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A theft in which nothing had been stolen; an invisible prisoner: what could be less satisfactory? It was late. M. de Gesvres asked the officials and the two journalists to stay to lunch. They ate in silence and then M. Filleul returned to the drawing room, where he questioned the servants.
The state of decomposition of the corpse but you don't seem to be listening " "Yes, yes." "What I say is based upon absolute reasons. Thus, for instance " M. Filleul continued his demonstrations, without, however, obtaining any more manifest marks of attention. But M. de Gesvres's return interrupted his monologue. The comte brought two letters.
"You know nothing more?" asked Beautrelet. "Nothing. I have only just arrived." At that moment, the sergeant of gendarmes came up to M. Filleul and handed him a crumpled, torn and discolored piece of paper, which he had picked up not far from the place where the scarf was found.
Take a shot at them, as if you were at a fair! Wait a bit this chap carrying his head in his hands " St. John the Baptist fell, shattered to pieces. "Oh!" shouted the count, pointing his revolver. "You young vandal! Those masterpieces!" "Sham, Monsieur le Comte!" "What? What's that?" roared M. Filleul, wresting the Comte de Gesvres's weapon from him. "Sham!" repeated Beautrelet.
M. Filleul looked him straight in the eyes and said, sharply: "No more jokes! Your name?" "Isidore Beautrelet." "Your occupation?" "Sixth-form pupil at the Lycee Janson-de-Sailly." M. Filleul opened a pair of startled eyes. "What are you talking about? Sixth-form pupil " "At the Lycee Janson, Rue de la Pompe, number " "Oh, look here," exclaimed M. Filleul, "you're trying to take me in!
M. Filleul examined certain further details in the room, put a few questions to the doctor and then asked M. de Gesvres to tell him what he had seen and heard. The count worded his story as follows: "Jean Daval woke me up.
Beautrelet let it down through the opening and fixed it, after groping among the fallen fragments. Holding the two uprights firmly: "Will you go down, M. Filleul?" he asked. The magistrate, holding a candle in his hand, ventured down the ladder. The Comte de Gesvres followed him and Beautrelet, in his turn, placed his foot on the first rung.
M. Filleul took the leather cap from the mantel, examined it and, beckoning to the sergeant of gendarmes, whispered: "Sergeant, send one of your men to Dieppe at once. Tell him to go to Maigret, the hatter, in the Rue de la Barre, and ask M. Maigret to tell him, if possible, to whom this cap was sold."
There was nothing more for Isidore to do, nothing except to defend himself against the enemy who was revealing himself with such brutal daring. He crossed his arms. "Good," mumbled the clerk. "And now let us waste no time." He took out his watch. "Our worthy M. Filleul will walk down to the gate. At the gate, he will find nobody, of course: no more public prosecutor than my eye.
She had a remarkable talent for painting, but she gave up the pursuit almost immediately after her marriage with M. Filleul, when the Queen made her Gatekeeper of the Castle of La Muette. Would that I could speak of the dear creature without calling her dreadful end to mind. Alas! how well I remember Mme.
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