The boy looked at him sheepishly, without answering.
The stout gentleman in the nightshirt said with some dignity: “Ziss wass not ordinairy screaming. Ziss wass quite deefairent. It sounds like somebody iss in trouble. So we sink about ze note zat Meestair Pellman receive, and we come to help.”
“Who are you?” asked the Saint.
“I am Louis, sir. I am ze chef.”
“Enfin, quand nous aurons pris notre assassin, vous aurez le plaisir de nous servir ses rognons, légèrement grillés.”
The man stared at him blankly for a second or two, and finally said, “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t ondairstand.”
“You don’t speak French?”
“No, sir.”
“Then what are you doing with that accent?”
“I am Italian, sir, but I lairn this accent because she iss good business.”