It was soon after nine o'clock when I entered the
long shop with its rows of marble-topped tables and greasy lounges of
red plush. An unhealthy-looking lad was sweeping out the place with wet
saw-dust, and a big, dark-bearded, flabby-faced man in shirt-sleeves
stood behind the small counter polishing some forks.
"I wish to see Signor Ferrari," I said, addressing him.
"There is no Ferrari, he is dead," responded the man in broken English.
"My name is Odinzoff. I bought the place from madame."
"You are Russian, I presume?"
"Polish, m'sieur--from Varsovie."
I had seen from the first moment we had met that he was no Italian. He
was too bulky, and his face too broad and flat.
"I have come to inquire after a waiter you have in your service, an
Italian named Santini. He was my servant for some years, and I naturally
take an interest in him."
"Santini?" he repeated. "Oh I you mean Olinto? He is not here yet. He
comes at ten o'clock."
This reply surprised me. I had expected the restaurant-keeper to express
regret at his disappearance, yet he spoke as though he had been at work
as usual on the previous day.
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