He was right. The Commissary, a little, fat man, with an imposing corporation, dashed forward out of breath, hustling everybody to right and left, and hurried into the ill-omened room. His eyes fell first on the grim head that looked out, an image of horror, from the wall where it was imbedded. Then he turned to stare at the paper-hanger, who without the smallest show of respect towards the magistrate, remained sitting on the floor, still smoking with imperturbable aplomb.
The magistrate demanded: “What’s to do here? Who are you? who is the man? how does he come there? what have you to say to it, yourself?”
“What do you mean by ‘there’?”
“There,” the paper-hanger concluded his sentence: “there’s what you want to know about, before your eyes.”
The Commissary was boiling with impatience.
“Why, of course I want to know. What’s been happening? How was this extraordinary discovery made?”
The workman, getting to his feet at last: “I would point out to you, Monsieur le Commissaire,” he protested, “that it is not my business, but rather yours, to find out all this! None the less, I am very willing to help you and give you my co-operation.”
Going up to the wall, the workman began, with little measured taps, to break away the plaster round the dead man’s head. As he worked, he explained:
“Driving a nail just now into the wall here, I saw drops of blood ooze out—a wall that bleeds is not a common sight—and before pushing my investigations further, I had the police sent for. Directly on your sergeant’s arrival, I brought to light the unfortunate man’s head. We have waited out of respect for your authority before carrying the investigation further. But, now you are come, Monsieur le Commissaire, I don’t think there’s anything need prevent our bringing to light the rest of the poor fellow’s body.”