much?”
“How do you know I go about with her?”
“I’ve seen you; lots of times. She’s a bad woman, I tell you. I know
all about her. She’s ruined lots of men. She’ll ruin you, too.”
The girl seemed to be trembling with suppressed rage. Hugh became angry.
“I’m quite capable of taking care of myself,” he said coldly.
“Are you going to see her to-night?”
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with you.”
“Because if you do, I won’t stay here. I’ll leave to-night. I swear I
will.”
“You seem determined to create an atmosphere of unpleasantness. I don’t
like it. I’ll go and get lunch elsewhere.”
He ate at the Bristol. Later, he took a walk, went for a swim, had tea
at Scapini’s, and strolled about the “Cheese.” He could not get the
thought of Margot out of his head. What had got into her? It was none
of her business whom he went with. He would not let any one exercise
a control over his actions. As for her going away, it was an empty
threat. She had said the same thing before. What did Mrs. Belmire want
with him? It would be safer, perhaps, not to see her again. It was
playing with fire....
At seven o’clock, nevertheless, he went home and changed into his
evening clothes. As he was going out Margot stood by the door.
“You’re going, then?”
“Yes,” he said curtly.
“Very well, then, I warn you; you won’t find me here when you come
back.”
“Do as you please. You are entirely mistress of your own actions.”
He passed her, slamming the door.
3.
He found Mrs. Belmire waiting for him. She had reserved a table in one
of the alcoves and looked very bewitching.
“This is my farewell supper. I had intended to invite some other men;
then I thought it would be nicer, just we two.”
Mrs. Belmire’s invitations to supper always included the privilege
of paying for it. She seemed to have made up her mind to be the most
charming of hostesses. She ordered an exquisite brand of champagne
and kept Hugh’s glass filled. She talked vivaciously, with long deep
looks into his eyes, and little caressing touches of her hands. She
nestled close to him, so close that it was disconcerting to look down
on the delicious curves of dazzling flesh, emerging in such radiant and
insolent beauty from a gown that sheathed her to the bust in front, and
was cut to the waist behind.
It was a gala night. There was a gay crowd of dancers; brilliant
Chinese lanterns were strung closely overhead, and the walls and
columns were covered with fanciful decorations of coloured crêpe paper.
“Don’t you love it all?” she sighed. “Light, love, laughter,--what a
part they play in life.”
He was inclined to agree with her. The triumphant wine was singing
through his veins; the mad music was goading him to a frenzy of
happiness; the dazzling shoulders and gleaming arms of Mrs. Belmire
were pagan in their beauty. The whole combination, wine, woman, song,
was for him. Every fibre of his will was weakening in this atmosphere
of sheer delight.
“She’s got me going,” he almost groaned. When she turned away her head
he emptied his champagne on the floor.
Seeing his glass empty she plied him with another. “You don’t drink
anything,” she said. “Come, it’s a poor heart that never rejoices.
Let’s abandon ourselves. It’s so jolly nice to be together like this. I
wish it could last forever.”
The champagne was taking possession of his sense. He saw her through
a roseate mist, a wholly voluptuous, desireful creature. He had drunk
nearly two-thirds of the wine; more would be fatal. To avoid real
intoxication, he stimulated a slight false one.
“No more of the damned stuff,” he said roughly. “My head’s all buzzing
with it. It’s poison. The tears of widows and orphans, the widows and
orphans the old professor’s working for....”
She leaned forward eagerly. “I heard you made quite a lot to-day.”
“He made nearly quarter of a million ... for his widows and orphans.”
“Why for them? Why not for you, for us?”
“What do you mean?”
“Wouldn’t you like to be rich? Wouldn’t you like to have a life like
this always,--flowers, music, good wine, delicate food, a life of
luxury?”
“No, I wouldn’t. I want quiet and simplicity. I don’t want to be rich.”
“Oh, you make me lose patience. You say you would like to be a painter.
Well, why not study,--Paris, Rome and so on?”
“That takes money. I haven’t got it.”
“Yes, you have. All you want. Millions!”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ll tell you later. Have some more wine.”
“No, no. I’ve had enough. You want to make me drunk. Come on, let’s
leave this cursed _bordel_. My head’s splitting. I want fresh air.”
“Poor boy! You want to lie down a bit. I say, come and stretch, _chez
moi_. You can smoke a cigarette and have a snooze if you like. It’s
quiet there.”
He would have broken away, but she held his arm and called a _voiture_.
