‘Bring me the list of disappearances of persons in the Paris area during the last four weeks, or rather’—he stopped and looked at the others—‘the disappearances in all France for the same period.’
In a few seconds a clerk entered with some papers.
‘Here are all the disappearances reported during March, monsieur,’ he said, ‘and here those for April up to the present date. I haven’t a return for the last four weeks only, but can get one out at once if you wish.’
‘No. These are all right.’
The Chief examined the documents.
‘Last month,’ he said, ‘seven persons disappeared of whom six were women, four being in the Paris area. This month two people have disappeared, both women and both in the Paris area. That is six women in Paris in the last five weeks. Let’s see, now,’ he ran his fingers down the column, ‘Suzanne Lemaître, aged seventeen, last seen—well, it could not be she. Lucille Marquet, aged twenty—no good either. All these are girls under twenty-one, except one. Here, what is this? Marie Lachaise, aged thirty-four, height 172 centimetres—that is about five feet eight in English measure—dark hair and eyes and clear complexion, wife of M. Henri Lachaise, the avocat, of 41 rue Tinques, Boulevarde Arago. Left home on the twenty-ninth ultimo, that is about ten days ago, at three o’clock, ostensibly for shopping. Has not been heard of since. Better take a note of that.’
M. Lefarge did so, and spoke for the first time.
‘We shall try it, of course, monsieur, but I don’t expect much result. If that woman went out to shop she would hardly be wearing evening dress, as was the corpse.’
‘Also,’ said Burnley, ‘I think we may take it the dead woman’s name was Annette B.’
‘Probably you are both right. Still, you had better make sure.’