The Crime of the French Café and Other Stories - Carter Nicholas

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beg your pardon," said he; "I didn't quite understand what you said."

      The man's coolness made Nick even more in doubt about Gaspard's identification.

      After boarding the train they had walked through it hurriedly, and in the car next the engine Gaspard had clutched Nick's arm, whispering:

      "There is your man!"

      The person indicated was well-dressed, rather good-looking, and about thirty-five years old. There was nothing particularly striking about his appearance.

      It would have been easy to have found dozens of such men on lower Broadway any day.

      Nick feared a mistake. But Gaspard was sure.

      "I never forget a face," he said. "That is the man whom I saw coming out of room B. That is the murderer."

      The man was standing up and holding on to one of the straps. His profile was turned to them.

      Nick waited until he turned and showed his full face. The detective was bound to give Gaspard every chance to change his mind.

      But he remained firm, and at last Nick approached the accused and suddenly whispered the terrifying words in his ear.

      Having done so, he was obliged to carry it through. Therefore, when the stranger asked Nick to repeat what he had said, the detective, in a low voice, inaudible to anybody else in the car, told him what the accusation was.

      "This is ridiculous," said the man. "I read the story of this affair in the papers this morning, but I am not connected with it in any way. If you arrest me, you must be prepared to take the consequences."

      "I guess we can manage the affair quietly," said Nick, "and give you no trouble at all. I suppose you were going downtown to business?"

      "Yes."

      "Well, I will go along, too, if you don't mind."

      "By all means," said the man, and he looked much relieved.

      "I understand what your duty is," he continued. "Since this imported French jackass has made this charge, of course you'll have to look into it. Come down to the office and make some inquiries, and then go up to my flat. I was at home last evening after eight o'clock.

      "What did you do before that?"

      "I had dinner with my wife, and then put her aboard a train. She's gone away on a visit."

      "Where has she gone?"

      "No, sir; none of that. I don't propose to have a detective go flying after her to scare her to death. She keeps out of this mess, if I have any say about it."

      "But if you're arrested she'll hear about it and come back to the city."

      "I'm not going to be arrested. You're too sensible a man to do such a thing. I can see that.

      "Here we are. We get off at Franklin street. My place of business is just a little way up the street, toward Broadway."

      They left the train. Nick was beginning to feel that a mistake had been made. This man's easy manner and perfect confidence were hard to square with the idea of his guilt.

      "By the way," said the suspect, as they descended the stairs, "I forgot to give you my card."

      He handed it to Nick as he spoke, and the detective read this:

      MR. JOHN JONES.

       ALLEN, MORSE & JONES,

       Electrical Fixtures,

       The "Sunlight" Lamp.

      "What did I tell you!" exclaimed Gaspard, who was looking over Nick's shoulder. "It is the name that was on the register. He is the man."

      But Nick took a different view. He was of the opinion that Mr. Jones had presented very strong evidence of his complete innocence.

      Anybody else might have signed himself "John Jones," but the real John Jones, never!

      It would be mighty hard to convince a jury that a man meditating murder had recorded his correct name for the benefit of the police.

      The coincidence was certainly astonishing, but it was in Jones' favor.

      They walked over to the office of Allen, Morse & Jones.

      Mr. Allen was there.

      "Good-morning, Mr. Allen," said Jones, "My name has got me into trouble again."

      "How is that?"

      "Did you read about that French restaurant murder last night?"

      "Well, I glanced at the story in one of the papers."

      "This Frenchman here is a waiter in the place. He saw me in an elevated train just now, and told this other man, who is a detective, that I was the party who took that woman to the restaurant.

      "That was bad enough, but when they found out what my name was, they convicted me immediately. It appears that the visitor to the restaurant signed the very uncommon name of John Jones on the books."

      "Why, what the devil!" exclaimed Allen, looking wrathfully at poor Gaspard, who was shaking in his shoes. "Don't you know that this is a serious matter? What do you mean?"

      "He is the man," cried Gaspard. "If I were dying, I would swear with my last breath that he is the man."

      "But who's the woman?" asked Allen, turning to Nick. "And what has she to do with my partner?"

      "That I cannot say," replied Nick; "she has not been identified."

      "Then you have absolutely nothing to go upon except this fellow's word?"

      "Nothing."

      "Why, this is nonsense."

      "Perhaps so," said Nick, "but you will admit that I would be false to my duty if I did not make an investigation."

      "Investigate all you wish," laughed Jones. "But don't bother me any more than you have to. This is my busy day."

      "I'm going right away," said Nick. "All I want of you is that you will give me your address, and meet me at your home in the latter part of the afternoon."

      "Very well," said Jones, and he scribbled on a piece of paper. "I'll be there at half-past four o'clock."

      Nick thanked Mr. Jones for his courtesy, and immediately withdrew. But he did not go far.

      In a convenient doorway he wrote a note to Chick, on the back of the scrap of paper which Jones had given him, and sealed it in an envelope.

      Then he sent Gaspard with it to Chick, who was on the lookout in the undertaker's room, where the body lay.

      Having dispatched this message, Nick changed his disguise and kept watch over the establishment of Allen, Morse & Jones.

      Nothing of importance happened until a little after noon, when a reply came from Chick.

      Translated from the detective's cipher, it read as follows:

      "The address is that of a good flat house. Jones lives there with his wife.

      "They have been there only about two months. Nobody in the house knows anything about them.

      "They had one servant, who was taken sick about two weeks ago and carried to a hospital, where she died.

      "Since then they have lived absolutely alone. There was nobody in the house who had seen Mrs. Jones' face. She always wore a heavy veil.

      "The only description I could get tallied with that of the body. The principal point was the hair.

      "I have just found a woman who saw Mr. and Mrs. Jones go out yesterday afternoon. She remembers Mrs. Jones' dress. The description agrees with that found on the corpse.

      "Jones carried an alligator-skin traveling-bag. Nobody saw either of them come back to the house, but Jones

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