IS A MYSTERY
I was left alone with Reggie, for Ulrica had taken Gerald in to the
orchestral concert.
“What awfully good luck you had!” he observed after we had been
chatting some time. “If you’d had the maximum on each time you’d have
won about four thousand dollars.”
“There are a good many if’s in gambling,” I remarked. “I’ve never had
any luck before in gambles at bazaars and such-like places.”
“When you do have luck, follow it, is my motto,” he laughed. “I should
have advised you to continue playing to-day, only I thought it might
annoy Ulrica,” and he raised his glass to his lips.
“But I might have lost all that I won,” I remarked. “No, I prefer to
keep it. I’d like to be unique among the people and go away with some
of the bank’s money. I intend to keep what I have, and not to play
again.”
“Never?”
“Never!”
“My dear Miss Rosselli, that’s what everyone says here,” he laughed.
“But before you’ve been on the Riviera long you’ll discover that this
is no place for good resolutions. Gambling is one of the sweetest and
most insidious of vices, and has the additional attraction of being
thought chic. Look at the crowd of women here! Why, every one of them
play. If they didn’t, others would believe them to be hard up--and
poverty, you know, is distinctly bad form here. Even if a woman hasn’t
sufficient to pay her hotel bill she must wear the regulation gold
chatelaine,--the gold chain-purse,--if it only contains a couple of
pieces of a hundred sous. And she must play. Fortunes have been won
with only five francs.”
“Such stories, I fear, are only fairy tales,” I said incredulously.
“No. At least one of them is not,” he answered, blowing a cloud of
smoke from his lips and looking at me amusedly. “I was playing here one
night last March when a young French girl won three hundred thousand
francs after having first lost all she had. She borrowed a five-franc
piece from a friend and with it broke the bank. I was present at the
table where it occurred. Fortune is very fickle here.”
“So it seems,” I said. “That is why I intend to keep what I’ve won.”
“You might have a necklace made of the louis,” he said. “Many women
wear coins won at Monte Carlo attached to their bangles.”
“A happy thought!” I exclaimed; “I’ll have one put on my bangle
to-morrow as a souvenir.”
“Are you staying on the Riviera long?” he inquired presently.
“I really don’t know. When Ulrica is tired of it, then we shall move
down to Rome, I suppose.”
“When she’s lost sufficient, you mean,” he smiled. “She’s quite
reckless when she commences. I remember her here several seasons ago.
She lost very heavily. Luck was entirely against her.”
I too remembered her visit. She left me in Washington and went to
the Riviera for a couple of months, and on her return was constantly
bewailing her penury. This, then, was the secret of it. She had never
revealed to me the truth.
“And you think that I shall be stricken with the prevalent epidemic?” I
inquired.
“I hope not,” he answered quickly. “But after all, the temptation is
utterly irresistible. It is sad, indeed, that here in this corner of
God’s earth, which He has marked as the nearest approach to paradise,
should be allowed to flaunt all the vices and the seven deadly sins
which render the world horrible. Monte Carlo is the one blot upon
the Riviera. I’m a gambler,--I make no secret of it, because I find
resistance impossible while I have money in my pocket,--nevertheless,
much as I like a fling here each winter I would gladly welcome the
closing of the Casino. It is, alas! true that those red-carpeted steps
and the wide doors opposite form the entrance-gate to hell.”
I sighed, glancing over to the flight of steps before us, where the gay
wintering world in summer toilettes were passing up and down. He was
possessed of common sense and spoke the truth. Inside those rooms the
perspiring, perfumed crowds were fluttering around the tables as moths
around a candle, going headlong to ruin both moral and financial.
“Yes,” I observed reflectively, “I suppose you’re right. Thousands
have been ruined within that place.”
“And thousands have ended by committing suicide,” he added. “The
average number of suicides within this tiny Principality of Monaco is
more than two a day!”
“More than two a day!” I exclaimed incredulously.
“Yes. Of course, the authorities bribe the press and hush it all
up, but the authentic figures were published not so long ago. The
Administration of the Casino find it cheaper to bury a corpse than to
pay a ruined gambler’s fare to St. Petersburg, London, or New York.
That’s why the poor devils who are cleaned out find the much-talked-of
viatique so difficult to obtain. Human life is held very cheap here, I
can tell you.”
“Oh, don’t talk like that,” I protested. “You make one feel quite
nervous. Do you mean that murder is often committed?”
“Well--not exactly that. But one must always remember that here, mixing
with the best people of Europe, are the very scum of the world, both
male and female. Although they dress elegantly, live well, play boldly,
and give themselves airs and titles of nobility, they are a very queer
and unscrupulous crowd, I can assure you.”
“Do you know any of them by sight?” I inquired, much interested.
“Oh, one or two,” he answered, laughing indifferently. “Some of them,
of course, are eccentric and quite harmless characters.” Then a moment
later he added: “Do you see that tall, thin old man just ascending the
steps--the one with the soft, white felt hat? Well, his is a curious
story. Twenty years ago he came here a millionaire, and within a month
lost everything he possessed at trente-et-quarante. So huge were the
profits made by the bank, that instead of giving him his viatique to
London they allotted him a pension of a louis a day for life, on the
understanding that he should never again enter the Rooms. For nearly
twenty years he lived in Nice, haunting the Promenade des Anglais
and brooding over his past foolishness. Last year, however, somebody
unexpectedly died and left him quite comfortably off, whereupon he paid
back to Monte Carlo all that he had received and returned again to
gamble. His luck, however, has proved just as bad as before. Yet each
month as soon as he draws his income he comes over, and in a single
day flings it all away upon the red, his favorite color. His history is
only one of many.”
With interest I looked at the tall, thin-faced old gambler as he
painfully ascended the steps, and even as I watched he passed in, eager
to fling away all that stood between himself and starvation.
