“There could be no snake in this case,” I remarked.  “The fangs of a serpent make two punctures, don’t they; while here there was just the one scratch—­”

“Of course there were no fangs when the deed was actually done,” he rejoined, impatiently.  “We’ve traced everything to the needle in the portieres and it is my belief that it was part of an all-glass hypodermic with a platinum-iridium point.  It could hardly have been anything like the coarser syringe used by Werner, nor do I think it possible that the point of an ordinary needle would hold sufficient venom, since it would dry and form a coating like the incrustation on the inside of the ampulla McGroarty found.”

“That was the venom?” I asked.

“Yes, I found it in the ampulla and in the stain on the portiere where the needle had pierced through.”

“The towel, though—­”

“Is something else.  First thing in the morning we’ll follow that up, as I promised you.  Meanwhile let’s concentrate on motives.”

A long line of private cars and taxicabs outside Jacques’ testified to the popularity of the restaurant.  At the door stood a huge, bulking negro resplendent in the glaring finery of his uniform.  It seemed to me that people literally were thronging into the place, for it was cleverly advertised as a center of night life.

Inside, the famous darky jazz band was in full swing.  There was lilt and rhythm to the melody produced by the grinning blacks, and not a free arm or foot or shoulder or head of any of them but did not sway in time to their syncopated music.

We were shown to a table on a sort of gallery or mezzanine floor which extended around three sides of the interior.  Below, in the center, was the space for dancing, surrounded by groups and pairs of diners.  Stairs led to the balcony on both sides, as though the management expected none of their guests to resist the lure of the dance between courses.  The band, I noticed, was at the farther end, on an elevated dais, so that the contortions of the various players could be seen above the heads of those on the floor.

We were at the rail so that we commanded a view of the entire place, a location I guessed had been maneuvered by Kennedy with a word to the head waiter.  The only tables invisible to us were those directly beneath, but it would be a simple matter to cross around during any dance number to view them.

As we took our seats the lights were dimmed suddenly.  I realized that we had arrived in the midst of the cabaret and that it was the turn of one of the performers.  Kennedy, however, seemed to enjoy the entertainment, an example of his ability to gain recreation whenever and however he wished, to find relaxation under the oddest or most casual circumstances, out of anything from people passing on the street to an impromptu concert of a street band.  In scanty garments, in the glare of a multi-colored spotlight, the girl danced a hybrid of every dance from the earliest Grecian bacchanal to the latest alleged Apache importation from Paris.