Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 6, June 1999

“Who are you?” repeated Pancaldi. “Where do you come from?”

“From up there,” he said very amiably, pointing to the ceiling.

“From up there?”

“Yes, from the first floor. I have been the tenant of the floor above this for the past three months. I heard a noise just now. Someone was calling out for help. So I came down.”

“But how did you get in here?”

“By the staircase.”

“What staircase?”

“The iron staircase at the end of the shop. The man who owned it before you had a flat on my floor and used to go up and down by that hidden staircase. You had the door shut off. I opened it.”

“But by what right, sir? It amounts to breaking in.”

“Breaking in is allowed when there’s a fellow creature to be rescued.”

“Once more, who are you?”

“Prince Rénine... and a friend of this lady’s,” said Rénine, bending over Hortense and kissing her hand.

Pancaldi seemed to be choking, and mumbled, “Oh, I understand!... You instigated the plot... it was you who sent the lady.”

“It was, M. Pancaldi, it was!”

“And what are your intentions?”

“My intentions are irreproachable. No violence. Simply a little interview. When that is over, you will hand over what I in my turn have come to fetch.”

“What?”

“The clasp.”

“That, never!” shouted the dealer.

“Don’t say no. It’s a foregone conclusion.”

“No power on earth, sir, can compel me to do such a thing!”

“Shall we send for your wife? Madame Pancaldi will perhaps realize the position better than you do.”

The idea of no longer being alone with this unexpected adversary seemed to appeal to Pancaldi. There was a bell on the table beside him. He struck it three times.

“Capital!” exclaimed Rénine. “You see, my dear, M. Pancaldi is becoming quite amiable. Not a trace left of the devil broken loose who was going for you just now. No, M. Pancaldi only has to find himself dealing with a man to recover his qualities of courtesy and kindness. A perfect sheep! Which does not mean that things will go quite of themselves. Far from it! There’s no more obstinate animal than a sheep.”

Right at the end of the shop, between the dealer’s writing desk and the winding staircase, a curtain was raised, admitting a woman who was holding a door open. She might have been thirty years of age. Very simply dressed, she looked, with the apron on her, more like a cook than like the mistress of a household. But she had an attractive face and a pleasing figure. Hortense, who had followed Rénine, was surprised to recognize her as a maid whom she had had in her service when a girl.

“What! Is that you, Lucienne? Are you Mme. Pancaldi?”

The newcomer looked at her, recognized her also, and seemed embarrassed. Rénine said to her, “Your husband and I need your assistance, Mme. Pancaldi, to settle a rather complicated matter... a matter in which you played an important part.”

She came forward without a word, obviously ill at ease, asking her husband, who did not take his eyes off her, “What is it?... What do they want with me?... What is he referring to?”

“It’s about the clasp!” Pancaldi whispered under his breath.

These few words were enough to make Mme. Pancaldi realize to the full the seriousness of her position. And she did not try to keep her countenance or to retort with futile protests. She sank into a chair, sighing, “Oh, that’s it!... I understand... Mlle. Hortense has found the track... Oh, it’s all up with us!”