A thin, acidulous voice came through the humming of the wires.
“I wish,” said Freyberger, speaking in excellent French, “to make some inquiries as to M. Gassard, photographer, of Boulevard St-Michel. I wish to know if he is still in business, and, if not, where he is to be found,—Freyberger, Inspector, Scotland Yard.”
The answer did not come for ten minutes.
Then the bell rang and the thin voice replied.
“Gassard, of 110 Boulevard St-Michel, sold his business three years ago. March 10, 19—, he left Paris. We have no trace of him. He was succeeded by Madame——, a modiste.”
“Luck is against us,” said Freyberger, hanging up the receiver. “Never mind, we have the name, and a name is a good deal in a case like this.”
CHAPTER XVIII
FREYBERGER was up betimes next morning, and having called at the Yard and found his chief not yet arrived, and no further news concerning the Gyde case, he betook himself to Old Compton Street, Soho.
In Old Compton Street you may buy a French newspaper or a German sausage. You can get anything in an Italian way, from a pound of macaroni to a knife in your back, if you know the right way to look for it. It is a street of many nations and its kerb is trodden by all sorts of celebrities, from the new tenor at the Italian opera in furs, to Enrico Malatesta in rags.