“An attaché, special service in the Minister’s secretariat!”
The concierge drew the cord, and a second or two later heard the door reclose.
He had just opened, without a thought of suspicion, for the murderer of Désiré Ferrand! As he dropped off to sleep again, the man merely grumbled to himself:
“Pretty hours for working, I don’t think ... One of them bloodsucker fellows again, I’ll be bound, who hang about Ministers. That chap who’s just gone, no doubt he’s been stopping on late to work so as he needn’t turn out so early to-morrow morning.”
CHAPTER VIII
A WIRELESS FROM MID-ATLANTIC
“A nail ... another nail! Monsieur Havard, where did you put the others?”
“In the little bowl on the side-table,” replied the Chief of the Criminal Investigation Department from where he knelt on the carpet, while Professor Ardell, who was holding between thumb and forefinger the nail he had just found, stood up again, rubbing his back with his free hand.
“Extraordinary! most extraordinary!” muttered the learned professor, while M. Casamajols, who was also present, questioned the doctor anxiously:
“Well, your diagnosis, Professor?”
“Egad! Monsieur le Procureur, my diagnosis is perfectly plain and simple, and equally positive, M. Désiré is dead, and he has been dead several hours now.”