"Is that harder than to influence the Brazilian Government? Do you think Rio Janeiro offered me a hundred thousand francs a year just for my beautiful eyes?"
"You're a great detective."
"A great detective repudiated by his own city. That's another point: why should the police department discharge me two years ago and recommend me now to a foreign city? Don't you see the same hand behind it all?"
M. Pougeot stroked his gray mustache in puzzled meditation. "It's queer," he muttered; "but——"
In spite of himself the commissary was impressed.
After all, he had seen strange things in his life, and, better than anyone, he had reason to respect the insight of this marvelous mind.
"Then the gist of it is," he resumed uneasily, "you think some great crime is preparing?"
"Don't you?" asked Coquenil abruptly.
"Why—er—" hesitated the Other.
"Look at the facts again. Some one wants me off the detective force, out of France. Why? There can be only one reason—because I have been successful in unraveling intricate crimes, more successful than other men on the force. Is that saying too much?"
The commissary replied impatiently: "It's conceded that you are the most skillful detective in France; but you're off the force already. So why should this person send you to Brazil?"
M. Paul thought a moment. "I've considered that. It is because this crime will be of so startling and unusual a character that it must attract my attention if I am here. And if it attracts my attention as a great criminal problem, it is certain that I will try to solve it, whether on the force or off it."
"Well answered!" approved the other; he was coming gradually under the spell of Coquenil's conviction. "And when—when do you think this crime may be committed?"
"Who can say? There must be great urgency to account for their insisting that I sail to-morrow. Ah, you didn't know that? Yes, even now, at this very moment, I am supposed to be on the steamer train, for the boat goes out early in the morning before the Paris papers can reach Cherbourg."
M. Pougeot started up, his eyes widening. "What!" he cried. "You mean that—that possibly—to-night?"
As he spoke a sudden flash of light came in through the garden window, followed by a resounding peal of thunder. The brilliant sunset had been followed by a violent storm.
Coquenil paid no heed to this, but answered quietly: "I mean that a great fight is ahead, and I shall be in it. Somebody is playing for enormous stakes, somebody who disposes of fortune and power and will stop at nothing, somebody who will certainly crush me unless I crush him. It will be a great case, Lucien, my greatest case, perhaps my last case." He stopped and looked intently at his mother's picture, while his lips moved inaudibly.
"Ugh!" exclaimed the commissary. "You've cast a spell over me. Come, come, Paul, it may be only a fancy!"
But Coquenil sat still, his eyes fixed on his mother's face. And then came one of the strange coincidences of this extraordinary case. On the silence of this room, with its tension of overwrought emotion, broke the sharp summons of the telephone.
"My God!" shivered the commissary. "What is that?" Both men sat motionless, their eyes fixed on the ominous instrument.
Again came the call, this time more strident and commanding. M. Pougeot aroused himself with an effort. "We're acting like children," he muttered. "It's nothing. I told them at the office to ring me up about nine." And he put the receiver to his ear. "Yes, this is M. Pougeot.... What?... The Ansonia?... You say he's shot?... In a private dining room?... Dead?... Quel malheur!"... Then he gave quick orders: "Send Papa Tignol over with a doctor and three or four agents. Close the restaurant. Don't let anyone go in or out. Don't let anyone leave the banquet room. I'll be there in twenty minutes. Good-by."
He put the receiver down, and turning, white-faced, said to his friend: "It has happened."
Coquenil glanced at his watch. "A quarter past nine. We must hurry." Then, flinging open a drawer in his desk: "I want this and—this. Come, the automobile is waiting."
Chapter III.
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