Through the Wall Part 7

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?"

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed you in the corridor?"

"Exactly." Joseph's face was brightening.

"Now, _did_ anyone pa.s.s you in the corridor, anyone except the lady?"

"Yes, sir," answered the waiter eagerly, "a young man pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sing 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 ma.s.sive 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 fas.h.i.+onable 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 Francois, 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."