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Updated: May 9, 2025
A few moments later they returned with a thin, sleepy little person wrapped in a red dressing gown. It was the shrimp. "There!" exclaimed Papa Tignol with a gesture of satisfaction. The photographer, under the spell of Pougeot's authority, stood meekly for inspection, while Coquenil, holding a candle close, studied the marks on his face.
What should the commissary do? For a week the trial dragged slowly with various delays and adjournments, during which time, to Pougeot's delight, Coquenil began to mend rapidly. The doctor assured the commissary that in a few days he should have a serious talk with the patient. A few days!
In this emergency Coquenil himself came unexpectedly to Pougeot's relief; instead of the apathy or indifference he had shown for days, he suddenly developed his old keen interest in the case, and one morning insisted on knowing how things were going and what the prospects were.
"I know, but I'd sooner you spoke to him." "Good. I'll be back in a moment," and pushing his way through the crowd of sensation seekers that blocked the sidewalk, he disappeared inside the building. M. Pougeot's moment was prolonged to five full minutes, and when he reappeared his face was black. "Such stupidity!" he stormed. "It's what I expected," answered Coquenil.
"He was in luck to have this storm," muttered Coquenil. Then, in reply to Pougeot's look: "I mean the thunder, it deadened the shot and gained time for him." "Him? How do you know a man did it? A woman was in the room, and she's gone. They telephoned that." The detective shook his head. "No, no, you'll find it's a man. Women are not original in crime. And this is this is different.
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