“Crysake,” Hacklin muttered. “That’s right. The name was never supposed to be mentioned while any hotel people were around. How ’bout that, huh?”
Auguste sputtered. “When she firszt — when she gafe me the compact, so I would know who I should remember — she told me then, but I muszt promise — now I haf broken—” He was broken up about it, all right. “I do not wiszh cause any trouble for her—”
I gave him the big pat on the shoulder, took his arm. “You’re not, Auguste. You’re helping. Come along with us; we’ll get her to verify the gift; everything’ll be hokaydory.” I led him out of the recreation room before Schneider could do more than grab his other arm. Hacklin tagged along behind as we went through the door.
I spoke to the listening group of waiters. “Don’t talk about this until Auguste gets back, a’right, boys?”
“Absotively,” they agreed. “Sure thing, Mister V.”
“You gonna hock that an’ buy a chicken farm, ’Guste?”
He sniggered feebly. It made him feel a little less as if he was being marched off to a dungeon.
Schneider didn’t enthuse about my leading role. When we got out to the clanking silver-polishing drums, he growled, “Never mind comin’ any farther, Vine.”
“You couldn’t find your way down here. You’d wind up in the glass-sterilizer room. Auguste,” I went on quickly, “these men will try to hold you for stealing that compact. What they expect to do is link you up with the murder. I know you didn’t do it. I’ll get you out. Keep that left hand up and your chin in.”
“Yesz.” He smiled wanly. “I truszt you, Mister Fine.”