That would save a bother at the hotel (for Aunt Lilian knew I had heaps of American friends who came every year to Paris), yet no one would know where to search for me, even if they were inclined.
Next, I drove to a street near the Rue de la Fille Sauvage, and dismissed my cab.

I asked for no directions, but after one or two mistakes, found the street I wanted.

Instead of going to the house of the murder, I passed on to the next house on the left--the house of the balcony almost adjoining the dead man's.
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.