Jacques Futrelle

“ I’m not going to start any roughhouse or anything; but you’ve got to tell me why I’m here,” he concluded.
“You shall answer my questions, Monsieur!” A slender, manicured hand, delicate as a woman’s, tugged complacently at the perfumed beard; there was a merciless glitter in the eyes above it. “You are W. Mandeville Clarke!”
“Well, suppose I am?” queried Mr. Smith. “What has he done? Is there an order for his arrest from the United States?”
“Ah! You do not deny it! So you are M. Mandeville Clarke, alias John Smith, alias Watts Ittooyu!” ”

“ We knew you were Clarke, and it was necessary to bring the matter to a conclusion. So you were arrested. I shall notify the agency in New York immediately, and—”
“No charge against me in the United States, not even a charge against me in Paris, and still you pinched me!”
M. Remi leaned forward suddenly and mysteriously whispered into the pearl-like ear of his chief, whereupon a glad smile split the perfumed whiskers, and the piercing eyes grew cunning.
“If you are thinking you are to be freed immediately. Monsieur, you are mistaken,” M. Baudet remarked suavely. ”

“ Smith.
“Your name is John Smith, then?”
“John Smith, of Passaic, New Jersey.”
“You have been looking for M. Clarke, too. Who are you? Why have you been searching?”
“Because I wanted to find him,” replied Mr. Smith. “Now you fly cops in Paris are pretty nifty, Cap. Can’t you imagine why I came all the way from the United States to find Clarke, the same man you are after? Doesn’t it suggest anything to you?”
Gradually a light of understanding grew in M. Baudet’s eyes, and for a second time the perfumed whiskers parted in a smile. ”