II
Kestner, who at times gave the appearance of being as lethargic as a blacksnake, could on occasions move with the astounding rapidity of that reptilious animal.
His activities during the hour that ensued stood proof enough of this. Within that brief space the Lamberts, father and daughter, had been shadowed to the restaurant where they gave every promise of dining; divers messengers had been despatched and interviewed; a number of pass-keys had been freshly cut from the diagrams pencilled on a gilt-edged carte des glaces from the Café de la Paix; an artfully worded telegram had lured Antonio Morello to the Gare de Lyon to meet an Italian confederate arriving unexpectedly from Milan, and a handsome pourboire had engaged the sympathetic attention of the concierge presiding over the entrance to that remarkably ramshackle old studio building in that ramshackle old court just off a side-street leading from the Boulevard Montparnasse in which the Lamberts were temporarily housed. One of the doors on the top floor of this building, in fact, bore the modest inscription
Paul Lambert, Graveur Sur Acier
and it was before this door that Kestner paused, listened, knocked, and then listened again. Taking out one of his newly cut keys, he inserted it in the lock, opened the door, and stepped inside.
14
