Eight
Chief Inspector¹ Kemp was not in a very good humour.
For the last half hour he had been interviewing a frightened white rab-
bit of sixteen who, by virtue² of his uncle Charles’s great position, was as-
piring to be a waiter of the class required by the Luxembourg. In the
meantime, he was one of six harried³ underlings who ran about with ap-
rons round their waists to distinguish them from the superior article, and
whose duty it was to bear the blame for everything, fetch and carry,
provide rolls and pats of butter and be occasionally and unceasingly
hissed⁴ at in French, Italian and occasionally English. Charles, as befitted a
great man, so far from showing favour to a blood relation, hissed, cursed
and swore at him even more than he did at the others. Nevertheless Pierre
aspired⁵ in his heart to be no less than the headwaiter of a chic⁶ restaurant
himself one day in the far future.
At the moment, however, his career had received a check, and he
gathered that he was suspected of no less than murder.
Kemp turned the lad inside out and disgustedly convinced himself that
the boy had done no less and no more than what he had said—namely,
picked up a lady’s bag from the floor and replaced it by her plate.
“It is as I am hurrying with sauce to M. Robert and already he is impa-
tient, and the young lady sweeps her bag off the table as she goes to dance,
so I pick it up and put it on the table, and then I hurry on, for already M.
Robert he is making the signs frantically⁷ to me. That is all, monsieur.”
And that was all. Kemp disgustedly let him go, feeling strongly tempted⁸
to add, “But don’t let me catch you doing that sort of thing again.”

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