PRIVATE ROOM NUMBER SIX
The night was black and rain was falling in torrents as Paul Coquenil and
the commissary rolled away in response to this startling summons of crime.
Up the Rue Mozart they sped with sounding horn, feeling their way carefully
on account of troublesome car tracks, then faster up the Avenue Victor
Hugo, their advance being accompanied by vivid lightning flashes.
"He was in luck to have this storm," muttered Coquenil. Then, in reply to
Pougeot's look: "I mean the thunder, it deadened the shot and gained time
for him."
"Him? How do you know a man did it? A woman was in the room, and she's
gone. They telephoned that."
The detective shook his head. "No, no, you'll find it's a man. Women are
not original in crime. And this is--_this is different_. How many murders
can you remember in Paris restaurants, I mean smart restaurants?"
M. Pougeot thought a moment. "There was one at the Silver Pheasant and one
at the Pavillion and--and----"
"And one at the Café Rouge. But those were stupid shooting cases, not
murders, not planned in advance."
"Why do you think _this_ was planned in advance?"
"Because the man escaped."
"They didn't say so."
Coquenil smiled. "That's how I know he escaped. If they had caught him
they would have told you, wouldn't they?"
"Why--er----"
"Of course they would. Well, think what it means to commit murder in a
crowded restaurant and get away. It means _brains_, Lucien. Ah, we're
nearly there!"
They had reached Napoleon's arch, and the automobile, swinging sharply to
the right, started at full speed down the Champs Elysées.
"It's bad for Gritz," reflected the commissary; then both men fell silent
in the thought of the emergency before them.
M. Gritz, it may be said, was the enterprising proprietor of the Ansonia,
this being the last and most brilliant of his creations for cheering the
rich and hungry wayfarer. He owned the famous Palace restaurant at Monte
Carlo, the Queen's in Piccadilly, London, and the Café Royal in Brussels.
Of all his ventures, however, this recently opened Ansonia (hotel and
restaurant) was by far the most ambitious. The building occupied a full
block on the Champs Elysées, just above the Rond Point, so that it was in
the center of fashionable Paris. It was the exact copy of a well-known
Venetian palace, and its exquisite white marble colonnade made it a real
adornment to the gay capital. Furthermore, M. Gritz had spent a fortune on
furnishings and decorations, the carvings, the mural paintings, the rugs,
the chairs, everything, in short, being up to the best millionaire
standard. 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 sort of a woman was she? A lady or--or not?"
Joseph clucked his tongue admiringly. "She was a lady, all right. And a
stunner! Eyes and--shoulders and--um-m!" He described imaginary feminine
curves with the unction of a male dressmaker. "Oh, there's one thing more!"
"You can tell me later. Now, doctor, we'll look at the room. I'll need you,
Leroy, and you and you." He motioned to his secretary and to two of his
men.
Dr. Joubert, bowing gravely, opened the door of Number Six, and the
commissary entered, followed by his scribe, a very bald and pale young man,
and by the two policemen. Last came the doctor, closing the door carefully
behind him.
It was the commissary's custom on arriving at the scene of a crime to
record his first impressions immediately, taking careful note of every fact
and detail in the picture that seemed to have the slightest bearing on the
case. These he would dictate rapidly to his secretary, walking back and
forth, searching everywhere with keen eyes and trained intelligence,
especially for signs of violence, a broken window, an overturned table, a
weapon, and noting all suspicious stains--mud stains, blood stains, the
print of a foot, the smear of a hand and, of course, describing carefully
the appearance of a victim's body, the wounds, the position, the expression
of the face, any tearing or disorder of the garments. Many times these
quick, haphazard jottings, made in the precious moments immediately
following a crime, had proved of incalculable value in the subsequent
investigation.
In the present case, however, M. Pougeot was fairly taken aback by the
_lack_ of significant material. Everything in the room was as it should be,
table spread with snowy linen, two places set faultlessly among flowers and
flashing glasses, chairs in their places, pictures smiling down from the
white-and-gold walls, shaded electric lights diffusing a pleasant glow--in
short, no disorder, no sign of struggle, yet, there, stretched at full
length on the floor near a pale-yellow sofa, lay a man in evening dress,
his head resting, face downward, in a little red pool. He was evidently
dead.
"Has anything been disturbed here? Has anyone touched this body?" demanded
Pougeot sharply.
"No," said the doctor; "Gibelin came in with me, but neither of us touched
anything. We waited for you."
"I see. Ready, Leroy," and he proceeded to dictate what there was to say,
dwelling on two facts: that there was no sign of a weapon in the room and
that the long double window opening on the Rue Marboeuf was standing open.
"Now, doctor," he concluded, "we will look at the body."
Dr. Joubert's examination established at once the direct cause of death.
The man, a well-built young fellow of perhaps twenty-eight, had been shot
in the right eye, a ball having penetrated the brain, killing him
instantly. The face showed marks of flame and powder, proving that the
weapon--undoubtedly a pistol--had been discharged from a very short
distance.
This certainly looked like suicide, although the absence of the pistol
pointed to murder. The man's face was perfectly calm, with no suggestion of
fright or anger; his hands and body lay in a natural position and his
clothes were in no way disordered. Either he had met death willingly, or it
had come to him without warning, like a lightning stroke.
"Doctor," asked the commissary, glancing at the open window, "if this man
shot himself, could he, in your opinion, with his last strength have thrown
the pistol out there?"
"Certainly not," answered Joubert. "A man who received a wound like this
would be dead before he could lift a hand, before he could wink."
"Ah!"
"Besides, a search has been made underneath that window and no pistol has
been found."
"It must be murder," muttered Pougeot. "Was there any quarreling with the
woman?"
"Joseph says not. On the contrary, they seemed on the friendliest terms."
"Hah! See what he has on his person. Note everything down. We must find out
who this poor fellow was."
[Illustration: "On the floor lay a man."]
These instructions were carefully carried out, and it straightway became
clear that robbery, at any rate, had no part in the crime. In the dead
man's pockets was found a considerable sum of money, a bundle of five-pound
notes of the Bank of England, besides a handful of French gold. On his
fingers were several valuable rings, in his scarf was a large ruby set
with diamonds, and attached to his waistcoat was a massive gold medal that
at once established his identity. He was Enrico Martinez, a Spaniard widely
known as a professional billiard player, and also the hero of the terrible
Charity Bazaar fire, where, at the risk of his life, he had saved several
women from the flames. For this bravery the city of Paris had awarded him a
gold medal and people had praised him until his head was half turned.
So familiar a figure was Martinez that there was no difficulty in finding
witnesses in the restaurant able to identify him positively as the dead
man. Several had seen him within a few days at the Olympia billiard
academy, where he had been practicing for a much-advertised match with an
American rival. All agreed that Martinez was quite the last man in Paris to
take his own life, for the simple reason that he enjoyed it altogether too
much. He was scarcely thirty and in excellent health, he made plenty of
money, he was fond of pleasure, and particularly fond of the ladies and had
no reason to complain of bad treatment at their hands; in fact, if the
truth must be told, he was ridiculously vain of his conquests among the
fair sex, and was always saying to whoever would listen: "Ah, _mon cher_, I
have met a woman! But _such_ a woman!" Then his dark eyes would glow and he
would snap his thumb nail under an upper tooth, with an expression of
ravishing joy that only a Castilian billiard player could assume. And, of
course, it was always a different woman!
"Aha!" muttered the commissary. "There may be a husband mixed up in this.
Call that waiter again, and--er--we will continue the examination
outside."
With this they removed to the adjoining private room, Number Five, leaving
a policeman at the door of Number Six until proper disposal of the body
should be made.
In the further questioning of Joseph the commissary brought out several
important facts. The waiter testified that, after serving the soup to
Martinez and the lady, he had not left the corridor outside the door of
Number Six until the moment when he entered the room and discovered the
crime. During this interval of perhaps a quarter of an hour he had moved
down the corridor a short distance, but not farther than the door of Number
Four. He was sure of this because one of the doors to the banquet room was
just opposite the door of Number Four, and he had stood there listening to
a Fourth-of-July speaker who was discussing the relations between France
and America. Joseph, being something of a politician, was greatly
interested in this.
"Then this banquet-room door was open?" questioned Pougeot.
"Yes, sir, it was open about a foot--some of the guests wanted air."
"How did you stand as you listened to the speaker? Show me." M. Pougeot led
Joseph to the banquet-room door.
"Like this," answered the waiter, and he placed himself so that his back
was turned to Number Six.
"So you would not have seen anyone who might have come out of Number Six at
that time or gone into Number Six?"
"I suppose not."
"And if the door of Number Six had opened while your back was turned, would
you have heard it?"
Joseph shook his head. "No, sir; there was a lot of applauding--like
that," he paused as a roar of laughter came from across the hall.
The commissary turned quickly to one of his men. "See that they make less
noise. And be careful no one leaves the banquet room _on any excuse_. I'll
be there presently." Then to the waiter: "Did you hear any sound from
Number Six? Anything like a shot?"
"No, sir."
"Hm! It must have been the thunder. Now tell me this, could anyone have
passed you in the corridor while you stood at the banquet-room door without
your knowing it?"
Joseph's round, red face spread into a grin. "The corridor is narrow, sir,
and I"--he looked down complacently at his ample form--"I pretty well fill
it up, don't I, sir?"