It was exactly ten o’clock when they left the restaurant and descended
to the Pension Pizzicato. Once in the open air the fumes of the wine
affected him with sudden drowsiness.
“Look here,” he said, “I do believe I’m a bit squiffy. Perhaps I’d
better lie down on your sofa for half an hour.”
“That’s a good boy. Come on.”
He remembered descending unsteadily from the _voiture_ and stumbling up
to her room. They met no one on the way. He threw himself on her divan
and closed his eyes.
4.
When he opened them again she was bending over him. She wore a lilac
peignoir that clothed her loosely. As he looked at her, surprised, she
said:
“My dear boy, how’s your poor head? You know you’ve slept nearly two
hours. And look who’s here,--Mr. Fetterstein. He came just a few
minutes after we did. We’ve been chatting.”
Fetterstein was comfortably seated, smoking a huge cigar, and drinking
a whiskey and soda. He grunted amiably to Hugh.
“Yey, boy! Some snorer too, hey, Mrs. B.? Well, feelin’ better?”
“Yes, thanks. I’m all right now.”
“Have a cigar?”
“No, thanks.”
“Well, if you’ll excuse me I’ll hit the hay. I’m not the night-hawk I
used to be. Gettin’ old, hey! I’ll leave the rounder game to you young
bloods. Good-night, young chap.”
When he had gone Mrs. Belmire came impulsively to Hugh and knelt by the
side of his chair.
“My poor darling! Are you really feeling better? We talked low so as
not to disturb you. Old Fetterstein’s not a bad sort. You mustn’t mind
him. You know he wants me to go to Vichy with him. He will pay all my
debts.”
“Are you going?”
“I don’t want to. I want to go with you. Let’s go to Venice. It’s a
dream.”
He looked at her in a dazed way. She put her arms around his neck.
“Oh, come. You’re the only man I love in all the world. In a few more
years I will be _passée_; but now I am at my very best. Look at me.
Don’t I please you? Take me. I’ll be everything to you as long as you
like. When you tire of me, I’ll go. I’ll be yours, all yours. I’m not
fickle. I’ll love you, you alone. You won’t regret it. We’ll live in
places that glitter and glow; we will drink to the full the wine of
life. Oh, take me, take me....”
“I don’t understand. How can I do these things? I’m not a man of
wealth....”
“Oh, yes, you are, if you like. There’s the old professor. You know how
to play as he does. You can get hold of his books, copy his figures.
We’ll go to San Sebastien, Buenos Ayres, everywhere roulette is
allowed. Play, play for yourself. Become rich. Life without money is
hell. Come! you’ll do it. Won’t you, won’t you....”
She clung to him. He looked at her with something like horror.
“You want me to _steal_ the professor’s system?”
“Yes, if you want to put it that way. Why not? He’s old, half mad.
Charity begins at home. Why not?”
“Never!”
“You will ... you will....”
She seemed to be holding him with all the strength of her body; she
kissed him like a mad thing. He could feel her hot panting breath on
his face, see her eyes burn into his.
“No, a thousand times no!”
She was like a splendid animal mad with passion. He rose and wrenching
her arms apart, backed away from her, a look of repulsion in his eyes.
She saw it and knew she was defeated.
She crouched by the empty chair, her head dropping on her outstretched
arms. She seemed to be sobbing.
He paused by the door. Something forlorn in her attitude touched him.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “If I were mad for love of you, I would do
anything you asked me, but ... I’m not. I can’t go with you because I
don’t care for you in that way. I realize it now. Perhaps I should have
known it sooner. Please forgive me.”
She rose and faced him.
“Forgive you.... You poor fool! Did you think I meant it? Why, I was
only acting. Did you think I cared for you? It’s only money I care for,
money, money. I offered myself to you and you refused me. You are the
only man who ever did that. It’s that that hurts. You’ve wounded me in
a way time will never heal. I hate you, hate you! Oh, I could kill you.
Go!...”
She pointed to the door, then turning, once again dropped beside the
chair. She was really crying now, shaken with great rending sobs.
He left her. As he passed in front of the dark Casino, the pinkish face
of the clock showed it to be one in the morning. All the way downhill
to the Condamine he did not meet a soul. There was no moon; and the
quietness was almost eerie.
The passage leading to the house was as dark as a tunnel of anthracite.
He plunged into its blackness, then stopped short. A man was blocking
his way. Instinctively his hand went to his hip pocket for his
automatic. Assassins....
Then a second man, darting from behind, gripped his arms. He struggled
madly; but the first man, closing in, struck at him with something
hard, and he remembered no more.
