illustration by "Petrie" for The Sunday Constitution Magazine [Atlanta, GA] reprint (1928-nov-18)

SCENE: One end of the main dining-room, the Cafe Plaisance, New York: a restaurant of the first class, handsomely appointed and decorated. The right-hand wall (from the view-point of the audience) is composed of wide windows heavily draped, which look out on Broadway. The left-hand wall is broken only by wide swing-doors, near the back, in front of which stands a permanent screen of carved wood and glass: this doorway opens upon the kitchen quarters. In the back wall, close to the right-hand corner, are huge swing-doors, closed; when open they show part of a dimly-lighted lobby. In the back wall, toward the left-hand corner, is a small, ordinary door which opens on a dark room.

      The restaurant is lighted by means of wall-sconces and an ornate central chandelier of cut glass lustres. There are smaller lamps, resembling shaded candles, to each table; but of these only one is lighted-that which stands on the table in the center of the stage, next the footlights.

      The stage (which shows less than half the restaurant) is crowded with tables of all sizes; but to the right these have been pushed back in confusion against the windows and the back wall, leaving a broad clear space. The table at center, down front, has two chairs, and is dressed with service for two persons; its candle-lamp illuminates the cold remains of a supper for two. A silver wine-tub stands to one side of this table, the neck of an opened champagne bottle projecting above the rim.

      The rising of the CURTAIN discovers several waiters and 'busses busily clearing the tables on the left-hand side of the stage, under the direction of ANTON ZIRKER, the maitre d'hotel; while INSPECTOR WALTERS of the New York Police Department, sits at one of the tables to the right; and a POLICEMAN in uniform stands before the lobby doors.

      ZIRKER is a handsome, well-conditioned man of about thirty-five; short of stature, and stout, but quick on his feet, he carries himself well, with the habit of efficient authority. His countenance is plum, of a darkish cast, and has alert, intelligent eyes. He speaks excellent English with a faint accent which becomes more noticeable in moments of excitement. He is dressed, of course, in admirably-tailored evening clothes.

      INSPECTOR WALTERS is a man of some fifty years, of powerful build and a prime physical condition. His hair has begun to show gray at the temples. His face is of sanguine complexion, with an open expression, and he wears a heavy grayish moustache. He likewise wears evening dress, and he shows no insignia to betray his connection with the police force. He sits sideways at a table well over to the right, resting an elbow on its bare top and chewing an unlighted cigar while he stares steadfastly, with a grave frown, at the table at center.

      One by one the waiters go off through the service-door, leaving WALTERS, ZIRKER and the POLICEMAN alone on the stage. ZIRKER, standing to the left, pauses and glances inquiringly at WALTERS, who pays no attention. There is a sound, off-stage, to the right, as of people passing in the street, a wild blaring of tin horns, clattering of cow-bells, shouts, laughter. As this dies away, ZIRKER consults his watch.
 

      WALTERS (who apparently hasn't been looking his way — sharply). What time is it?

      ZIRKER (startled, stammers). Half-past three.

      WALTERS. Uh-huh... (with this illegible grunt, relapses and gravely champs his cigar through another pause).

      ZIRKER (nervously). Beg pardon, Inspector —

      WALTERS. Don't interrupt: I'm thinking.

      ZIRKER. Pardon! I merely wished to inquire if you'd need me any longer.

      WALTERS (calmly). I told you, shut up.

      WALTERS. Good morning, Mr. Alston — and Happy New Year!

      ALSTON (laughing). Happy New Year yourself! Trust you to know the time of day, Walters! . . . You're in charge here, eh?

      WALTERS. Yes: I happened to be here when the murder was committed.

      ALSTON (surprised). You were? And let the murderer get away right under your nose!

      WALTERS (grimly). No: I didn't let him get away. Did I, Zirker?

      ZIRKER (with a nervous start). Yes — no — that is, I don't know. You arrested Ruffo, all right.

      WALTERS. Yes: I arrested Ruffo all right . . . as you say.

      ALSTON. Who's Ruffo?

