The two men mounted the steps leading to the ornate porch. On their right were the windows of a large room which formed the angle between the two streets.
‘You can see into that room rather too clearly for my taste,’ said Burnley. ‘Why, if that’s the drawing-room, as it looks to be by the furniture, every caller can see just who’s visiting there as they come up to the door.’
‘And conversely, I expect,’ returned Lefarge, ‘the hostess can see her visitors coming and be prepared for them.’
The door was opened by an elderly butler of typical appearance, respectability and propriety oozing out of every pore of his sleek face. Lefarge showed his card.
‘I regret M. Boirac is not at home, monsieur,’ said the man politely, ‘but you will probably find him at the works in the rue Championnet.’
‘Thanks,’ returned Lefarge, ‘we have just had an interview with Mr. Boirac, and it is really you we wish to see.’
The butler ushered them into a small sitting-room at the back of the hall.
‘Did you see an advertisement in this morning’s papers for the identification of a lady’s body?’
‘I am sorry to say it was that of your mistress.’
‘I feared as much, monsieur,’ he said in a low tone.
‘M. Boirac saw the advertisement also. He came just now to the Sûreté and identified the remains beyond any doubt. It is a painful case, for I regret to tell you she had been murdered in a rather brutal way, and now we are here with M. Boirac’s approval to make some inquiries.’
‘Murdered!’ he repeated in a horrified whisper. ‘It couldn’t be. No one that knew her could do that. Every one, messieurs, loved Madame. She was just an angel of goodness.’
The man spoke with real feeling in his voice and seemed overcome with emotion.
‘Well, messieurs,’ he continued, after a pause, ‘any help I can give you to get your hands on the murderer I’ll give with real delight, and I only hope you’ll succeed soon.’
‘I hope so too, François. We’ll do our best anyway. Now, please, will you answer some questions. You remember M. Boirac being called to the works on Saturday the 27th of March, the evening of the dinner party, at about a quarter to nine. That was about the time, wasn’t it?’
‘Then he telephoned at about half-past ten that he could not return until later. Was that about the time?’