He, too, signed twice, and then moved away to the other side of the room. The burly M. Kaufmann bent over the table. Christine stared down at the first neat signature.
“You can go now, Kaufmann.” The head clerk nodded to the door of an inner room on which his eyes had been riveted.
“Bon!” said the stout man obediently, “bonsoir madame, bonsoir monsieur.” He held out his hand to the chief clerk, who snatched at it automatically.
There was a click, an oath from the head clerk, who stood twisting his wrists with handcuffs on them.
“Don't be alarmed, Miss West. It's me, Chief Inspector Pointer. I saw you read my name. M. Meunier and I thought we would let this gang hang themselves. As for the chaps he's shouting for, they're safely under lock and key in one of the cupboards, out of sight and sound. I can't have them taken away yet because of our friend, Mr. Beale. He's such a suspicious customer, and it's especially him I'm after.” He turned to the clerk.
“Now look here.” Pointer spoke excellent French—a war benefit. “If you want a lighter sentence assist the law now.”
The man was utterly cowed. He burst into a flood of protests, excuses, and accusations of Beale, whose money had corrupted an honest man.
“Now look here,” Pointer said again. “When Mr. Beale comes, open the door to him exactly as if nothing had happened. Close and bolt it behind him, and leave the rest to us. If you do this M. Meunier may put in a word for you to the police.”
M. Meunier, who evidently believed in not interfering with another man's job, now nodded assent.
The clerk tremblingly assured them that he would do his very best.