CHAPTER FOUR
ARREST
“Where am I?”
About him were bare, white-washed walls; the light came by grudgingly
through a small barred window that gave on rock and shrub. He struggled
to a sitting position on the pallet bed on which he lay. The place
reeled round and round. He groaned, and put his hand to his head. It
was bandaged. It ached atrociously. What had happened? He tried to
think, but thinking was painful. Memory returned in gleams and dashes.
Bit by bit the evening before came back to him. But how to account for
his present position? He gave up the effort and lay down again.
A man entered, a rather grim, brown man in a kind of uniform.
“Monsieur has awakened?”
“Yes, what place is this?”
“It is the detention room of the Monaco Police Station.”
“But why am I here?”
“Monsieur was arrested only this morning.”
“Arrested! Good Heavens! Why?”
“Ah! that is not for me to say. Monsieur will be brought before the
examining magistrate in an hour. Will monsieur take _petit déjeuner_?”
“Bring me some strong coffee. It may buck me up.”
The coffee cleared his head wonderfully and helped him to realize his
position. He had been arrested last night by those two men in the
dark entry. They certainly had used him roughly enough. He would make
a deuce of a row about that. The whole thing was outrageous, an error
or else a dastardly plot. Then he became uneasy. Anything might happen
here. He was at the mercy of the powers that be. They might throw him
into one of the dungeons of the Castle. Sinister forebodings invaded
him.
Presently two policemen came for him, and he walked between them to a
large room where three men were sitting at a curving desk. Their backs
were to a double window but he was placed in the glare of the strong
light.
The three men were dusky Monegascans. They wore black frock coats and
black bow ties. The centre one was severe and stout, the one on the
right severe and thin, the third was young, intelligent and amiable
looking. It was evident they were important personages in the judiciary
system of the Principality, probably the examining magistrate, the
state attorney and the chief of police. The stout one addressed him
curtly.
“Your name is Hugh Kildair?”
“Yes.”
“You inhabit a room on the third floor of the Villa Lorenza?”
“Yes.”
The magistrate consulted his notes. There was a silence. Hugh saw six
piercing eyes fixed on his face.
“Can you account for your movements from ten o’clock until midnight
yesterday evening?”
Hugh reflected that his movements during that time consisted of
somewhat stertorous respirations on the sofa of Mrs. Belmire’s sitting
room, and hesitated. But after all, he thought, he had no need to be
reticent as far as Mrs. Belmire was concerned. He resented those
damned descendants of Saracen pirates, though. What had they against
him?
“I don’t understand,” he protested. “What have I been arrested for?
It’s an outrage. I’ll appeal to the British consul.”
The youngest of the men interposed smoothly. “You do not seem to
realize the seriousness of your position, monsieur. You will do well to
answer the question.”
Hugh was impressed.
“Well,” he said, “I was with a lady, if you wish to know.”
“Kindly give us her name.”
“A Mrs. Belmire, an English lady.”
The three exchanged glances. The thin one shrugged his shoulders. The
pleasant one smiled meaningly.
“She is known to us,” said the fat one. “Will you be so good as to tell
us where and how you passed the entire evening.”
Hugh repressed his growing indignation. He answered sullenly enough:
“I met her at eight at the Carlton. We had dinner. At ten we took a
_voiture_ and went to her hotel. There I fell asleep on her sofa and
awoke about twelve. I remained till nearly one, when I left for my
room. In the dark entry of the house where I live, my way was barred
by a man.... But then you know more than I do about what happened from
then on.”
“Why did you attempt to draw your pistol?”
“I was nervous. In the past few weeks there have been attempts to
injure me.”
The pleasant looking man nodded confirmation to this. The thin man then
said:
“We had better get hold of the English lady at once. She is not
the most desirable of witnesses, but ... if what monsieur says is
supported, he has an undeniable alibi and we can release him.”
“Release me! Of course, you will. What have I done, tell me. What am I
charged with?”
“There is no charge yet. You are arrested on suspicion only.”
“Of what?”
The three looked at each other. Then the fat one bent forward
dramatically.
“Of murder.”
“Good God! Whose murder?”
The lean one fixed his piercing eyes on Hugh’s face.
“_Professor Durand was murdered in his room last night, between ten and
twelve._”
All three watched him closely. He was dazed by the shock. He stared at
them blankly.
“Horrible!” he murmured. “The poor old man ... murdered!...”
“Yes, stabbed to the heart.”
“But who did it? Why have you arrested me?”
“Because the concierge says he saw you go up to the old man’s room a
little after ten, and leave a little after eleven.”
