In a little office in the rear I at last discovered him, a rather stout, genial Frenchman who had made a reputation as one of New York’s restaurateurs to the risqué. I had known Henri once when I had the assignment on the Star that covered the theater and hotel district, and I had no fear that he would not talk.
“Well, Henri,” I began cautiously, “I suppose you saw in the papers this morning about your friend, Marshall Maddox?”
Henri, who was matching up checks showing the business done up to an early hour of the morning, shrugged. “Monsieur was more the friend of La Paquita than of me,” he returned, still matching checks.
“Still, he came here a great deal,” I asserted, taking a chance.
“Oui,” he agreed, “but it was not to see us. Always La Paquita, La Paquita. So different from his brother.”
“Indeed?” I queried, quite overjoyed at the turn the conversation was taking. “Then you know Shelby, too?”
“Ver’ well. Oh yes. He has been here. A fine fellow, but—it is all right. Business is not for him. He is always ready for the good time—a sport, you call it?”
I smiled. “Was he a friend of Paquita’s, too?” I hazarded, watching Henri’s face.
He lifted his eyebrows a fraction of an inch. “No more than of the rest,” he returned, with a deprecating gesture. “Pretty faces and figures all look good to Shelby,” he added, with a smile; then, seriously: “But he will settle down. We will see him here no more, some day. Also I know his brother-in-law, Messtair Walcott. I do not like him.”
“Why?” I asked, somewhat amused at getting his point of view.