Death had taken place some hours before.
The reporter had apparently conducted a small investigation of his own, but how much fact there was in what he narrated and how much fiction, it was hard to say.
He had questioned the concierge, and from her learnt that so far as she knew no women ever came to the apartment, but a certain number of men, chiefly young, and from this she had drawn her own conclusions.
Teddie Jordan was a good tenant, gave no trouble, and when in funds, was generous.
The knife had been thrust into his back with such violence that, according to the reporter, the police were convinced that the murderer must have been a man of powerful physique.
There were no signs of disorder in the room, which indicated that Jordan had been attacked suddenly and had had no chance to defend himself.
The knife was not found, but stains on the window curtain showed that it had been wiped on it.
The reporter went on to say that, though the police had looked with care, they had discovered no fingerprints; from this he concluded that the murderer had either wiped them away or worn gloves.
In the first case it showed great coolness and in the second premeditation.
The reporter had then gone on to Jojo’s Bar.
This was a small bar in a back street behind the Boulevard de la Madeleine, frequented by jockeys, bookmakers and betting men.
You could get simple fare, bacon and eggs, sausages and chops, and it was here that Jordan regularly had his meals.
It was here too that he did much of his business.
The reporter learnt that Jordan was popular among the bar’s frequenters.
He had his ups and downs, but when he had had a good day was open-handed.
He was always ready to stand anyone a drink and was hail-fellow-well-met with everyone.
All the same he had the reputation of being a pretty wily customer.
Sometimes he was up against it and then would run up a fairly heavy bill, but in the end he always paid up.
The reporter mentioned the concierge’s suspicions to Jojo, the proprietor of the bar, but was assured by him that there was no foundation for them.
He ended his graphic story by saying that the police were actively engaged in making inquiries and expected to make an arrest within twenty-four hours.
Lydia was terrified.
She did not doubt for a moment that Robert was guilty of the crime; she was as sure of that as if she had seen him commit it.
“How could he?
How could he?” she cried.
But she was startled at the sound of her own voice.
Even though the kitchen was empty she must not let her thoughts find expression.
Her first, her only feeling was that he must be saved from the terrible danger that faced him.
Whatever he had done, she loved him; nothing he could do would ever make her love him less.
When it occurred to her that they might take him from her she could have screamed with anguish.
Even at that moment she was intoxicated by the thought of his soft lips on hers and the feel of his slim body, still a boy’s body, in her arms.
They said the knife-thrust had shown great violence, and they were looking for a big, powerful man.
Robert was strong and wiry, but he was neither big nor powerful.
And then there was what the concierge suspected.
The police would hunt in the night-clubs and the cafes, in Montmartre and the Rue de Lappe, which the homosexuals frequented.
Robert never went to such places and no one knew better than she how far he was from any abnormal inclination.
It was true that he went a good deal to Jojo’s Bar, but so did many others; he went to get tips from the jockeys and better odds from the bookmakers than he was likely to get at the tote.
It was all above board.
There was no reason why suspicion should ever fall on him.
The trousers had been destroyed, and who would ever think that Madame Berger, with her thrift, had persuaded Robert to buy a second pair?
If the police discovered that Robert knew Jordan (and Jordan knew masses of people) and made an examination of the house (it was unlikely, but it might be that they would make enquiries of everyone with whom the bookmaker was known to have been friendly) they would find nothing.
Except that little packet of thousand-franc notes.
At the thought of them Lydia was panic-stricken.
It would be easy to ascertain that they had been in straitened circumstances.
Robert and she had always thought that his mother had a little hoard hidden away somewhere in her pavilion, but that doubtless had gone at the time Robert lost his job; if suspicion once fell on him it was inevitable that the police should discover what the trouble had been; and how then could she explain that she had several thousand francs?
Lydia did not know how many notes there had been in the packet.
Perhaps eight or ten.
It was a substantial sum to poor people.
It was a sum that Madame Berger, even though she knew how Robert had got the notes, would never have the courage to part with.
She would trust in her own cunning to hide them where no one would think of looking.
Lydia knew it would be useless to talk to her.