"I wasn't looking, but that… It would be a painful night!"
From the panes of his window, observing the sick gray sky, at the Le Mans police station, Agent Bouhot has a bad feeling.
This February 2, 1933, the twilight excites the mad.
In the old town of the lupanars, the drunkards are cooling off on the sidewalk.
It screams, it swears.
When the door to the street opens.
A man in his sixties, looking panicked, enters with his son-in-law.
Mr. Lancelin, that's his name, wants to speak to the commissioner.
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"I live nearby, 6, rue Bruyère, and something abnormal is happening there."
The house is plunged into darkness, locked.
His wife and daughter should be there with the servants.
"However, we may ring, knock, call, no one answers!"
Two peacekeepers and a brigadier were dispatched to the scene.
One of them climbs the wall, forces a door and enters the camera, torch and revolver in hand.
At the stairs, the agent stifles a cry.
One eye lies on the first
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