The magistrate shrugged his shoulders and went back to the house in a more or less sullen mood. There was no doubt that it was an unpromising case. A theft in which nothing had been stolen; an invisible prisoner: what could be less satisfactory?
It was late. M. de Gesvres asked the officials and the two journalists to stay to lunch. They ate in silence and then M. Filleul returned to the drawing room, where he questioned the servants. But the sound of a horse’s hoofs came from the courtyard and, a moment after, the gendarme who had been sent to Dieppe entered.
“Well, did you see the hatter?” exclaimed the magistrate, eager at last to obtain some positive information.
“I saw M. Maigret. The cap was sold to a cab-driver.”
“A cab-driver!”
“Yes, a driver who stopped his fly before the shop and asked to be supplied with a yellow-leather chauffeur’s cap for one of his customers. This was the only one left. He paid for it, without troubling about the size, and drove off. He was in a great hurry.”
“What sort of fly was it?”
“A calash.”
“And on what day did this happen?”
“On what day? Why, to-day, at eight o’clock this morning.”