Mangin’s mood wasn’t any better when he pounded on the nightclub door. His wet clothing clung to his shivering body. The proprietor, now really a caricature in his pantaloons and without his mask, opened the door, mumbling things like tragedy, unforeseen, innocent…
Mangin pushed him aside. Jollien would arrive any minute. The police quarters had been equipped with telephones five years ago, and Mangin had made a call from the Galerie des Machines. Jollien gave a magnificent show of anger and instructed him to get the high guest out of the joint immediately, before some journalist from one of those new tabloids got wind of the situation. Mangin walked through the now empty café toward the door beside the counter. The second room was also empty, except for the Fox and his fat butler. The Fo
