Inspector French's Greatest Case by Freeman Wills Crofts Page B

porter at the Beau-Sejour at Chamonix had written down the names of two or three hotels at which he thought English would be spoken, and passing out of the station, French showed the paper to a taxi-driver. The man at first ogled it distrustfully, then with a smile of comprehension he emitted a rapid flood of some unknown language, opened the taxi-door, bowed his fare in, and rapidly cranking his engine, set off into the night. French was conscious of being whirled down a great avenue wider than any he had yet seen, brilliantly lighted, and with rows of palms down the centre; they turned through a vast square with what looked like a commemorative column in the middle, then up a slightly narrower, tree-lined boulevard, where presently the vehicle swung into the curb and French found himself at his destination—the Hôtel d’Orient.
    To his extreme relief, the head porter spoke English. He got him to settle with the taxi-man, and soon he began to forget the fatigues of the journey with the help of a luxurious bath and dinner.
    He decided that he had done enough for one day, and presently, soothed by a cigar, he went out into the great street in front of the hotel, with its rows of trees and brilliant arc lamps. He did not know then that this gently-sloping boulevard was one of the famous streets of the world—the Rambla, known as is Piccadilly in London, the Champs Elysées in Paris, or Fifth Avenue in New York. For an hour he roamed, then, tired out, he returned to the Orient, and a few minutes later was sunk in dreamless slumber.
    Early next morning he was seated with the manager, who also spoke English. But neither the manager nor any of his staff could help him, and French recognised that so far as the Orient was concerned he had drawn blank. He therefore set to work on the other hotels, taking the larger first, the Colon, in the Plaza de Cataluna, the Cuatro Naciones, and such like. Then he went on to the smaller establishments, and at the fourth he paused suddenly, thrilled by an unexpected sight.
    The hotel was in a side street off the Paseo de Colon, the great boulevard through which he had been driven on the previous evening. The entrance door led into a kind of lounge in which were seated half a dozen people, evidently waiting for déjeuner. With one exception these were obviously Spaniards, but that exception, French felt he could swear, was the original of the photograph.
    In spite of such a meeting being what he was hoping for, the Inspector was taken aback. But his hesitation was momentary. Passing immediately on to the little office at the back of the lounge, he said in English:
    â€œCan I have lunch, please? Will it soon be ready?”
    A dark-eyed, dark-haired girl came forward, smiling but shaking her head regretfully, and murmuring what was evidently that she couldn’t understand.
    â€œYou don’t speak English, miss?” the detective went on, speaking loudly and very clearly. “I want to know can I have lunch, and if it will soon be ready?”
    As the girl still shook her head, French turned back into the lounge.
    â€œExcuse me,” he addressed the company generally, “but might I ask if any of you gentlemen speak English? I can’t make this young lady understand.”
    The little ruse succeeded. The man resembling Vanderkemp rose.
    â€œI speak English,” he answered. “What is it you want?”
    â€œLunch,” French returned, “and to know if it will soon be ready.”
    â€œI can answer that for you,” the other declared, after he had explained the situation to the girl. “Lunch will be ready in exactly five minutes, and visitors are usually welcome.”
    â€œThank you,” French spoke in a leisurely, conversational way, “I am staying at the Orient, where one or two of them speak English, but business brought me to this part of the town, and I did not want to go all that way back to lunch. A confounded nuisance