      WALTERS. The waiter nearest the table where the murder was committed.

      ALSTON. And you think he —?

      WALTERS. I don't know whether he did or not! But he was there, all right, by his own admission.

      ALSTON. But couldn't you see —?

      WALTERS. No: it was while the lights were out. Didn't you know that, Mr. Alston?

      ALSTON. I don't know anything about the case: never heard a word of it until fifteen minutes ago, when a page called me to the telephone at the Astor — I was having supper there with some friends — and the Commissioner asked me to run down here, look the ground over, and report to him immediately.

      WALTERS. Mr. Alston is the new Deputy Commissioner of Police, you know, Zirker.

      ZIRKER (bowing and smiling). But yes: I know that very well. I've had the pleasure of serving Mr. Alston frequently.

      ALSTON. But tell me: is it true, what I hear, that it was somebody connected with the Italian Embassy at Washington?

      WALTERS (heavily). The murdered man — identified by papers in his pocket — was Count Umberto Bennetto, first secretary to the Italian Legation.

      ALSTON (whistles softly). Whe-e-w! That makes it pretty serious, doesn't it? And you think this Ruffo . . . ?

      WALTERS. Well, he's an Eyetalian — Carlo Ruffo's his full name. I judged that was enough to hold him on, as a witness.

      ALSTON. Nothing more incriminating than that?

      WALTERS. NO . . . Besides, he's an old man — Ruffo is — and I doubt if he had enough strength to strike the blow that killed this party. It was a quick, strong, sure thrust — right here (indicating spot on his own bosom) — right through the heart. No fumbling about it: the blow of a practiced hand. This Bennetto party couldn't have known what killed him.

      ALSTON. But if you don't think this waiter, Ruffo —

      WALTERS. Well, we had to pinch somebody on general principles, didn't we?

      ALSTON. Why not Zirker, then? (jocularly.) He looks able-bodied enough — Italian, too!

      WALTERS (seriously). Well, I did think of it. But he was a good twelve feet from the table at the time: I know, because I happened to be trying to catch his eye when the lights went out; and when they went up again, he was right there in the same spot. Besides, he isn't Eyetalian.

      ALSTON. He looks it.

      ZIRKER (smiling blandly). But no: Swiss.

      ALSTON. Of course: all good restaurateurs are Swiss . . .

      WALTERS. So that let him out.

      ALSTON. But come: tell me just how it happened. I take it, this was the table? (crossing to table at C.)

      WALTERS. That's it, all right... It was this way: I'm sitting over here (indicating table up back of that on which stands the shaded light) and it's about half-past eleven when I see this party, Bennetto, come in, towed by one of the swellest dames I ever lay eyes on.

      ALSTON. Just the two of them . . . alone, eh?

      WALTERS. All alone, and glad of it, if I'm any judge.

      ALSTON. Had they been celebrating a bit — perhaps?

      WALTERS. Not so's anybody'd notice it. But then, these Eyetalians never show their loads.

      ALSTON. So the woman was Italian, too?

      WALTERS. I judged so, from her looks: a dark woman — black hair — cheeks like blush roses — and her lamps — O my! — headlights! Everybody turns around to pipe her off, the minute she comes through that door. They goes straight to this table — it's all ready for them —

      ALSTON (to Zirker). Count Bennetto had reserved it in advance?

      ZIRKER. Yes, sir: by letter, from the Legation, Washington, about a month ago.

      WALTERS. And they sits down, and this Ruffo waiter rustles 'em a quart right away, and just before the lights goes out at midnight, you know — he brings in their supper. And right there happens the first suspicious circumstance.

ZIRKER shows surprise.

      ALSTON. How so?

      WALTERS. It isn't the supper this Bennetto party ordered. I don't know what he did order, but I hears him speak sharply to this Ruffo waiter and say he didn't order steak, and to take it back and have the order filled properly.

      ALSTON. Did what he said seem to make the waiter angry?

      WALTERS. No: he just looks puzzled, and says he'll speak to the head waiter — Zirker, here — about it, and starts off to do it, and then it's all lights out, and everybody whooping and yelling and raising Cain generally.

