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Updated: May 10, 2025
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.
She seemed a truthful, well-meaning person, and the murderer might have gone into Number Seven after committing the crime. It was evidently important to get as much light as possible on this point. Hence the need of M. Gritz. M. Herman Gritz was a short, massive man with hard, puffy eyes and thin black hair, rather curly and oily, and a rapacious nose.
And turning to M. Gritz: "There's where your murderer picked up a cab. It's perfectly clear. No one has touched that pistol since the man who used it threw it from the window of Number Seven." "You mean Number Six," corrected Gritz. "I mean Number Seven. We know where the murderer took a cab, now we'll see where he left the hotel." And hurrying toward his dog, he called: "Back, Caesar!"
"Some one has been here and locked this door on the inside. I want it opened." "Just a moment," trembled Gritz. "I have a pass key to the alleyway door. We'll go around."
Will you please tell me how it happens that this fact of vital importance has been concealed from the police for over six hours?" "Why," stammered the other, "I I don't know." "Are you trying to shield some one? Who is this man that engaged Number Seven?" Gritz shook his head unhappily. "I don't know his name." "You don't know his name?" thundered Coquenil.
I shall get on all right now if oh, they tell me you make wonderful Turkish coffee here. Do you suppose I could have some?" "Of course you can. I'll send it at once." "You'll earn my lasting gratitude." Gritz hesitated a moment and then, with an apprehensive look in his beady eyes, he said: "So you're going in there?" and he jerked his fat thumb toward the wall separating them from Number Six.
Coquenil began at once with questions about private room Number Seven. We had reserved this room and what had prevented the person from occupying it? M. Gritz replied that Number Seven had been engaged some days before by an old client, who, at the last moment, had sent a petit bleu to say that he had changed his plans and would not require the room.
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.
The petit bleu did not arrive until after the crime was discovered, so the room remained empty. More than that, the door was locked. "Locked on the outside?" "Yes." "With the key in the lock?" "Yes." "Then anyone coming along the corridor might have turned the key and entered Number Seven?" "It is possible," admitted M. Gritz, "but very improbable.
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.
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