The Comte de la Roche had just finished _déjeuner_, consisting of an
_omelette fines herbes_, an _entrecôte Béarnaise_, and a _Savarin
au Rhum_. Wiping his fine black moustache delicately with his table
napkin, the Comte rose from the table. He passed through the salon of
the villa, noting with appreciation the few _objets d'art_ which were
carelessly scattered about. The Louis XV snuff-box, the satin shoe
worn by Marie Antoinette, and the other historic trifles were part of
the Comte's _mise en scène_. They were, he would explain to his fair
visitors, heirlooms in his family. Passing through on to the terrace,
the Comte looked out on the Mediterranean with an unseeing eye. He was
in no mood for appreciating the beauties of scenery. A fully matured
scheme had been rudely brought to naught, and his plans had to be cast
afresh. Stretching himself out in a basket chair, a cigarette held
between his white fingers, the Comte pondered deeply.
Presently Hippolyte, his man-servant, brought out coffee and a choice
of liqueurs. The Comte selected some very fine old brandy.
As the man-servant was preparing to depart, the Comte arrested him
with a slight gesture. Hippolyte stood respectfully to attention. His
countenance was hardly a prepossessing one, but the correctitude of his
demeanour went far to obliterate the fact. He was now the picture of
respectful attention.
"It is possible," said the Comte, "that in the course of the next few
days various strangers may come to the house. They will endeavour to
scrape acquaintance with you and with Marie. They will probably ask you
various questions concerning me."
"Yes, Monsieur le Comte."
"Perhaps this has already happened?"
"No, Monsieur le Comte."
"There have been no strangers about the place? You are certain?"
"There has been no one, Monsieur le Comte."
"That is well," said the Comte drily; "nevertheless they will come--I
am sure of it. They will ask questions."
Hippolyte looked at his master in intelligent anticipation.
The Comte spoke slowly, without looking at Hippolyte.
"As you know, I arrived here last Tuesday morning. If the police or any
other inquirer should question you, do not forget that fact. I arrived
on Tuesday, the 14th--not Wednesday, the 15th. You understand?"
"Perfectly, Monsieur le Comte."
"In an affair where a lady is concerned, it is always necessary to be
discreet. I feel certain, Hippolyte, that you can be discreet."
"I can be discreet, Monsieur."
"And Marie?"
"Marie also. I will answer for her."
"That is well then," murmured the Comte.
When Hippolyte had withdrawn, the Comte sipped his black coffee with
a reflective air. Occasionally he frowned, once he shook his head
slightly, twice he nodded it. Into the midst of these cogitations came
Hippolyte once more.
"A lady, Monsieur."
"A lady?"
The Comte was surprised. Not that a visit from a lady was an unusual
thing at the Villa Marina, but at this particular moment the Comte
could not think who the lady was likely to be.
"She is, I think, a lady not known to Monsieur," murmured the valet
helpfully.
The Comte was more and more intrigued.
"Show her out here, Hippolyte," he commanded.
A moment later a marvellous vision in orange and black stepped out on
the terrace, accompanied by a strong perfume of exotic blossoms.
"Monsieur le Comte de la Roche?"
"At your service, Mademoiselle," said the Comte, bowing.
"My name is Mirelle. You may have heard of me."
"Ah, indeed, Mademoiselle, but who has not been enchanted by the
dancing of Mademoiselle Mirelle? Exquisite!"
The dancer acknowledged this compliment with a brief mechanical smile.
"My descent upon you is unceremonious," she began.
"But seat yourself, I beg of you, Mademoiselle," cried the Comte,
bringing forward a chair.
Behind the gallantry of his manner he was observing her narrowly. There
were very few things that the Comte did not know about women. True, his
experience had not lain much in ladies of Mirelle's class, who were
themselves predatory. He and the dancer were, in a sense, birds of a
feather. His arts, the Comte knew, would be thrown away on Mirelle. She
was a Parisienne, and a shrewd one. Nevertheless, there was one thing
that the Comte could recognize infallibly when he saw it. He knew at
once that he was in the presence of a very angry woman, and an angry
woman, as the Comte was well aware, always says more than is prudent,
and is occasionally a source of profit to a level-headed gentleman who
keeps cool.
"It is most amiable of you, Mademoiselle, to honour my poor abode thus."
"We have mutual friends in Paris," said Mirelle. "I have heard of you
from them, but I come to see you to-day for another reason. I have
heard of you since I came to Nice--in a different way, you understand."
"Ah?" said the Comte softly.
"I will be brutal," continued the dancer; "nevertheless, believe that I
have your welfare at heart. They are saying in Nice, Monsieur le Comte,
that you are the murderer of the English lady, Madame Kettering."
"I!--the murderer of Madame Kettering? Bah! But how absurd!"
He spoke more languidly than indignantly, knowing that he would thus
provoke her further.
"But yes," she insisted; "it is as I tell you."
"It amuses people to talk," murmured the Comte indifferently. "It would
be beneath me to take such wild accusations seriously."
"You do not understand." Mirelle bent forward, her dark eyes flashing.
"It is not the idle talk of those in the streets. It is the police."
"The police--ah?"
The Comte sat up, alert once more.
Mirelle nodded her head vigorously several times.
"Yes, yes. You comprehend me--I have friends every where. The Prefect
himself--" She left the sentence unfinished, with an eloquent shrug of
the shoulders.
"Who is not indiscreet where a beautiful woman is concerned?" murmured
the Count politely.
"The police believe that you killed Madame Kettering. But they are
wrong."