      ALSTON. But what's suspicious —?

      WALTERS. Because — the way I figure it — if this Bennetto party had got what he ordered, there wouldn't have been a carving knife with it, like the kind that came with the steak — heavy enough to kill him.

      ALSTON. Possibly . . .

      ZIRKER. I never thought of that!

      WALTERS. Well, you know, that's my job — thinking of those little things.

      ALSTON. Well, and then . . . ?

      WALTERS. Then it's lights up again, and I hear a woman give a screech that isn't due to champagne, and I looks, and this Eyetalian party is slumped down sideways in his chair —

      ALSTON. Which chair?

      ZIRKER (touching its back). This was Count Umberto's chair, Mr. Alston.

      WALTERS. And this knife is buried in his chest so deep none of the blade shows. He's just sitting there, dead and grinning, like he was defying us to guess what had become of his lady friend.

      ALSTON. And what had become of her?

      WALTERS (nodding at Zirker). I don't know any more than he does.

      ZIRKER. But I know nothing whatever!

      WALTERS. That's what I'm telling Mr. Alston: I don't know any more than you.

      ALSTON. But —

      WALTERS. She has disappeared — vanished completely — between the time the lights went out and the time they went up again. And how she managed it staggers me. I can see as far through a stone wall as anybody, but I'll be damned if I can see how that skirt managed to get out of this restaurant in pitch darkness, with these tables crowded so close together that even the waiters could hardly move around — and nobody know it or see her at any time. I've been over the ground a dozen times, and I just don't see how it could be done.

      ZIRKER. It's impossible.

      WALTERS. And yet it happened. She got away as slick as a whistle.

      ALSTON (reviewing the ground thoughtfully). You've moved the tables, of course.

      WALTERS. Had to, to take the body out. But I had sense enough to chalk their positions on the floor before I let them be moved. . . . Zirker, you help O'Halloran here put those tables back in place, will you? . . . Just to show Mr. Alston.

      ALSTON (looking at the lobby doors). If she went that way . . .

      WALTERS. The only exit that way is to Broadway; and all the taxi chauffeurs outside swear nobody came out while the lights were down. Besides, the lights were on the lobby there, and the cloakroom boy and the guy that runs the newsstand both say nobody came out during the dark turn.

      ALSTON (turning toward the left; indicates smaller door up back). And that?

      WALTERS. That's the head waiter's office — Zirker's — and the door's locked and the key's in his pocket all the time.

      ALSTON. Has it any communication with the street?

      WALTERS. A door: but it was locked, too.

      ALSTON (gesture indicating doors in left wall). And that's the way to the kitchen, I presume?

      WALTERS. Right.

      ALSTON. She might have . . .

      WALTERS. Not unless you allow the whole staff of waiters here was in the plot to aid her escape. There's half a dozen of them waiting just outside for the lights to come up, so they can bring in their orders — and of course them lights over there: nobody could pass them without their seeing. Besides, as far as those two doors are concerned, they're twice as far from this Count's table, and would be three times as difficult to reach. You can see for yourself. . . .

      ALSTON (thoughtfully). I see . . .

      POLICEMAN. All right, Inspector?

      WALTERS. All right, O'Halloran.

ZIRKER makes his way toward the table at center.

      ALSTON. It's a pretty problem. . . . She simply couldn't have got away without bumping into somebody.

      ZIRKER. Ruffo was standing squarely in the only clear way, and I only a few feet beyond him. Neither of us . . .

      WALTERS. All the same, get away she did.

      ALSTON. You, of course, questioned everybody?

      WALTERS. You bet your life I did.

      ALSTON. And nobody . . . ?

      WALTERS. There's this to be said: everybody was having too good a time to pay much attention. On the other hand, everybody that was seated along the lines of exit insists they'd have noticed anything as unusual as a woman feeling her way out in the dark.

      ALSTON. In short, it's impossible.

      WALTERS. But it happened! . . .

      WALTERS. What's that, O'Halloran?

