I rang the bell for the concierge, and asked him if there were any rooms
to let in the house. I knew already that there were, for I could see the
advertisement of "_Chambres a louer_" staring me in the face: but I
spoke French as badly as I could, making three mistakes to every
sentence, and begged the man to talk slowly in answering me.
There were several rooms to be had, it appeared, but it would have been
too good to be true that the one I wanted should be empty. After we had
jabbered awhile, I made the concierge understand that I was a young
American journalist, employed by a New York paper. I wanted to "write
up" the murder of last night, according to my own ideas, and as of
course the police wouldn't let me go into the room where it happened,
the next best thing would be to take the room close to it, in the house
adjoining. I wanted to be there only long enough to "get the emotion,
the sensation," I explained, so as to make my article really dramatic.
Would the people who occupied that room let it to me for a few hours?
Long before bedtime they could have it back again, if I got on well with
my writing.
The concierge, to whom I gave ten francs as a kind of retaining fee, was
almost sure the occupants of the room (an old man and his wife) would
willingly agree to such a proposal, if I paid them well enough for their
trouble in turning out.
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