"You certainly do. Give me a sheet of paper." And with a few rapid pencil
strokes the commissary drew a rough plan of the banquet room, the corridor,
and the seven private dining rooms. He marked carefully the two doors
leading from the banquet room into the corridor, the one where Joseph
listened, opposite Number Four, and the one opposite Number Six.
"Here you are, blocking the corridor at Number Four"; he made a mark on the
plan at that point. "By the way, are there any other exits from the banquet
room except these two corridor doors?"
"No, sir."
"Good! Now pay attention. While you were listening at this door--I'll mark
it _A_--with your back turned to Number Six, a person _might_ have left the
banquet room by the farther door--I'll mark it _B_--and stepped across the
corridor into Number Six without your seeing him. Isn't that true?"
"Yes, sir, it's possible."
"Or a person might have gone into Number Six from either Number Five or
Number Seven without your seeing him?"
[Illustration: West Wing of Ansonia Hotel--First Floor. Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5,
6, 7. Private dining rooms opening on corridor H H.
No. 6. Private dining room where body was found.
F. Large dining room occupied at time of tragedy by Americans gathered at
Fourth-of-July banquet.
C. Seat at banquet occupied by Kittredge and left vacant by him.
A, B. Two doors opening into corridor from banquet room.
D. Point in corridor where the waiter Joseph stood with back turned to No.
6 while he looked through door A during Fourth-of-July speeches.
X, Y. Arrows show direction taken by man and woman who passed Joseph in
corridor going out.]
"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.
All eyes turned to this empty chair, and heads came together in excited
whispers.
"Bring me a plan of the tables," he continued, and when this was spread
before him: "I will read off the names marked here, and each one of you
will please answer."
In tense silence he called the names, and to each one came a quick "Here!"
until he said "Kittredge!"
There was no answer.
"Lloyd Kittredge!" he repeated, and still no one spoke.
"Ah!" he muttered and went on calling names, but no one else was missing.
"All here but M. Kittredge. He _was_ here, and--he went out. I must know
why he went out, I must know when he went out--exactly when; I must know
how he acted before he left, what he said--in short, I must know all you
can tell me about him. Remember, the best service you can render your
friend is to speak freely. If he is innocent, the truth will protect him"
Then began a wearisome questioning of witnesses, not very fruitful, either,
for these Americans developed a surprising ignorance touching their
fellow-countryman and all that concerned him. It must have been about nine
o'clock when he went out, perhaps a few minutes earlier. No, there had been
nothing peculiar in his actions or manner; in fact, most of the guests had
not even noticed his absence.
As to Kittredge's life and personality the result was scarcely more
satisfactory. He had appeared in Paris about a year before, just why was
not known, and had passed as a good fellow, perhaps a little wild and
hot-headed. Strangely enough, no one could say where Kittredge lived; he
had left rather expensive rooms near the boulevards that he had occupied at
first, and since then he had almost disappeared from his old haunts. Some
said that his money had given out and he had gone to work, but this was
only vague rumor.
These facts having been duly recorded, the banqueters were informed that
they might depart, which they did in silence, the spirit of festivity
having vanished.
Inquiries were now made in the hotel about Kittredge's movements, but
nothing came to light except the statement of a big, liveried doorkeeper,
who remembered distinctly the sudden appearance at about nine o'clock of a
young man who was very anxious to get a cab. The storm was then at its
height, and the doorkeeper had advised the young man to wait, feeling sure
the tempest would cease as suddenly as it had begun; but the latter,
apparently ill at ease, had insisted that he must go at once; he said he
would find a cab himself, and turning up his collar so that his face was
almost hidden, and drawing his thin overcoat tight about his evening dress,
he had dashed into the black downpour, and a moment later the doorkeeper,
surprised at this eccentric behavior, saw the young man hail a passing
_fiacre_ and drive away.
At this point in the investigation the unexpected happened. One of the
policemen burst in to say that some one had called for the lady's cloak and
bag. It was a young man with a check for the things; he was waiting for
them now in the cloakroom and he seemed nervous.
"Well?" snapped the commissary.
"I was going to arrest him, sir," replied the other eagerly, "but----"
"Will you never learn your business?" stormed Pougeot. "Does Gibelin know
this?"
"Yes, sir, we just told him."
"Send Joseph here--quick." And to the waiter when he appeared: "Tell the
woman in the cloakroom to let this young man have the things. Don't let him
see that you are suspicious, but take a good look at him."
"Yes, sir. And then?"
"And then nothing. Leave him to Gibelin."
A moment later Joseph returned to say that he had absolutely recognized the
young man downstairs as the one who had passed him in the corridor,
François was positive he was the missing banquet guest. In other words,
they were facing this remarkable situation: that the cloak and leather bag
left by the mysterious woman of Number Six had now been called for by the
very man against whom suspicion was rapidly growing--Lloyd Kittredge
himself.