He had the most high-priced chef in the world, with six chefs under him, two of whom made a specialty of American dishes. He had his own farm for vegetables and butter, his own vineyards, his own permanent orchestra, and his own brand of Turkish coffee made before your eyes by a salaaming Armenian in native costume. For all of which reasons the present somber happening had particular importance. A murder anywhere was bad enough, but a murder in the newest, the chic-est, and the costliest restaurant in Paris must cause more than a nine days' wonder. As M. Pougeot remarked, it was certainly bad for Gritz.
Drawing up before the imposing entrance, they saw two policemen on guard at the doors, one of whom, recognizing the commissary, came forward quickly to the automobile with word that M. Gibelin and two other men from headquarters had already arrived and were proceeding with the investigation.
"Is Papa Tignol here?" asked Coquenil.
"Yes, sir," replied the man, saluting respectfully.
"Before I go in, Lucien, you'd better speak to Gibelin," whispered M. Paul. "It's a little delicate. He's a good detective, but he likes the old-school methods, and—he and I never got on very well. He has been sent to take charge of the case, so—be tactful with him."
"He can't object," answered Pougeot. "After all, I'm the commissary of this quarter, and if I need your services——"
"I know, but I'd sooner you spoke to him."
"Good. I'll be back in a moment," and pushing his way through the crowd of sensation seekers that blocked the sidewalk, he disappeared inside the building.
M. Pougeot's moment was prolonged to five full minutes, and when he reappeared his face was black.
"Such stupidity!" he stormed.
"It's what I expected," answered Coquenil.
"Gibelin says you have no business here. He's an impudent devil! 'Tell Beau Cocono,' he sneered, 'to keep his hands off this case. Orders from headquarters.' I told him you had business here, business for me, and—come on, I'll show 'em."
He took Coquenil by the arm, but the latter drew back. "Not yet. I have a better idea. Go ahead with your report. Never mind me."
"But I want you on the case," insisted the commissary.
"I'll be on the case, all right."
"I'll telephone headquarters at once about this," insisted Pougeot. "When shall I see you again?"
Coquenil eyed his friend mysteriously. "I think you'll see me before the night is over. Now get to work, and," he smiled mockingly, "give M. Gibelin the assurance of my distinguished consideration."
Pougeot nodded crustily and went back into the restaurant, while Coquenil, with perfect equanimity, paid the automobile man and dismissed him.
Meantime in the large dining rooms on the street floor everything was going on as usual, the orchestra was playing in its best manner and few of the brilliant company suspected that anything was wrong. Those who started to go out were met by M. Gritz himself, and, with a brief hint of trouble upstairs, were assured that they would be allowed to leave shortly after some necessary formalities. This delay most of them took good-naturedly and went back to their tables.
As M. Pougeot mounted to the first floor he was met at the head of the stairs by a little yellow-bearded man, with luminous dark eyes, who came toward him, hand extended.
"Ah, Dr. Joubert!" said the commissary.
The doctor nodded nervously. "It's a singular case," he whispered, "a very singular case."
At the same moment a door opened and Gibelin appeared. He was rather fat, with small, piercing eyes and a reddish mustache. His voice was harsh, his manners brusque, but there was no denying his intelligence. In a spirit of conciliation he began to give M. Pougeot some details of the case, whereupon the latter said stiffly: "Excuse me, sir, I need no assistance from you in making this investigation. Come, doctor! In the field of his jurisdiction a commissary of police is supreme, taking precedence even over headquarters men." So Gibelin could only withdraw, muttering his resentment, while Pougeot proceeded with his duties.
In general plan the Ansonia was in the form of a large E, the main part of the second floor, where the tragedy took place, being occupied by public dining rooms, but the two wings, in accordance with Parisian custom, containing a number of private rooms where delicious meals might be had with discreet attendance by those who wished to dine alone. In each of the wings were seven of these private rooms, all opening on a dark-red passageway lighted by soft electric lamps. It was in one of the west wing private rooms that the crime had been committed, and as the commissary reached the wing the waiters' awe-struck looks showed him plainly enough which was the room—there, on the right, the second from the end, where the patient policeman was standing guard.
M. Pougeot paused at the turn of the corridor to ask some question, but he was interrupted by a burst of singing on the left, a roaring chorus of hilarity.
"It's a banquet party," explained the doctor, "a lot of Americans. They don't know what has happened."
"Hah!" reflected the other. "Just across the corridor, too!"
Then, briefly, the commissary heard what the witnesses had to tell him about the crime. It had been discovered half an hour before, more precisely at ten minutes to nine, by a waiter Joseph, who was serving a couple in Number Six, a dark-complexioned man and a strikingly handsome woman. They had arrived at a quarter before eight and the meal had begun at once. Oddly enough, after the soup, the gentleman told the waiter not to bring the next course until he rang, at the same time slipping into his hand a ten-franc piece. Whereupon Joseph had nodded his understanding—he had seen impatient lovers before, although they usually restrained their ardor until after the fish; still, ma foi, this was a woman to make a man lose his head, and the night was to be a jolly one—how those young American devils were singing!... so vive l'amour and vive la jeunesse! With which simple philosophy and a twinkle of satisfaction Joseph had tucked away his gold piece—and waited.
Ten minutes! Fifteen minutes! An unconscionably long time when you have a delicious sole à la Regence getting cold on your hands. Joseph knocked discreetly, then again after a decent pause, and finally, weary of waiting, he opened the door with an official cough of warning and stepped inside the room. A moment later he started back, his eyes fixed with horror.
"Grand Dieu!" he cried.
"You saw the body, the man's body?" questioned the commissary.
"Yes, sir," answered the waiter, his face still pale at the memory.
"And the woman? Where was the woman?"
"Ah, I forgot," stammered Joseph. "She had come out of the room before this, while I was waiting. She asked where the telephone was, and I told her it was on the floor below. Then she went downstairs—at least I suppose she did, for she never came back."
"Did anyone see her leave the hotel?", demanded Pougeot sharply, looking at the others.
"It's extraordinary," answered the doctor, "but no one seems to have seen this woman go out. M. Gibelin made inquiries, but he could learn nothing except that she really went to the telephone booth. The girl there remembers her."
Again Pougeot turned to the waiter.
"What
