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Updated: May 7, 2025
The man Odinzoff seemed a quick, hard-working fellow with a keen eye to business, for he fell to polishing the top of the marble tables with a pail and brush, at the same time directing the work of the pallid-looking youth. Suddenly a side door opened, and the cook put his head in to speak with his master in French.
Presently Odinzoff went outside, carrying with him two boards upon which the menu of the "Eight-penny Luncheon! This Day!" was written in scrawly characters, and proceeded to affix them to the shop-front. This was my opportunity, and quick as thought I moved towards where the unhealthy youth was at work, and whispered: "I'll give you half-a-sovereign if you'll answer my questions truthfully.
"There is no Ferrari, he is dead," responded the man in broken English. "My name is Odinzoff. I bought the place from madame." "You are Russian, I presume?" "Polish, m'sieur from Varsovie." I had seen from the first moment we had met that he was no Italian. He was too bulky, and his face too broad and flat. "I have come to inquire after a waiter you have in your service, an Italian named Santini.
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