The Crime of the French Café and Other Stories. Carter Nicholas

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      His face was as white as paper, and his lips were working as if he were saying something, but not a sound came from them.

      He was struck dumb with fright. Whatever it was that he had seen must have been horrible, to judge from the man's trembling limbs and distorted face.

      Nick had seen people in that condition before, and he did not waste time trying to get any information out of Gaspard.

      Instead, he seized the frightened fellow by the shoulder and pushed him along toward the front of the house.

      Gaspard made a feeble resistance. Evidently he did not want to see again the sight which had so terrified him.

      But he was powerless in Nick's grasp. In five seconds they stood before the open door of room B.

      The door was open, and there was a bright glare of gas within.

      It shone upon the table, where a rich repast lay untasted. It illumined the gaudy furnishings of the room and the costly pictures upon the walls.

      It shone, too, upon a beautiful face, rigid and perfectly white, except for a horrible stain of black and red upon the temple.

      The face was that of a woman of twenty-five years. She had very abundant hair of a light corn color, which clustered in little curls around her forehead, and was gathered behind in a great mass of plaited braids.

      She reclined in a large easy-chair, in a natural attitude, but the pallid face, the fixed and glassy eyes, and the grim wound upon the temple announced, in unmistakable terms, the presence of death.

      Nick drew a long breath and set his lips together firmly. He had felt that something was wrong in that house. The waiter who had run across the sidewalk and got into that carriage had borne a guilty secret with him, as the detective's experienced eye had instantly perceived.

      But this was a good deal worse than Nick had expected. He had looked for a robbery, or, perhaps, a secret and bloody quarrel between two of the waiters, but not for a murder such as this.

      One glance at the woman showed her to be elegant in dress and of a refined appearance.

      She could have had nothing in common with the missing Corbut, unless, indeed, he was other than he seemed.

      Certainly, whatever was Corbut's connection with the crime, there was another person, at least, as intimately concerned in it. And he, too, had fled.

      Where was the man who had brought this woman to this house? How was it possible to account for his absence except by the conclusion that he was the murderer?

      That was the first and most natural explanation. Whether it was the true one or not, the man must be found.

      Nick turned to Gaspard. The head waiter had sunk down on a chair by the table and seemed prostrated.

      From previous experience Nick knew Gaspard to be a man without nerve, and he was not surprised to find him prostrated by this sudden shock.

      There was a bottle of champagne standing in ice beside the table. The detective opened it and made Gaspard drink a glass of the sparkling liquor.

      It put a little heart into the man, and he was able to answer questions.

      Nick, meanwhile, closed the door of the room. Apparently the tragedy was known only to Gaspard and himself and to the guilty authors of it.

      "Did you see this woman when she came in?" asked Nick.

      "No."

      "Who showed her and the man with her to this room?"

      "Corbut."

      "Who waited on them?"

      "Corbut."

      "Who waited on the people in room A?"

      "Corbut."

      "They are gone, I suppose?"

      "Yes; I looked in there before I came in here."

      "Did you see any of these people?"

      "I saw the two men."

      "How did that happen?"

      "One of them came out into the hall to call Corbut, who had not answered the bell quick enough."

      "Which one was that?"

      "The man in room A."

      "How do you know?"

      "Because I saw the other man, later, coming out of room B."

      "This room?"

      "Yes."

      "You are sure of that?"

      "Perfectly."

      "Did he see you?"'

      "I think not. I was standing right at the corner of the two halls. The man came out and glanced around, but I stepped back quickly, because we do not like to appear to spy upon our guests. He did not see me."

      "What did he do?"

      "He went out the front way. I supposed the lady went with him, for I was sure that I heard the rustling of her dress."

      "Where was Corbut then?"

      "In room A."

      "How long did he stay there?"

      "Only a minute. I went back to the desk, and then was called by a waiter upstairs. Just as I turned to go I saw Corbut coming through the hall."

      "Did you speak to him?"

      "Yes; I called to him to stay by the desk while I went upstairs."

      "Did he answer?"

      "Yes; he said 'very well.'"

      "And that's the last you saw of him?"

      "Yes."

      "All right; so much for Corbut. Now for the two men. Would you know them?"

      "Not the man in room A. I didn't notice him particularly."

      "But how about the man who came out of this room? He's the one we're after."

      "I would know him," said Gaspard, slowly. "Yes; I feel sure that I could identify him."

      "That's good. Now for the crime itself. Go back to the desk and ring for a messenger. When he comes, send him here. Don't let anybody else come, and don't say a word to anybody about this affair."

      Gaspard, with a very pale face, went back to his desk.

      Nick remained alone with the beautiful dead.

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