By this time Siméon was some distance away, like a man whose part is played and who leaves it to others to complete the work. Patrice looked round, caught sight of a post-office and went in briskly. He knew that M. Masseron was at the Rue Raynouard. He telephoned and told him where Bournef was. M. Masseron replied that he would come at once.
Since the murder of Essarès Bey, M. Masseron’s enquiry had made no progress in so far as Colonel Fakhi’s four accomplices were concerned. True, they discovered the man Grégoire’s sanctuary and the bedrooms with the wall-cupboards; but the whole place was empty. The accomplices had disappeared.
“Old Siméon,” said Patrice to himself, “was acquainted with their habits. He must have known that they were accustomed to meet at this café on a certain day of the week, at a fixed hour, and he suddenly remembered it all at the sight of Bournef’s name.”
A few minutes later M. Masseron alighted from his car with his men. The business did not take long. The open front of the café was surrounded. The accomplices offered no resistance. M. Masseron sent three of them under a strong guard to the Dépôt and hustled Bournef into a private room.
“Come along,” he said to Patrice. “We’ll question him.”
“Mme. Essarès is alone at the house,” Patrice objected.
“Alone? No. There are all your soldier-men.”
“Yes, but I would rather go back, if you don’t mind. It’s the first time that I’ve left her and I’m justified in feeling anxious.”
“It’s only a matter of a few minutes,” M. Masseron insisted. “One should always take advantage of the fluster caused by the arrest.”
Patrice followed him, but they soon saw that Bournef was not one of those men who are easily put out. He simply shrugged his shoulders at their threats: