“Good, M’sieu Moche.”
“You twig—do what I tell you without seeming to, eh?”
“In that case, I’d want an excuse, eh?”
“I never said I couldn’t provide one, did I? Look’ee, my son, search under that green bookcase and you’ll find some patterns of wall-papers ... got ’em?”
“Yes.”
“Well, take ’em with you, young sir! For the last six months I’ve found ’em useful for the same little game. You see, I send a pal, as it might be you, to call on the guy who wants to take my rooms. He comes under pretence of offering the new tenant a choice of wall-papers; as a matter of fact, I simply use him to inspect the furniture that must guarantee the rent. As you may suppose, I never do pay for the papering. Not much! The offer’s made—and there it ends!”
Fandor showed no surprise. The business his strange employer was sending him on was of course perfectly straightforward and legitimate! Still keeping to his slangy way of speaking, Fandor merely asked:
“And what’s the name, M’sieu Moche, your dicky-bird goes by? and what’s her exact address in the Rue des Couronnes?”
M. Moche, while talking to his clerk, was busy changing his down-at-heel slippers for a pair of elastic-sided boots, obviously too small for him, the whitey-brown cracks in which he masked by smearing them with ink. He was bending down behind his desk and could not see the other’s face as he answered his last question:
“The dicky-bird, as you call her, lives, to be exact, at 142 bis Rue des Couronnes. As to her name, that’s pretty well-known, she’s the sister of a man who was murdered; you can’t help remembering about it; she’s called Mademoiselle Elisabeth Dollon—you’ll not forget?”