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“Listen, Torrence, if you go on beating your gums like that, I’m going to go and lie outside on the landing.”

Now, let’s see... Inasmuch as... Because of Torrence’s volubility, Emile has to keep starting his reasoning over from the beginning. Inasmuch as this woman has committed thirteen jewelry-shop burglaries; inasmuch as she can afford two rooms in a large Paris hotel; inasmuch as none of the jewels has been sold; inasmuch as they quite apparently are nowhere in the hotel...

“Give me a cup of coffee, will you, Torrence?”

What was it that Baldhead Teddy did in such a case? This is something we don’t know, for he never discussed his modus operandi with anyone. But one thing at least Emile is sure the girl was not lying about: She really is the daughter of Baldhead Teddy. And she may very well have undertaken this series of burglaries to amass enough money to buy her father’s way out of jail.

It all makes sense. It has the ring of truth...

Very well! Then, now she is in Paris. She pulls off her first job successfully, the one on Boulevard de Strasbourg. Then the burglaries follow one another, on an almost weekly basis.

What does she do with her loot? That is the main question.

What does she do with the jewels until she has gotten together enough of them to meet her needs, so she can go abroad and sell them?

As if he were himself following his boss’s train of thought, Torrence announces while preparing another pot of coffee: “She must have another pad someplace in Paris.”

“I would lay money she doesn’t.”

Why? First of all, because she is too smart for that. And also because she is using the modus operandi that her father, who was caught only once during a whole long career, perfected with the utmost care.

And besides, even though Baldhead Teddy has been in prison for several months now, the police in the States have not yet come up with any of the jewels he stole!

For another thing, at her room in the Majestic, they found a valise with a secret compartment in the bottom, and in it a full set of burglar’s tools. If the girl had any other Parisian home, she would probably have left that compromising equipment there.

“Would you mind sitting down instead of walking back and forth like a bear in a circus?”

“I’m just trying to keep from falling asleep,” Torrence groans. “If we have to spend the whole night here...”

Now, let’s start all over again. This time, Emile does his thinking in the first person. He becomes the girl in question. He becomes the jewel thief. He has just pulled off his first successful job. He has the jewels in his pocket. They are not very cumbersome. He has taken only the most valuable stones, preferably only diamonds...

What will he do with them?

A large wrinkle creases his forehead. He is still staring at the same spot on the ceiling as if it were an obsession.

Necessarily, indispensably, these jewels must remain in a safe place for weeks on end, if not for months...

Necessarily, indispensably, if by any accident I am arrested, or followed, or if my whereabouts are discovered...

He feels he is getting close to the truth. Yes, he’s got it! She may come under suspicion; she may be tailed; her luggage may be searched; but what matters is that no proof against her can ever be found.

“Do you get it now, my little Torrence?”

Little Torrence, towering at six feet two over his skinny boss, looks at him wide-eyed.

“Do I get what?”

“How many branch post offices are there in Paris?”

“I don’t know. Maybe a hundred.”

“What time is it?”

“Four-thirty in the morning.”

“Would it upset you very much to have to wake up the Superintendent of the Criminal Division? You know he’d never turn down a request from a former associate of Inspector Maigret’s. Ask him to lend us for an hour, later this morning, just as many men as he can spare. You can’t imagine how urgent it is that this be done right away. The post offices open at eight o’clock, don’t they? Well, at each one of them... Yes, that’s it, I knew you understood. Let each man have a picture — just the head — no clothes. No, I don’t think I want any more coffee. Now, I’m going to get me some shut-eye, in the meantime...”

Paris begins to come to life. The fog has turned liquid, changed into a fine, freezing rain. The streets seem lacquered with it. A man who is still grumpy and sleepy at that very moment appears at each of the branch post offices, which the clerks have just opened.

“Criminal Division. Could you tell me whether recently a person that looks like this photograph...?”

Emile is snoring. One would never imagine that so skinny a young man could sleep so noisily. It is just before nine o’clock when Torrence shakes him awake.

“Boss!... Boss!...”

“Where?” Emile asks, immediately in command of his senses.

“Dunkerque. Hôtel Franco-Belge.”

“Quick. The phone!”

“The hotel?”

“Yes, the hotel, and also the Dunkerque police. Get a move on!”

They are both still dressed in last night’s tuxedos. The shirtfronts have lost their stiffness, and their beards have grown out. Torrence, moreover, has scattered ashes from his pipe over everything. The place smells like the morning after an all-night party, with dirty cups and bits of croissants lying around on the desks.

“Hello, operator, would you please connect me with number 180 in Dunkerque. And right after that, with number 243. Yes. Priority. Official business.”

Emile has gone back into his little office. He really is a directory freak. Let’s see, Dunkerque... It was eleven-thirty when she got out of The Pelican. Okay. No train to Dunkerque before 6:30 A.M. So, she couldn’t have gotten there yet by train.

On the other hand, what if she had gone by car? He checks the mileage on a road map, and does some quick mental arithmetic.

The phone rings.

“Boss! It’s the Hôtel Franco-Belge.”

“Hello! Is this the manager’s office? You say the manager isn’t there yet? You’re the cashier? This is the police speaking...”

No need to specify it’s just a private detective agency.

“Listen, madame. During the last few weeks, you must have received several small packets addressed to one of your guests, a Madame Olry, didn’t you?”

The cashier repeats the name.

“Madame Olry? Wait a minute, I’ll have to ask. I don’t handle the mail... Jean! Has there been any mail to hold for a Madame Olry?... What? What was that?... Yes, monsieur. You’re right. It seems she is a lady who writes to us from abroad and asks us to hold her mail for her here... Jean! Where did the lady’s letters come from?... Just a minute, monsieur... What was that, Jean? From Bern, Switzerland?”

And then her voice comes back stronger on the phone.

“From Bern, monsieur. It seems that several small mail packets have arrived for her... Just a moment, madame... Jean, would you please take care of madame?”

Intuition or what? Emile goes pale.

“Please don’t hang up! Madame! Cashier!... Tell me, weren’t you just talking to a woman guest of the hotel?”

“Yes, monsieur.”

“A woman who just drove up by car?”

“Just a minute. I’ll look and see... Yes, monsieur, there is a car outside the door. It’s a Paris taxi...”

“Please don’t talk so loud, madame, for the love of God! And don’t talk so much! Just listen to what I am saying. You must not let that woman get away. She is probably going to ask you for the mail you are holding for Madame Olry. It is absolutely imperative that you—”