“Me!”
“Yes. If you can prove that you were elsewhere, then the man must have
been mistaken. We’ll see the English lady at once.”
But alas! a telephone call to the Pension Pizzicato informed them that
Mrs. Belmire had left early that morning with Mr. Fetterstein in a high
powered car. Destination unknown.
“Hum!” said the magistrate, “that makes it bad for you. We are willing
to release you if you can prove an incontestable alibi. We don’t want
any trouble here. But if you cannot we must hand you over to the French
authorities.”
“Hold on,” said Hugh. “Fetterstein was there too, in the room.”
“You mean Monsieur Fetterstein, the multi-millionaire American?”
“Yes, the same.”
“Ah!” All three looked impressed.
“If only Monsieur Fetterstein would testify in your favour that would
end the matter as far as you are concerned. He is well known to us and
much esteemed.”
“But can’t you find him?”
“That might be hard. There is all France to search. Cannot your friends
here hire a lawyer, get some one to help you,--a detective?...”
Hugh considered. “Perhaps Monsieur Krantz would help me.”
They looked surprised; Hugh went on:
“Will you let him know the position I’m in? If any one can find them he
can.”
The chief of police nodded. “He’s already interested in the case.”
The magistrate talked with the others in the Monegascan dialect.
Finally he said:
“We will see what we can do. In the meantime you must remain here. We
will investigate the affair thoroughly. If you are innocent you need
have no fear of the result. That is all I can say for the present.”
Hugh was conducted back to his cell, and left to his own reflections.
He sat for a long time in a state verging on stupor. The professor
murdered,--that was the thought that drove all others from his head,
made him forget even his own plight. The professor murdered! But by
whom? There were those who had reason enough to want the old man out
of the way; there were those who would rejoice at his death. But
assassination! No, they would surely draw the line at that. Krantz had
a drastic way of dealing with criminals, but he would never stain his
hands with the blood of honest men. Still, he had admitted he could not
always keep his subordinates in check.
If, then, it had not been the act of an irresponsible tool of Krantz,
who else had an interest in disposing of the professor? As he lay
through the long day he pondered on this. How slowly the time passed!
He thought sadly that all his friends had gone. MacTaggart, Gimp, Tope,
he was sure they would have hurried to his aid. Margot, too! Why had
she not come? She must know by now where he was. A strange longing to
see her came over him. It would be more comforting to see her than any
one else.
In the evening to his surprise Krantz arrived. The detective entered
with a smile of cheerful mockery that was rather irritating to a man in
Hugh’s position.
“Hullo,” he said, laughing as if it was quite funny, “you’ve got
yourself into a nice mess.”
“Have I?”
“Looks like it, doesn’t it? Here’s your concierge swearing you were in
the old man’s room at the time the murder was committed. You say that
you were elsewhere, but you cannot produce your witnesses. You name two
people who have left the country, gone goodness knows where. Doesn’t
it strike you that if they should not come back to testify for you, you
will be in a devilish awkward box?”
“Look here, Krantz, you know I didn’t do it.”
“Of course, I know it,” said Krantz smilingly.
“And you know who did do it.”
The face of Krantz grew very grave. “Hum! I’m not so sure of that.”
“But what was the motive?”
“Robbery, of course. Didn’t they tell you that the safe was opened, all
the papers taken? He had better luck than I, whoever he was.”
“And the system?”
“Stolen. That’s unfortunate. I wish I knew who he was.”
“Whoever has it can’t use it,” said Hugh. “It’s in cypher, and there’s
only one man who can decipher it.”
“Who’s that?”
“Me.”
“That’s interesting. Humph! I’ll remember that.”
Krantz thoughtfully tapped the floor with his cane for a full minute.
Then he rose.
“I’m going to help you if I can. I’ll try to find your two witnesses so
that you can establish your alibi. But if I get you clear, and should
ever want your aid (in an honourable way, of course) you’ll help me?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Don’t worry. Good-night.”
The visit of Krantz cheered Hugh and he was able to get some sleep.
But the next two days crawled past miserably. Except for the warders
with his food no one came near him; again his fears took shape. What if
Mrs. Belmire and Fetterstein could not be found! Mrs. Belmire probably
hated him and might be glad to revenge herself on him by keeping out of
the way. But no, he thought, she was too good a sport for that. There
was Fetterstein, too. Everything must come right. The time seemed so
long.
On the fourth day he was again ushered into the bureau. The stout
magistrate was at his desk and beside him sat the chief of police. He
smiled benignly at Hugh.
