“A disgusting joke this! If someone should take into his head to enter the room at this moment, what kind of explanation could I give? Here I am, alone with the dead body of a man I know, and in a room I don’t know, in a neighbourhood whose whereabouts I know no more than the man in the moon.

“Where am I?... In whose house?... For what purpose?... Have those beauties of last night a suspicion of the truth?... Did they leave me in this lair of theirs on purpose, knowing I was cooped up inside the trunk?” Just then, Fandor felt a slight moisture on the palm of his hand: it was all red – the scratches, made by the jagged edges of the wickerwork, were still bleeding.

“Better and better, I declare!” murmured Fandor. “If I don’t look like a little holy Saint John! A corpse, and a man with blood on his hands seated beside the dead body of this murdered man! Nothing more is required to jail me with all the power of the law!... To go to prison under such suspicious circumstances is serious!... The police, who are floundering about in a maze of investigations, without any result so far, will be only too delighted to kill two birds with one stone – to suppress a nosy journalist and discover a criminal!... I have got to get out of here; that is plain as day!... Get away? Yes, but with a plan!... I must establish an alibi – that is absolutely necessary... I like to think that my false police inspector and his accomplice have cut and run for some time; at any rate, that they will be in no hurry to come back to see what is happening where they have so neatly and nicely left the corpse of this Thomery... What part did this fellow play in the drama?... Criminal or victim?” Fandor had reached the door of the hall opening on to the main staircase. He was listening... He had explored the flat. It was empty. He had found water in the kitchen, had washed his face, and removed every trace of blood from his person. It was a flat suitable for a middle-class household. There were three large rooms, decorated with a certain amount of luxury.

Fandor looked at his watch. It was seven o’clock. He stood listening. Someone, a man, was coming downstairs: someone, a woman, was coming up. They met on the landing just outside.

“Monsieur Mercadier, here are your letters! I was bringing them up to you!”

“It was hardly worthwhile, my good lady. I have to come down, you see, so you can save yourself five flights of stairs.” “Oh, no, monsieur! I have to come up to go down my stairs.”

Monsieur Mercadier continued to descend, and the portress continued to mount.