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"It is, therefore, not astonishing that the physiognomy and the attitude of the man who drew the curtains in Monsieur Caffie's office should not leave my memory. You admit this, do you not?" "Since you consult me, I must tell you that the operations of the memory are not so simple as people imagine.
He hesitated a moment whether he should pick it up or leave it there; then looking all about him, and seeing no one in the deserted street, and hearing no sound of footsteps in the silence, he bent quickly and took it. Caffie's fate was decided. When, after two hours' sleep, Saniel woke, he did not at first think of this knife; he was tired and dull.
"But because I lost a button at Monsieur Caffie's, it does not follow that it was torn off in a struggle." "You have your theory, and you will make the most of it, but this is not the place. I have only one more question to ask: By what button have you replaced the one you lost?" "By the first one I came across." "Who sewed it on?" "I did."
But Florentin, and above all, Phillis, reminded him that the comfort he enjoyed he owed to Caffie's death, and he was troubled accordingly. He did not believe that the investigations of the law would reach him now; everything conspired to confirm him in his scrutiny.
Without doubt it was the book of Caffie's safe, simple and primitive, like everything relating to the old man's habits, governed by the narrowest economy in his expenses, as well as in his work. "According to this note-book," the commissioner said to his secretary, " thirty-five or thirty-six thousand francs must have been taken from the safe; but there are left deeds and papers for a large sum."
After Caffie's death this tranquil and refreshing sleep continued the same; but suddenly, after Madame Dammauville's death, it became broken. At first it did not bother him. He did not sleep, so much the better! He would work more. But one can no more work all the time than one can live without eating.
In this movement he made a discovery that destroyed all his calculations. Caffie's office was a small room with a high window looking into the court; never having been in this office except in the evening, he had not observed that this window had neither shutters nor curtains of muslin or of heavier stuff; there was nothing but the glass.
There is nothing to do." "Speak for yourself, doctor." And, stooping, he picked up the knife. "Is it not a butcher's knife?" asked Saniel, who could only use this word. "It looks like it." He had raised Caffie's head and examined the wound. "You see," he said, "that the victim has been butchered. The stroke was from left to right, by a firm hand which must be accustomed to handle this knife.
He started to go upstairs, accompanied by the concierge, the locksmith, and one of the policemen; Saniel wished to follow them, but the other policeman barred the way. "Pardon, Monsieur Commissioner," Saniel said. "What do you wish, sir?" "I am Monsieur Caffie's physician." "Your name?" "Doctor Saniel." "Let the doctor pass," the commissioner said, "but alone.
Also, it was not only to save Caffie's life that he argued, it was to save himself in grasping this loan. "I can only, to my great regret, repeat to you what I have already said, my dear sir. I have no ready money." And he held his jaw, groaning, as if this refusal aroused his toothache. Saniel rose; evidently there was nothing for him to do but to go.
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