CHAPTER III
PRIVATE ROOM NUMBER SIX
The night was black and rain was falling in torrents as Paul Coquenil and the commissary rolled away in response to this startling summons of crime. Up the Rue Mozart they sped with sounding horn, feeling their way carefully on account of troublesome car tracks, then faster up the Avenue Victor Hugo, their advance being accompanied by vivid lightning flashes.
"He was in luck to have this storm," muttered Coquenil. Then, in reply to Pougeot's look: "I mean the thunder, it deadened the shot and gained time for him."
"Him? How do you know a man did it? A woman was in the room, and she's gone. They telephoned that."
The detective shook his head. "No, no, you'll find it's a man. Women are not original in crime. And this is—this is different. How many murders can you remember in Paris restaurants, I mean smart restaurants?"
M. Pougeot thought a moment. "There was one at the Silver Pheasant and one at the Pavillion and—and——"
"And one at the Café Rouge. But those were stupid shooting cases, not murders, not planned in advance."
"Why do you think this was planned in advance?"