True Crime & Murder Mysteries Collection. Moffett Cleveland

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      "Excuse me, there was no one in Number Five during that fifteen minutes, and the party who had engaged Number Seven did not come."

      "Ah! Then if any stranger went into Number Six during that fifteen minutes he must have come from the banquet room?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "By this door, B?"

      "That's the only way he could have come without my seeing him."

      "And if he went out from Number Six afterwards, I mean if he left the hotel, he must have passed you in the corridor?"

      "Exactly." Joseph's face was brightening.

      "Now, did anyone pass you in the corridor, anyone except the lady?"

      "Yes, sir," answered the waiter eagerly, "a young man passed me."

      "Going out?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "Did you know where he came from?"

      "I supposed he came from the banquet room."

      "Did this happen before the lady went out, or after?"

      "Before."

      "Can you describe this young man, Joseph?"

      The waiter frowned and rubbed his red neck. "I think I should know him, he was slender and clean shaven—yes, I'm sure I should know him."

      "Did anyone else pass you, either going out or coming in?"

      "No, sir."

      "Are you sure?"

      "Absolutely sure."

      "That will do."

      Joseph heaved a sigh of relief and was just passing out when the commissary cried out with a startled expression: "A thousand thunders! Wait! That woman—what did she wear?"

      The waiter turned eagerly. "Why, a beautiful evening gown, sir, cut low with a lot of lace and——"

      "No, no. I mean, what did she wear outside? Her wraps? Weren't they in Number Six?"

      "No, sir, they were downstairs in the cloakroom."

      "In the cloakroom!" He bounded to his feet. "Bon sang de bon Dieu! Quick! Fool! Don't you understand?"

      This outburst stirred Joseph to unexampled efforts; he fairly hurled his massive body down the stairs, and a few moments later returned, panting but happy, with news that the lady in Number Six had left a cloak and leather bag in the cloakroom. These articles were still there.

      "Ah, that is something!" murmured the commissary, and he hurried down to see the things for himself.

      The cloak was of yellow silk, embroidered in white, a costly garment from a fashionable maker; but there was nothing to indicate the wearer. The bag was a luxurious trifle in Brazilian lizard skin, with solid-gold mountings; but again there was no clew to the owner, no name, no cards, only some samples of dress goods, a little money, and an unmarked handkerchief.

      "Don't move these things," directed M. Pougeot. "It's possible some one will call for them, and if anyone should call, why—that's Gibelin's affair. Now we'll see these Americans."

      It was a quarter past ten, and the hilarity of proceedings at the Fourth-of-July banquet (no ladies present) had reached its height. A very French-looking student from Bridgeport, Connecticut, had just started an uproarious rendering of "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean," with Latin-Quarter variations, when there came a sudden hush and a turning of heads toward the half-open door, through which a voice was heard in peremptory command. Something had happened, something serious, if one could judge by the face of François, the head waiter, who stood at the corridor entrance.

      "Not so fast," he insisted, holding the young men back, and a moment later there entered a florid-faced man with authoritative mien, closely followed by two policemen.

      "Horns of a purple cow!" muttered the Bridgeport art student, who loved eccentric oaths. "The house is pulled!"

      "Gentlemen," began M. Pougeot, while the company listened in startled silence, "I am sorry to interrupt this pleasant gathering, especially as I understand that you are celebrating your national holiday; unfortunately, I have a duty to perform that admits of no delay. While you have been feasting and singing, as becomes your age and the occasion, an act of violence has taken place within the sound of your voices—I may say under cover of your voices."

      He paused and swept his eyes in keen scrutiny over the faces before him, as if trying to read in one or the other of them the answer to some question not yet asked.

      "My friends," he continued, and now his look became almost menacing, "I am here as an officer of the law because I have reason to believe that a guest at this banquet is connected with a crime committed in this restaurant within the last hour or two."

      So extraordinary was this accusation and so utterly unexpected that for some moments no one spoke. Then, after the first dismay, came indignant protests; this man had a nerve to break in on a gathering of American citizens with a fairy tale like that!

      "Silence!" rang out the commissary's voice sharply. "Who sat there?" He pointed to a vacant seat at the long central table.

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