In the month of December, 1918, and on the very day that a British Cavalry Division marched into Cologne, with flags flying and bands playing as the conquerors of a beaten nation, the manager of the Hotel Nationale in Berne received a letter.
Its contents appeared to puzzle him somewhat, for having read it twice he rang the bell on his desk to summon his secretary. Almost immediately the door opened, and a young French girl came into the room.
‘Monsieur rang?’ She stood in front of the manager’s desk, awaiting instructions.
‘Have we ever had staying in the hotel a man called le Comte de Guy?’ He leaned back in his chair and looked at her through his pince-nez.
The secretary thought for a moment and then shook her head. ‘Not so far as I can remember,’ she said.
‘Do we know anything about him? Has he ever fed here, or taken a private room?’
Again the secretary shook her head.
Not that I know of.’
The manager handed her the letter, and waited in silence until she had read it.
‘It seems on the face of it a peculiar request from an unknown man,’ he remarked as she laid it down. ‘A dinner of four covers; no expense to be spared.
Wines specified, and if not in the hotel to be obtained. A private room at half-past seven sharp. Guests to ask for room X.’
The secretary nodded in agreement.
‘It can hardly be a hoax,’ she remarked after a short silence.
‘No.’ The manager tapped his teeth with his pen thoughtfully. ‘But if by any chance it was, it would prove an expensive one for us. I wish I could think who this Comte de Guy is.’
