PRIVATE ROOM NUMBER SIX


The night was black and rain was falling in torrents as Paul Coquenil and
the commissary rolled away in response to this startling summons of crime.
Up the Rue Mozart they sped with sounding horn, feeling their way carefully
on account of troublesome car tracks, then faster up the Avenue Victor
Hugo, their advance being accompanied by vivid lightning flashes.

"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_. How many murders
can you remember in Paris restaurants, I mean smart restaurants?"

M. Pougeot thought a moment. "There was one at the Silver Pheasant and one
at the Pavillion and--and----"

"And one at the Café Rouge. But those were stupid shooting cases, not
murders, not planned in advance."

"Why do you think _this_ was planned in advance?"

"Because the man escaped."