IHAD a look around the outer or waiting-room. Obviously, the old chap had an eye for good furniture, and knew a rug when he saw one; he had few of the gimcracks which crowd the usual office of the French professional man.
At one side of the room was a big, glass-doored cabinet, standing open.
An unmistakable loose-leaf album lay inside, and I could not resist the temptation to take it out and have a look.
Then I saw half a dozen other albums below. Glancing over the book, I found that Clancy had a superb collection of Great Britain and colonies, largely in blocks of four.
Then I put back the album, as he escorted his patient to the door, and turned to meet him.
“Isn't it rather injudicious to leave the cabinet open?” I asked.
“Nothing there worth your time or trouble,” he answered.
“Shut it, and come along inside. We'll have a chat, and get a bite to eat when the opportunity offers.”
He must have left the cabinet open by forgetfulness, since it had a spring lock, opening only to some intricate key.
He motioned me to the dental chair, and I declined promptly.
“Too reminiscent, thanks.”
“Please yourself.” He offered a cigarette. “Of course, our friend the prefect has caught the murderer by this time?”
“How did you know that?”
“It's the usual custom, unless the affair is something very simple or very big. Well, what happened?”

I told him, and he listened in silence until I had finished.
Then those bright gray eyes of his flamed suddenly.
“So you didn't think it unusual that the Premier would be calling on the chief of police, eh?”
I whistled. Now that he mentioned it, the incident was unusual—in the ordinary course of nature, it would have been the other way round. I said so, and he nodded.
“Of course, of course. However, the prefect is unlike the majority of his countrymen.
He is not a stamp collector. He collects something, of course—a Frenchman has to collect something—but he runs to coins.”
“Old or new?” I queried facetiously. Clancy chuckled.
“Old. Hm! Our little murder case, except for the Premier calling on the prefect, would be simple robbery—”
“How do you know the call has anything to do with this case?” I demanded.
“I don't. I just make a guess, my good friend! But yes, it would be simple robbery.”
He was silent for a moment, smoking thoughtfully, then he broke into explanation.
“Colette had a pair of the Niger Coast one-pound surcharge—of which only two copies were ever in existence. It is less known than the Mauritius 'post-office' stamp, but equally rare.
The two stamps were overprinted together, and one was subsequently torn off and used. What became of it is unknown; neither the sender nor the recipient was a collector, apparently.
The other one came into Colette's hands about six months ago.
He has advertised it at the price of twenty-five thousand dollars, but has not yet sold it. Thus, an apparent motive for robbery.”
“The police have arrested a man named Gersault, of the Apache class, on the strength of his fingerprints,” I reminded him.
“And Gersault will probably confess,” said Clancy. “We must look up everything and everyone connected with him, and lose valuable time—humph!
Meanwhile, we'd better get along to the late and lamented Colette's place.
When we have played our little parts to the satisfaction of M. le Préfet and his men, we'll begin the serious end of the business—humph!”

