The manager, a Frenchman with an exquisitely suave manner, received him in his private office.
“You wished to see me, I understand, Mr.—er—McGrath?”
“I did. I arrived at your hotel yesterday afternoon, and I had dinner served to me in my own rooms by a waiter whose name was Giuseppe.”
He paused.
“I dare say we have a waiter of that name,” agreed the manager indifferently.
“I was struck by something unusual in the waiter’s manner, but thought nothing more of it at the time. Later, in the night, I was awakened by the sound of some one moving softly about the room. I switched on the light, and found this same Giuseppe in the act of rifling my leather suit-case.”
The manager’s indifference had completely disappeared now.
“But I have heard nothing of this,” he exclaimed. “Why was I not informed sooner?”
“The man and I had a brief struggle—he was armed with a knife, by the way. In the end he succeeded in making off by way of the window.”
“What did you do then, Mr. McGrath?”
“I examined the contents of my suit-case.”
“Had anything been taken?”
“Nothing of—importance,” said Anthony slowly.
The manager leaned back with a sigh.
“I am glad of that,” he remarked. “But you will allow me to say, Mr. McGrath, that I do not quite understand your attitude in the matter. You made no attempt to arouse the hotel? To pursue the thief?”
Anthony shrugged his shoulders.
“Nothing of value had been taken, as I tell you. I am aware, of course, that strictly speaking it is a case for the police—”
He paused, and the manager murmured without any particular enthusiasm:
“For the police—of course”
“In any case, I was fairly certain that the man would manage to make good his escape, and since nothing was taken why bother with the police?”
The manager smiled a little.
“I see that you realize, Mr. McGrath, that I am not at all
49
