Boiled down, what he said was that he’d served early dinner for Miss Millett, guest, and maid. Around six, that was. Vichysoisse, sole bonne femme, bifteck bearnaise, salade avocado, pêche Melba, café. He was especially careful with the order; Miss “Marino” took care of him excellently in the matter of lagniappe.
The guest had been Roffis. With the guard there had been not exactly trouble, but an argument only. “What was the matter, Auguste?”
“The filet, it was the finest, well aged and exzellently charcoaled, but this boozhwah claimed it was tough, sztringy. I do not tell him he is probably not uszed to such tender cuts, but this I think to myzelf. Iz not the firszt time we disagree about the meals, Mister Fine.”
“Any other arguments at the table?”
“Szome talk about a fisit from Mister Lanerd’s wife — diszagreeableness, pozzibly. Nikky, the maid, she was angry about it. Miss Marino did not szeem so angry, thoughtful only. Roffis, he did not expressz opinion.” About seven, they finished. Auguste began to take tables away. After the meal, Miss Marino had gone into her bedroom with Nikky. Roffis took his time about finishing his dessert, razzed Auguste some more, went into his room.
As Auguste was clearing away, Miss Marino had come back to the living-room. Then the maid had returned, too. Both appeared to be upset. While Auguste was busy rolling the hot-table out into the hall, Roffis had re-entered the living-room. He exchanged a few words in an undertone with Miss Marino, hurried into the girl’s bedroom. This was something Auguste had not seen him do before, on any of the occasions when the waiter’d been in the suite.
When Auguste got out to the corridor, began stacking dishes on the tables, he noticed the door to Miss Marino’s bedroom was slightly open. He paid no particular attention to this. But a minute later, after he’d made another trip to the living-room and back to the corridor, a man rushed out of the bedroom, bumping into him, nearly upsetting the hot-table.
He had seized Auguste’s arm to steady himself, hurried away down the corridor before Auguste realized it wasn’t Roffis.
Auguste hadn’t seen the man’s face clearly, partly because he’d been bending over and had been rattled by the unexpected encounter, partly because Auguste, though extremely shortsighted, couldn’t wear his glasses on duty. The Plaza Royale doesn’t go for spectacled waiters.
So he couldn’t describe the man. All he had actually seen was a vague blur of a face. All he could say for sure was the man wore a light suit, cream-colored with chocolate checks, something a Londoner might possibly sport.