They went. On the way Gatineau told his plan: “I’ve arranged that we tackle him first, so that he don’t have any chance of destroying any paper. Then when we’ve got him, we call in the police. We’ll just walk up to his room, see? I’ll go in an’ you stay outside, because the sight of you might make him do things to his papers. When I’ve got him you can come in. Is that good?”
The spotter outside the rather dingy rooming house told them that Renadier had not left the building. As they went into it, he drew in, ready to help effect the arrest. Walking in boldly, and with a casual, “Renadier—room 163, ain’t he?” from Gatineau, they were able to mount to the man’s room as though they were friends of his. It was high up in the building, and at the dark end of a corridor. Gatineau softly tried the handle, found the door yielded, strode boldly in, shutting the door behind him—for the man must not catch a glimpse of Clement.
He went in, and there was silence.
Clement heard Gatineau say something, and then the silence came down. It was a curious silence, intense, deep—disturbing. It seemed to draw itself out. It became full of significance. Clement pressed close to the door, listened—nothing! What was happening? Why did not Gatineau give some signal? Why should there be this appalling quiet in that room? It was uncanny, it was unreal—it was ugly.
He bent down in a sudden anxiety and put his ear to the keyhole. Nothing! There was no sound from the room. The room was apparently dead, vacant—a tomb.
He put his hand on the door. As he did so, two sounds came from the room, two soft sounds.
One was a soft knock—it might have been the heel of a boot kicking against the carpeted floor. The other was a slow, animal sound, low, guttural, choking.
With a spasm of fear Clement dashed open the door.