“Oh, ho!” laughed M. Moche.
“Yes, that’s so,” affirmed the other; “
... oh, a mere trifle, a matter of 27 francs!”
“Well, good luck to you,” concluded the old man philosophically, closing the wicket, as the bank employé took his leave with a bow and a final word of politeness:
“Hoping to meet you again, sir!”
Left alone—he kept neither housekeeper nor office-boy—the old fellow stretched himself in one of the old leather-covered armchairs in the dining room. Through the open window came a breath of cool air. M. Moche sat in his shirt sleeves, enjoying the evening freshness, and presently took advantage of his momentary leisure to inhale a huge pinch of snuff. Not a sound came from without—vehicles are few and far between in the Rue Saint-Fargeau—and only faint and far away in the distance could be caught the occasional tinkle of the bells of the electric trams that, in this remote quarter of Paris, link up the outer suburbs with the central districts of the capital.
Suddenly, M. Moche started violently; from the floor above a dull, heavy thud reached his ear. He found no difficulty in identifying the sound—it was that of some heavy object falling on the floor above his head. The old man scratched his chin and muttered half aloud:
“It’s a piece of furniture overset ... or a body!”
For a minute or two he stood hesitating, but M. Moche was a man of a curious and inquiring turn of mind.
Abandoning the siesta he was proposing to enjoy, he crept cautiously from the salon, and crossed the outer room of the flat, which opened directly on the landing; then, stepping noiselessly in his felt slippers, he climbed the stairs leading to the upper floor without a sound.