      POLICEMAN. You're wanted on the 'phone, Inspector.

      WALTERS. Excuse me, Mr. Alston.

      ALSTON (abstractedly). Yes . . . yes . . .

WALTERS picks his way up to the lobby doors and goes out.

      ALSTON. I presume, Mr. Zirker, nobody knows who this woman was?

      ZIRKER (with a shrug). If so, they refused to admit it, when Mr. Walters questioned them.

      ALSTON. Had you ever seen her before?

      ZIRKER. Never in my life.

      ALSTON. She was not in the habit of going round in company with Count Bennetto, then — I fancy.

      ZIRKER. I couldn't say, sir.

      ALSTON. Then I infer that Count Bennetto wasn't one of your regular patrons?

      ZIRKER. Not within my time; but then I've only been maitre d'hotel here for the last two months. I am new to this country. I never saw Count Umberto before to-night.

      ALSTON. Yet you reserved a table for him —

      ZIRKER. His letter was accompanied by a check.

Re-enter WALTERS by the lobby doors.

      WALTERS (cheerfully). Well, that's better: we're on the trail of the woman, at least.

      ZIRKER. But truly?

      ALSTON. How so?

      WALTERS. One of my men has been going round the hotels. They've found out that this Bennetto party was registered at the Metropole as "Antonio Zorzi and wife."

      ALSTON. Oh!

      ZIRKER. That would seem to indicate that Count Umberto feared something of this sort.

      ALSTON. Why do you say that?

      ZIRKER. Why else need Count Umberto and his wife adopt an incognito?

      WALTERS. But she wasn't his wife . . .

      ZIRKER. You are sure of that, eh?

      WALTERS. Somebody else's wife, I guess. This Bennetto party was unmarried: or so the Italian Embassy tells Headquarters over the long distance.

      ZIRKER. They . . . they couldn't tell you who the lady was?

      WALTERS. Sure they could: her right name was Zorzi. She came on from Italy a couple of months ago, with Bennetto. He'd just been appointed to the Embassy, you see. Of course, I guess, they thought it would seem pretty coarse work for him to take her on to Washington; because she stopped here, and he ran back every week end. Oh, we know all about 'em, now.

      ALSTON. All but how she got away . . .

      ZIRKER. And where she is.

      WALTERS. That's all we got to find out now.

      ALSTON. It seems to me you've overlooked one direct inference, Mr. Walters.

      WALTERS. Slip it to me: you couldn't do me a bigger favor, Mr. Alston.

      ALSTON. You've demonstrated conclusively that she couldn't have left the restaurant while the lights were out.

      WALTERS. Have I? I didn't mean to. Because, the facts are, she did.

      ALSTON. But you say she couldn't . . .

      WALTERS. I say, I don't know how she could —

      ALSTON. But assuming for the sake of the argument that she couldn't —

      WALTERS. Then she's still here.

      ALSTON. Or — this is the bet you've overlooked — she left before the lights went out.

      WALTERS. What do you mean?

      ALSTON. If she couldn't and didn't go while it was dark, she must have gone before. In the noise and confusion of the jollification, it would have been easy enough for any woman to have left inconspicuously during the five minutes before the lights went down.

      WALTERS. That's true. There's only one flaw in your theory: she didn't. I know she didn't because I was looking right past her trying, as I say, to catch Zirker's eye and order more wine — when the lights did go out. And I know she hadn't left her seat. Don't go Sherlock-Holmesing. Mr. Alston: police cases aren't solved on theories nowadays — never were, for that matter. Excuse me for speaking so bluntly —

      ALSTON. That's all right. You were on the force when I was in knickerbockers. I'm here to learn.

      WALTERS. If you want to know how a police detective gets to work, I'll give you a practical demonstration here and now.

      ALSTON. How?

      WALTERS. The first thing is to figure out how this girl makes her getaway, isn't it? ... Well, I say she couldn't without attracting attention. But I'm wrong, for she did. Now how? Well, she either knew the way out or someone led her by the hand that did know. That's reasonable, aint it?

      ALSTON. Perfectly... Isn't it, Mr. Zirker?