"Certainly they are wrong," agreed the Comte easily.
"You say that, but you do not know the truth. I do."
The Comte looked at her curiously.
"You know who killed Madame Kettering? Is that what you would say,
Mademoiselle?"
Mirelle nodded vehemently.
"Yes."
"Who was it?" asked the Comte sharply.
"Her husband." She bent nearer to the Comte, speaking in a low voice
that vibrated with anger and excitement. "It was her husband who killed
her."
The Comte leant back in his chair. His face was a mask.
"Let me ask you, Mademoiselle--how do you know this?"
"How do I know it?" Mirelle sprang to her feet, with a laugh. "He
boasted of it beforehand. He was ruined, bankrupt, dishonoured. Only
the death of his wife could save him. He told me so. He travelled
on the same train--but she was not to know it. Why was that, I ask
you? So that he might creep upon her in the night--Ah!"--she shut her
eyes--"I can see it happening...."
The Count coughed.
"Perhaps--perhaps," he murmured. "But surely, Mademoiselle, in that
case he would not steal the jewels?"
"The jewels!" breathed Mirelle. "The jewels. Ah! Those rubies...."
Her eyes grew misty, a far-away light in them. The Comte looked at her
curiously, wondering for the hundredth time at the magical influence of
precious stones on the female sex. He recalled her to practical matters.
"What do you want me to do, Mademoiselle?"
Mirelle became alert and business-like once more.
"Surely it is simple. You will go to the police. You will say to them
that M. Kettering committed this crime."
"And if they do not believe me? If they ask for proof?" He was eyeing
her closely.
Mirelle laughed softly, and drew her orange-and-black wrap closer round
her.
"Send them to me, Monsieur le Comte," she said softly; "I will give
them the proof they want."
Upon that she was gone, an impetuous whirlwind, her errand accomplished.
The Comte looked after her, his eyebrows delicately raised.
"She is in a fury," he murmured. "What has happened now to upset her?
But she shows her hand too plainly. Does she really believe that Mr.
Kettering killed his wife? She would like me to believe it. She would
even like the police to believe it."
He smiled to himself. He had no intention whatsoever of going to the
police. He saw various other possibilities, to judge by his smile, an
agreeable vista of them.
Presently, however, his brow clouded. According to Mirelle, he was
suspected by the police. That might be true or it might not. An
angry woman of the type of the dancer was not likely to bother about
the strict veracity of her statements. On the other hand, she might
easily have obtained--inside information. In that case--his mouth set
grimly--in that case he must take certain precautions.
He went into the house and questioned Hippolyte closely once more as
to whether any strangers had been to the house. The valet was positive
in his assurances that this was not the case. The Comte went up to
his bedroom and crossed over to an old bureau that stood against the
wall. He let down the lid of this, and his delicate fingers sought for
a spring at the back of one of the pigeon-holes. A secret drawer flew
out; in it was a small brown paper package. The Comte took this out and
weighed it in his hand carefully for a minute or two. Raising his hand
to his head, with a slight grimace he pulled out a single hair. This he
placed on the lip of the drawer and shut it carefully. Still carrying
the small parcel in his hand, he went downstairs and out of the house
to the garage, where stood a scarlet two-seater car. Ten minutes later
he had taken the road for Monte Carlo.
He spent a few hours at the Casino, then sauntered out into the town.
Presently he re-entered the car and drove off in the direction of
Mentone. Earlier in the afternoon he had noticed an inconspicuous grey
car some little distance behind him. He noticed it again now. He smiled
to himself. The road was climbing steadily upwards. The Comte's foot
pressed hard on the accelerator. The little red car had been specially
built to the Comte's design, and had a far more powerful engine than
would have been suspected from its appearance. It shot ahead.
Presently he looked back and smiled; the grey car was following
behind. Smothered in dust, the little red car leaped along the road.
It was travelling now at a dangerous pace, but the Comte was a
first-class driver. Now they were going down hill, twisting and curving
unceasingly. Presently the car slackened speed, and finally came to
a standstill before a Bureau de Poste. The Comte jumped out, lifted
the lid of the tool chest, extracted the small brown paper parcel and
hurried into the post office. Two minutes later he was driving once
more in the direction of Mentone. When the grey car arrived there, the
Comte was drinking English five o'clock tea on the terrace of one of
the hotels.
Later, he drove back to Monte Carlo, dined there, and reached home once
more at eleven o'clock. Hippolyte came out to meet him with a disturbed
face.
"Ah! Monsieur le Comte has arrived. Monsieur le Comte did not telephone
me, by any chance?"
The Comte shook his head.
"And yet at three o'clock I received a summons from Monsieur le Comte,
to present myself to him at Nice, at the Negresco."
"Really," said the Comte; "and you went?"
"Certainly, Monsieur, but at the Negresco they knew nothing of Monsieur
le Comte. He had not been there."
"Ah," said the Comte, "doubtless at that hour Marie was out doing her
afternoon marketing?"
"That is so, Monsieur le Comte."
"Ah, well," said the Comte, "it is of no importance. A mistake."
He went upstairs, smiling to himself.
Once within his own room, he bolted his door and looked sharply round.
Everything seemed as usual. He opened various drawers and cupboards.
Then he nodded to himself. Things had been replaced almost exactly as
he had left them, but not quite. It was evident that a very thorough
search had been made.
He went over to the bureau and pressed the hidden spring. The drawer
flew open, but the hair was no longer where he had placed it. He nodded
his head several times.
"They are excellent, our French police," he murmured to
himself--"excellent. Nothing escapes them."