I wanted to "write up" the murder of last night, according to my own ideas, and as of course the police wouldn't let me go into the room where it happened, the next best thing would be to take the room close to it, in the house adjoining.

I wanted to be there only long enough to "get the emotion, the sensation," I explained, so as to make my article really dramatic.
Would the people who occupied that room let it to me for a few hours?
Long before bedtime they could have it back again, if I got on well with my writing.
The concierge, to whom I gave ten francs as a kind of retaining fee, was almost sure the occupants of the room (an old man and his wife) would willingly agree to such a proposal, if I paid them well enough for their trouble in turning out.
Would three louis be enough?
I asked.

The concierge--whose eyes brightened--thought that it would.

I knew by his look that he would take a large commission for managing the affair, as he quickly offered to do; but that didn't matter to me.
He confirmed my idea that it would have been hopeless to try and get into the room of the murder itself, even if I could have borne it, saying that the door, and window too, had been sealed by the police, who were also guarding the house from curiosity seekers; but he added that I could see the shut window from the balcony of the room I was going to hire.
I waited for him, and played with his very unattractive baby while he went upstairs to make enquiries.

He was gone for some time, explaining to the people; but at last, when my patience was almost too far strained, he came back to say that Monsieur and Madame Nissot had consented to go out of their room for the evening.