“Everything has been explained,” he said, “as far as you are concerned.
You are released. You need have no further fear. We regret exceedingly
we have been obliged to put you to the inconvenience.”
He bowed with a gesture of dismissal, and Hugh lost no time in leaving
the room. As he emerged from the police station a voice hailed him:
“Hullo there! Sorry we didn’t know you were in such a hell of a fix or
we’d have got here sooner. They connected with us at Marseilles and
we came right on in the car. We’ve just been and interviewed the old
guy. You bet we soon straightened things out. By the way, allow me to
present you to Mrs. Fetterstein.”
Hugh stared. Fetterstein with a hearty laugh was indicating a lady
who was arranging her motoring veil. It was Mrs. Belmire. She looked
radiant.
“Yes, we were married in Marseilles yesterday. Oh, I’m so happy! He’s
really such a nice old thing. You’ve no idea. We’re going to Italy for
our honeymoon. So sorry we didn’t know you were in trouble, or we’d
have simply flown to the rescue. He’s made an affidavit, or something
of the kind. Well, all’s well that ends well. Now we must be getting
on. Come, you precious old dear. Good-bye, Mr. Kildair. Hope we’ll all
meet again.”
Hugh had no time for congratulations. They sprang into a great
cheese-coloured car, and were gone, leaving him in a state of utter
bewilderment.
He made his way slowly back to the house he called home. Forebodings
assailed him. The concierge had gone, no doubt dreading awkward
explanations. Looking up Hugh saw that the windows of the professor’s
room were shuttered. So also were his own. To find his room so dark, so
silent, struck a chill to his heart!
“Margot! Margot!”
No reply. He pulled aside the grey curtain. Her bed had not been slept
in. He searched everywhere for a note from her. Nothing! Had she
carried out her threat? Had she left him as she had said she would?
He went slowly down stairs and asked the tenant of the room below for
news. The woman shook her head.
“The _petite blonde_? No, I know nothing of her. She disappeared the
night of the crime.”
CHAPTER FIVE
TRAPPED
1.
The next three days were more miserable to Hugh than those he had spent
in prison. He missed Margot keenly. He had become so used to her; she
had waited on him so devotedly; had made herself so essential to him in
a hundred little ways. Her sudden desertion of him when he most needed
her filled him with dismay.
He felt injured, too. He had done a good deal for her. He had always
been a perfect brother, respectful and courteous. If she had been a
real sister, he could not have thought more of her. If he could get
her back he would be even more considerate. He would take her to the
cinema, to tea sometimes, even for a drive occasionally. The trouble
was, if he went about with her, people would jump at wrong conclusions.
Well, in future, let ’em jump. He would buy that cottage and she should
keep house for him. He wondered if it would be possible to legally
adopt her as a sister. Then she could live with him until she found the
man she wanted to marry. Why not?
Where was she? In Paris, no doubt; taking up the weary struggle once
more. She would surely write soon, then he would go and fetch her. Why
had she left most of her clothes, he wondered? All the things he had
bought her? Perhaps she did not want to take them. The sight of her
abandoned garments made him lonelier than ever.
She must have left just before the crime. If she had been there, it
might not have happened, she always kept such a watchful eye on the
old man’s door. How shocked she would be. She had been so fond of the
professor, fussing over him, doing things for him. Poor man! So that
was the end of all his grandiose schemes. And the system was useless,
for only he, Hugh, had the key. Well, he was glad it had been stolen.
He had always hated it. There had been something so uncanny about it.
Although it was always successful, it seemed to bring misfortune on all
connected with it.
He felt the shadow of the tragedy penetrating even to his room. The
_concierge_ who had identified him as the murderer, had discreetly
gone on a vacation; but Hugh had gathered dubious details of what had
happened. About ten o’clock the assassin had mounted to the old man’s
room. The _concierge_ had seen him enter, but had not seen him leave.
About midnight the occupant of the room below, a Casino employé, had
heard groaning; but by the time the door had been opened the old
man was dead. He was lying face downward in a pool of blood with a
knife stab just under the ribs. The safe was open and empty; the room
ransacked.
That was all Hugh could learn. It was vague and confusing enough.
The Monaco police seemed to be in no hurry to clear up the mystery
and probably would allow it to swell the list of the Principality’s
undiscovered crimes.
Oh, for a word from Margot! He was growing anxious about her. Then one
day the postman handed him a letter.
2.
It bore the post-mark of Monaco. He tore it open and read with
amazement the following: