"Oscar H. Fischer," he said. "Happen to know the name?"
Lutchester's face was immovable. He passed the license back again. They both turned round. Mr. Fischer had issued from the restaurant.
"What's wrong?" he asked hastily. "The commissionaire says you want me,
Mr. Officer?"
The inspector produced his pocketbook.
"Just want to ask you a few questions about your chauffeur, sir."
Fischer glanced at the driver's seat of the car, as though aware of the man's disappearance for the first time.
"What's become of the fellow?" he inquired.
"Shot himself," the inspector replied, "after a deliberate attempt to murder this gentleman."
Mr. Fischer's composure was admirable. There was a touch of gravity mingled with his bewilderment. Nevertheless, he avoided meeting Lutchester's eyes.
"You horrify me!" he exclaimed. "Why, the fellow's only been driving for me for a few hours."