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."

"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?"

"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.