FOR the time being, he forgot me, and went into dreamy abstraction.
He reached down his black felt hat, put it on and made for the door, stroking his gray imperial. I followed him.
In two minutes we were in the Rue St. Honoré, and strode along till we reached the tiny shop of Colette.
The steel shutters were pulled down, leaving the only entrance at the rear, by way of the courtyard.
A gendarme stood there—not the usual agent, but the rarely seen gendarme, in all his glory—and he saluted Clancy at once. Clancy nodded recognition.
“Ah, the prefect sent you, eh?”
“To receive you, monsieur,” said the gendarme.
He took out a sheaf of papers and handed them to Clancy, who pocketed them impatiently.
“The formalities have been finished, but everything has been left untouched for your inspection.”
We went in, and he switched on the electric light.
Narrow-fronted as it was, the shop was twenty feet deep.
In the right-hand corner at the back, facing the rear entry, was a large safe.
Anyone standing at the safe would be invisible, for the entire window and front door were closed in by cards of stamps offered for sale.
Colette's body lay before the safe.
“Stabbed?” demanded Clancy abruptly.
The gendarme, who apparently had charge of the case, nodded.
“Under the left arm, monsieur. The main artery, not the heart.”
“Where is the knife?”
“Not found, monsieur, but it was no knife. It was a long, stiletto-like blade, very thin. The doctor could only judge from the nature of the wound.”
“Of course,” said Clancy. He had an irritating way of saying the two words, as though everything was clear to him.
After the two questions, he disregarded the body and turned his attention to the safe. “Gersault's fingerprints were found here?”
The gendarme nodded and showed us.
The safe door was partly open, and Clancy took a magnifying glass from his pocket, pushing open the door.
The shelves were filled with albums, small classeurs or pocketbooks for stamps, and loose sheets.
Below these was a row of small drawers, one standing open and empty. Clancy pointed down at it.
“Gersault's fingerprints there, also?”
“Yes, monsieur,” answered the gendarme.
“And on the front door also?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“How much money~did Gersault have on him when arrested?”
“Two thousand-franc notes, six hundred-franc notes, two ten-franc notes, eighteen francs in bronze, two ten-centime copper pieces, and two five-centime nickel pieces,” said the gendarme without hesitation.
“Also, five Italian thousand-lire notes.”
“Ah!” said Clancy in a curious tone. He turned and looked at me gravely. “Logan, never dare tell me these police are not efficient!”

HE went to the safe and peered into it, inquisitively.
On the upper shelf was a row of little books or carnets bound in morocco.
One projected slightly beyond its fellows, and it was bound in red, instead of in black like the others.
Clancy suddenly reached up and pulled it from its place, and gave it a quick examination.
Then he sniffed.
“So that's it!” he exclaimed. “There'd be no prints, of course—gloved hands.” He swept around and thrust it under my nose. “Know the smell?”
“Apple-blossom,” I said promptly, wondering what he was driving at.
“Hm! They're so used to scenting themselves—” He broke off, and handled the little carnet almost reverently.
“He kept his rarities in this. A true collector, Colette! Now, Logan, we'll see! Everything neat, immaculate, in the best French manner—except this little book of rarities! It's obvious. Everything's obvious!”
I watched him go through the little book page by page, entirely disregarding the two of us. Here and there he lifted a specimen carefully to inspect its back.
There were things in this booklet to make my fingers itch; the rare first printings of Newfoundland, French and English colonials, early Mauritius—all with prices penciled beneath, of from one to ten thousand francs, even more.
Clancy turned page after page. About two thirds of the way through, he came to a page on which was a ruled oblong in the center, but no stamp. Below the oblong was this inscription:

No. 37, Gibbons—10s., in black, on is—$25,000

The price of twenty-five thousand dollars, in dollars, showed that Colette had hoped to sell the vanished stamp to some American tourist or dealer.
One might have equally set a value on the unique Guiana rarity, on the Venus de Milo, or any other treasure of which only one specimen exists.
And Clancy examined this blank page very carefully with his magnifying glass, and then held it under my nose.
“Gloves save prints,” he observed grimly, “but they carry scent.”
Apple-blossom again. The gendarme, who spoke English fluently, smiled.
“M. Clancy has found something?”
“What I sought is not here,” said Clancy evasively, then his tone became sharper. “I have finished, m'sieur. If you question Gersault, you'll find that he'll confess to theft from this safe—”
“He has confessed, monsieur,” said the gendarme. “A copy is in the dossier I gave you.”
“Good,” said Clancy. “Take a look at the body, Logan.
The rest is a matter for the nose—the trained, inquisitive nose—and for plodding research.”
I looked at the dead man.
A small, swarthy, fat little chap, he had been one who dressed carefully for his business, with morning coat, starched front and cuffs—even a rosebud in his buttonhole.
The left arm was stretched out away from the body.
Under it, the coat had been pulled away, vest and underwear cut to permit examination of the wound.
From the man's immaculate appearance, I concluded he had been caught unawares. Whoever had looked at the wound had probably done the slight disarrangement visible—or so I thought.
“Come along, Logan,” said Clancy.