The Case of the Dead Diplomat by Basil Thomson Page A

together.”
    They walked back to the police station, making a little detour to pass a photographer’s shop, where Bigot left the film to be developed. Back at their table the two British detectives engaged in the familiar and fascinating game of re-constructing a document out of torn paper. The trick consists, of course, in getting all the outside borders into their proper positions; that gives the size of the sheet, and the rest of the work becomes comparatively easy. It was obvious that the torn-up scraps had belonged to the same document; there were no odd scraps in the basket.
    â€œHallo!” exclaimed Cooper. “Here’s an address.”
    â€œAn address is always something.”
    â€œYes, but look, this address is embossed— Cercle Interallié , Faubourg St. Honoré. I know the place; it’s a club, almost next door to the British Embassy; but, as you see, the document itself is written in French.”
    â€œLet’s get on with our piecing, and then we shall know what the document was.”
    They went on working at their game for another half-hour before Cooper found himself in a position to read the document aloud. It consisted of note of a story compromising to a member of the French Cabinet at the time.
    â€œI wonder whether a French police station runs to a pot of paste,” said Richardson. “This document is written on one side only, so we can paste it down on ordinary thick paper, and not on transparent flimsy as we have sometimes to do at home. See whether you can rout out Bigot and scare a pot of paste out of him.”
    Two minutes later Cooper returned, carrying a paste-pot in triumph. Paste appeared to be a commodity very largely used by French officials.
    â€œWe must get on with our pasting,” he said, “or we shall have the inspector on our backs. He wants to see the result of our piecing game.”
    Actually the inspector followed close upon Cooper’s heels, and was able to watch the re-construction of the document with the paste-pot.
    â€œIt is in French,” he exclaimed with relief. “Then I shall be able to read it. Do you think it has anything to do with the letter signed ‘P.C’?”
    â€œYes, monsieur; it has, in our opinion, everything to do with it. ‘P.C.,’ whoever he may have been, must have met Mr. Everett at the club, where every member of the British Embassy staff is an honorary member, and ‘P.C.’ wrote out the story then and there for the information of the British ambassador. Then, for some reason, ‘P.C.’ must have changed his mind and insisted upon the destruction of the note in his presence. That is how we interpret the two documents. The date can be fixed only by going to the club, where the names of all guests of members are recorded.”
    A taxi set down the party at the gate of the courtyard, and Cooper suggested that Bigot should enter the club alone; three men interviewing the porter simultaneously might attract too much attention, whereas one would attract none. Bigot acquiescing, the two Englishmen walked towards the British Embassy to see how Mr. Gregory was disposing of his reporters. The tide was on the wane, for the little crowd at the gate in the morning had dwindled to a single photographer, who might be bent upon securing portraits of the two foreigners who had been seen to go in, but not to come out again. They retraced their steps to the club. Bigot emerged triumphant. He had found in the visitors’ book the name of Frank Everett, and Paul Chabrol as his luncheon guest, and this had been on Monday, the first of October. All that now remained was to find M. Paul Chabrol and hear what he had to say.
    â€œThat will be my task,” said Bigot. “Also I shall call for those photographs that we left to be developed this morning; they may yield some light on this mysterious affair.”
    â€œNow that we are so near the Embassy,” said Richardson,