      ZIRKER. But who would lead her by the hand?

      WALTERS. Some guy who knew the ground very thoroughly.

      ZIRKER. Myself, for instance.

      WALTERS. Oh, I won't go so far as to say that . . .

      ZIRKER. But why not? Let us reason it out as you suggest. You need to find somebody thoroughly acquainted with the arrangement of the tables, to fit your theory. Well, there was no such person.

      ALSTON. Not even yourself?

      ZIRKER. Not even myself, Mr. Alston. You see, we've got fifty extra tables in this room to-night. Our first intention was to put in only thirty-five, but the demand was so great — good customers coming at the last moment without reservation — that we made room for fifteen more. Hence the great congestion, and hence the fact that not even I was thoroughly conversant with the arrangement.

      WALTERS. And yet . . . she got away! . . .   The trouble with your contention, Zirker, is that you don't make any allowance for average human intelligence. Now I've been figuring on this lay-out ever since, and I think I see a way. I'll make you a little bet — a bottle of wine — anything you like I can find my way out of this tangle in five minutes of darkness, and neither you nor Mr. Alston here will be able to tell how I did it. The only thing I ask is that you sit tight — you, Zirker, right where you were standing when the murder occurred, and Mr. Alston where I was sitting — and make no attempt to confuse me by talking. Is it a go?

      ZIRKER. Why, certainly, Mr. Walters: I'll take that bet.

      ALSTON (after a brief pause, during which he has eyed Walters intently). I'm in on it, too, Inspector.

      WALTERS. Good enough. Now take your places. I'll sit here at the Count's table, in the chair the skirt sat in.
WALTERS, ALSTON and ZIRKER take up the positions indicated.
And we'll have the lights out.
To POLICEMAN, O'Halloran, put all the lights out.

      POLICEMAN. Yes, sir. He turns to the switches beside the lobby doors and extinguishes first the wall-sconces, then the central chandelier, leaving the stage in total darkness but for the glimmer that penetrates the semi-opaque glass panels of the lobby door. Then, opening one of these, he thrusts his head out, and calls: Hey, you — put them lights out, d'ye hear? Inspector's orders.

Immediately the lights are switched off in the lobby.

      ALSTON. But, Inspector —

      ZIRKER. That's hardly fair, Mr. Walters. The lobby lights were going when the woman escaped.

      WALTERS. You're right. O'Halloran, you bone-head, why the devil did you tell 'em to turn off those lobby lights?

      POLICEMAN. I thought you wanted 'em out, sir.

      WALTERS. Well, I don't.

      POLICEMAN (aggrieved tone). But you told me "O'Halloran," you says, "put all them lights out," says you.

      WALTERS (furiously). Well, I tell you now, you born simp, to have the lobby lights turned on! Quick — d'you hear?

      POLICEMAN (sulkily). Oh, all right!

      WALTERS. Now I'm starting. Remember, Zirker, if you catch me without moving, it means a bottle of wine for you.

      ZIRKER (with a confident laugh). I'll win that bet.

      WALTERS (his voice sounding from the right of the stage). Don't be too sure . . .

      ZIRKER (a sudden cry of triumph). I've got you, Inspector!

      WALTERS (voice from the right). Well, catch me then.

      ZIRKER (in a puzzled tone). But you are here and your voice there. What is this a trick? (A cry of fright.) Ah-h-h, Madonna mia! What is this?

      ALSTON (alarmed-voice from left). What's the matter?

      ZIRKER. What devil's work — !

      WALTERS. Lights, O'Halloran — light's up!

      ZIRKER (livid with terror — cowers and trembles) — Elena!

      WALTERS. Oh, you know this lady now, do you, Zirker?

      ZIRKER (attempting to recover). I — I do not know her. Who is she? I — I have never —

      WALTERS (approaching the woman). Madame, is your name Elena?

      ZIRKER. Don't answer —

      WALTERS (savagely). Shut up, you damned murderer! (ZIRKER recoils from Walters' revolver.) Madame —?

