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We started over to the gate. Hallstock and Ravick were ahead of us. So was Sigurd Ngozori, the president of the Fidelity & Trust, carrying a heavy briefcase and accompanied by a character with a submachine gun, and Adolf Lautier and Professor Hartzenbosch. There were a couple of spaceport cops at the gate, in olive-green uniforms that looked as though they had been sprayed on, and steel helmets.
Lautier called Leo Belsher something you won't find in the dictionary but which nobody needs to look up. The hunters, ahead of us, heard him and laughed. They couldn't possibly have agreed more. He was going to continue with the fascinating subject of Mr. Leo Belsher's ancestry and personal characteristics, and then bit it off short.
"Hi, Walt," somebody behind me called out. "Looking for some news that's fit to print?" I turned my head. It was a man of about thirty-five with curly brown hair and a wide grin. Adolf Lautier, the entertainment promoter. He and Dad each owned a share in the Port Sandor telecast station, and split their time between his music and drama-films and Dad's newscasts.
Five revolvers were levelled at him. And yet no sign of fear showed in his face; and he simply said: "What do you want, Monsieur? What are you here for?" "We are here in the name of the law, with a warrant for your arrest." "A warrant for my arrest?" "A warrant for the arrest of Hubert Lautier, residing at 8 Boulevard Richard-Wallace." "But it's absurd!" said the man. "It's incredible!
There was another customer in the cafe; and this other customer, whom I ended by discovering, went out at the same time as our man and heard him ask somebody in the street which was the nearest underground station for Neuilly." "Capital, that. And, in Neuilly, by asking questions on every side, you ferreted him out?" "And even learnt his name, Chief: Hubert Lautier, of the Avenue du Roule.
Two detectives, the chief inspector, the commissary, and himself entered the house, while the others remained in the courtyard and made any attempt at flight impossible. The meeting took place on the first floor. The man had come down, fully dressed, with his hat on his head; and the deputy chief roared: "Stop! Hands up! Are you Hubert Lautier?" The man seemed disconcerted.
He expressed himself calmly, with great politeness and in a remarkably well-bred voice; and he did not for a moment seem to suspect that his revelations, on the contrary, were justifying the measures taken against him. Without replying to the question, the Prefect of Police asked him: "So your real name is " "Gaston Sauverand." "Why do you call yourself Hubert Lautier?"
My very best gown, that I had made in town by Lautier herself, seems countrified. Don't mind. Our things will look quite right again next week." "What do you suppose she will wear to-night?" sighed she. "Heaven only knows," I answered feebly. What she wore was a French frock which finished us all. I had fears for the sanity of the Skeptic. I was sure he did not know what he was eating.
I've seen so-called Westerns with the cowboys riding Freyan oukry. I mentioned that, and then added: "They'll think the old cattle towns like Dodge and Abilene were awful sissy places, though." "I suppose they were, compared to Port Sandor," Lautier said. "Are you going aboard to interview the distinguished visitor?" "Which one?" I asked. "Glenn Murell or Leo Belsher?"
They have had two partition walls taken down, so that a part of the great hall is added to the court-room proper. M. Lautier, the city architect, who is a good judge in such matters, assures us that this immense hall will accommodate twelve hundred persons. But what are twelve hundred persons? Long before the hour fixed for the opening of the court, every thing is full to overflowing.
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