“José Puégas, Monsieur, would not commit a burglary in a pig’s head,” said the policeman, with the cutting contempt of the expert.
“It was a vow, I suppose,” said Aristide, stung to irony. “I’ve always heard he was a religious man.”
The detective did not condescend to reply.
“Monsieur le Maire,” said he, “I should like to examine the premises, and beg that you will have the kindness to accompany me.”
“With the permission of Monsieur le Maire,” said Aristide. “I too will come.”
“Certainly,” said the Mayor. “The more intelligences concentrated on the affair the better.”
“I am not of that opinion,” said the detective.
“It is the opinion of Monsieur le Maire,” said Aristide rebukingly, “and that is enough.”
When they reached the house—distances are short in Perpignan—they found policemen busily engaged with tape measures around the premises. Old Madame Coquereau in a clean white linen dressing jacket, bare-headed, defying the keen air, stood grim and eager in the midst of them.
“Good morning, Monsieur Pujol, what do you think of this?”