      WOMAN (with an effort). My name is Elena Zorzi.

      WALTERS. What relation are you to this man?

      WOMAN. I am his wife.

      WALTERS. His name.

      WOMAN. Antonio Zorzi.

      WALTERS. Which of you killed Count Umberto Bennetto?

      ZIRKER. Elena, I command you not to answer!

      WALTERS. Keep quiet. . . Here, O'Halloran — grab this guy before he does anything foolish.

      WALTERS (to the WOMAN). The only way you can save yourself is by downright confession . . .

      WOMAN. Antonio killed Count Umberto. I was his wife, I left him for Count Umberto, he followed us to America for revenge. We didn't know . . . neither of us knew . . . he was here . . . Nor did I see him until just before the lights went out. Then I saw him standing there, grinning murder at me . . . I thought he meant me . . . and when in the darkness he seized my arm and told me to come with him I was too frightened not to obey. I did not then know he had killed Count Umberto. He did not tell me until he put me out of the side door, thrust a steamer ticket into my hand, and told me to leave the country if I wished to escape hanging for the murder.

      WALTERS. How did he get you out of this crowded room?

      WOMAN. I don't know . . . He warned me to keep quiet and drew me very gently but swiftly away between the tables . . . twisting and turning . . . And then he opened that door (pointing to the door at back, toward the left) and led me through the room to the street.

      WALTERS. That will do . . .   Well, Mr. Alston?

      ALSTON. In Heaven's name, how did you do it?

      WALTERS. Common-sense — every-day police detective methods. I promised you a demonstration. Now you have had it. If Zirker hadn't insisted that the woman couldn't possibly have escaped by way of his private office, I might have let him slip through my fingers. But it was just that — and the fact that he had the key in his pocket — that convicted him. It was clear enough the woman couldn't have left by way of either the lobby or the kitchen and pantries — without wholesale collusion, that is. Therefore, it was plain as day she must have beat it by the only other exit — Zirker's office. So I kept him here — stalling — until the men working outside found out what hotel Bennetto and this woman had put up at. They found out more — that she had returned to her room alone at twelve-fifteen, in great haste and distress, changed her dress, packed a bag hurriedly, and left the hotel. Then we traced her by taxicabs to the Cunard Line pier, which she reached just ten minutes before the Mauretania sailed at one A. M. The wireless got us in communication with the ship, and the captain held her in the Lower Bay until we could reach her with a police boat and take the woman off. Until that was accomplished, there was nothing certain — definite — to go on. I wasn't going to arrest this guy until I'd given him plenty of rope to hang himself with . . . But I've been watching him for three hours, and I felt pretty certain he'd cave and make some sort of a damaging admission if I could bring him unexpectedly face to face with the woman he believed to be safely out of the country. So I framed up this mild dose of the third degree — and it's worked!

      ALSTON. I think it'll work out big for you, Inspector, when I tell the Commissioner.

The sound of a patrol wagon gong is heard off-stage.

      WALTERS. Far be it from me to dodge anything in the line of official appreciation . . . Here comes the hurry-up cart. O'Halloran — Weil — hustle these people out before a crowd collects.

      ALSTON. Here . . . wait a minute . . . I'm still perplexed about the way Zirker got the woman out of the room.

      WALTERS. It's plain enough: he'd had a month's warning that this thing was going to happen — ever since Bennetto wrote on from Washington, ordering the table for to-night. He'd figured it down to the fine point of those five minutes of darkness to cover the murder and the disappearance of the woman. He had figured it out to the extent of picking a boat for her to escape on that left the country within an hour of the murder. Is it likely he hadn't figured it down to the point of having a complete floor plan of the room in his mind? Of course not. He knew his way in and out of those tables by counting his steps. Didn't you, Zirker?

ZIRKER doesn't answer save by a scowl.

      ALSTON. Oh, come, be reasonable: I can make things easy for you in the Tombs if you'll satisfy us. It's no good being rusty about it. You can't escape the chair anyway you put it.

      ZIRKER. You are right. I worked out the table plan a week ago.

[CURTAIN]