gold spots, like spangles gleaming in the dark. Her husband had met her in Holland, where Dolores was born of an old family of Spanish origin, the Amontis. He fell in love with her at first sight; and for four years the harmony between them, built up of mutual affection and devotion, had never been interrupted.
M. Lenormand introduced himself. She looked at him without replying; and he was silent, for she did not appear, in her stupor, to understand what he said. Then, suddenly, she began to shed copious tears and asked to be taken to her husband.
In the hall, M. Lenormand found Gourel, who was looking for him and who rushed at him with a hat which he held in his hand:
“I picked this up, chief. … There’s no doubt whom it belongs to, is there?”
It was a soft, black felt hat and resembled the description given. There was no lining or label inside it.
“Where did you pick it up?”
“On the second-floor landing of the servants’ staircase.”
“Nothing on the other floors?”
“Nothing. We’ve searched everywhere. There is only the first floor left. And this hat shows that the man went down so far. We’re burning, chief!”
“I think so.”
At the foot of the stairs M. Lenormand stopped:
“Go back to the commissary and give him my orders: he must post two men at the foot of each of the four staircases, revolver in hand. And they are to fire, if necessary. Understand this, Gourel: if Chapman is not saved and if the fellow escapes, it means my resignation. I’ve been woolgathering for over two hours.”
He went up the stairs. On the first floor he met two policemen leaving a bedroom,