Truly the little world of Monte Carlo is a very queer place.
Ulrica and Gerald came laughing across the leafy Place and joined us
at our table. It was very pleasant there, with the band playing the
latest waltzes, the gay promenaders strolling beneath the palms, the
bright flowers, and the pigeons strutting in the roadway. Indeed, as
one sat there it seemed hard to believe that this was actually the
much-talked-of Monte Carlo--the plague spot of Europe.
I don’t think that I ever saw Ulrica look so well as on that afternoon
in her white serge dress, which she had had made in Paris; for white
serge is, as you know, de rigueur at Monte in winter, with a white hat
and white shoes. I was also in white, but it never suits me as it does
her; yet one must be smart, even at the expense of one’s complexion.
At Monte Carlo one must at least be respectable, even in one’s vices.
“Come, let’s go back to the Rooms,” suggested Ulrica when she had
finished her tea, flavored with orange-flower water, which is the mode
at the Café de Paris.
“Miss Rosselli won’t play any more,” said Reggie.
“My dear Carmela,” cried Ulrica; “why, surely you’ve the pluck to
follow your good fortune?”
But I was obdurate, and although I accompanied the others I did not
risk a single sou.
The place was crowded and the atmosphere absolutely unbearable, as it
always becomes about five o’clock. The Administration appear afraid of
letting in a little air to cool the heads of the players, hence the
rooms are hermetically sealed.
As I wandered about with Reggie, he pointed out to me other well-known
characters in the Rooms--the queer old fellow who carries a bag purse
made of colored beads; the old hag with a mustache who always brings
her own rake; the bright-eyed, dashing woman known to the croupiers
as “The Golden Hand;” the thin, wizen-faced little hunchback who one
night a few months before had broken the bank at the first roulette
table on the left; men working so-called “systems” and women trying to
snatch up other people’s winnings. Now and then my companion placed a
louis upon a transversale or colonne and once or twice he won, but,
declaring that he had no luck that day, he soon grew as tired of it as
myself.
Ulrica came up to us presently flushed with excitement. She had won
three hundred francs at the table where she always played. Her favorite
croupier was turning the wheel, and he always brought her luck. We both
had won, and she declared it to be a happy augury for the future.
While we were standing there the croupier’s voice sounded loud and
clear “Zero!” with that long roll of the “r” which habitués of the
Rooms know so well.
“Zero!” cried Reggie. “By Jove! I must put something on,” and he dashed
over to the table and handed the croupier a hundred-franc note, with a
request to put it on the number 29.
The game was made and the ball fell.
“Vingt-neuf! Rouge, impair et passé!”
“By Jove!” cried Gerald, “he’s won! Lucky devil! How extraordinary that
after zero the number twenty-nine so invariably follows!”
The croupier handed Reggie three thousand-franc notes and quite a
handful of gold. Then the lucky player moved his original stake on to
the little square marked 36.
Again he won--and again and again. The three thousand-franc notes he
had just received he placed upon the middle dozen. The number 18 turned
up, and the croupier handed him six thousand francs--the maximum paid
by the bank on a single coup. Every eye around that table watched him
narrowly. People began to follow his play, placing their money beside
his, and time after time he won, making only a few unimportant losses.
We stood watching him in silent wonder. The luck of the man with whom
I had been flirting was simply marvellous. Sometimes he distributed
his stakes on the color, the dozen, and the “pair,” and in that manner
often won in several places at the same coup. The eager, grabbing crowd
surged around the table, and the excitement quickly rose to fever-heat.
The assault Reggie was making upon the bank was certainly a formidable
one. His inner pockets bulged with the handfuls of notes he crammed
there, while the outer pockets of his jacket were heavy with golden
louis.
Ulrica stood behind him, but uttered no word. To speak to a person
while playing is believed by the gambler to bring evil fortune. When he
could cram no more notes into his pockets he passed them to Ulrica, who
held them in an overflow bundle in her hand.
He tossed a thousand francs on the red, but lost, together with the
dozens of others who had followed his play.
He played again with no better result.
A third time he played on the red, which had not been up for nine times
in succession, a most unusual run.
Black won.
“I’ve finished,” he said, turning to us with a laugh. “Let’s get out of
this; my luck has changed.”
“Marvellous!” cried Ulrica. “Why, you must have won quite a fortune.”
“We’ll go across to the Café and count it,” he said, and we all walked
out together. Then while sitting at one of the tables we assisted him
to count the piles of gold and notes.
He had, we found, won over sixty thousand francs.
At his invitation we went along to Gast’s, the jewellers in the
Galerie, and he there purchased for each of us a ring as a little
souvenir of the day. Afterwards we turned into Ciro’s and dined.
Yes, life at Monte Carlo is absolutely intoxicating. Now, however, that
I sit here reflecting on the events of that day when I first entered
the Sign of the Seven Sins, I find that even though the display of such
wealth as one sees upon the tables is dazzling, yet my first impression
of it has never been altered. I hated Monte Carlo from the first--I
hate it now.
The talk at dinner was, of course, the argot of the Rooms. At Monte
Carlo the conversation is always of play. If you meet an acquaintance,
you do not ask after her health, but of her luck and her latest
successes.
The two bejewelled worlds, the monde and the demi-monde, ate, drank,
and chattered in that restaurant of world-renown. The company was
cosmopolitan, the conversation polyglot, the dishes marvellous. At
the table next us there sat the Grand Duke Michael of Russia with his
wife, and beyond a British Earl with a couple of smart military men.
The United States Ambassador to Germany was at another table with a
small party of friends, while La Juniori, Derval, and several other
well-known Parisian beauties were scattered here and there.
I was laughing at a joke of Reggie’s when suddenly I raised my eyes and
saw a pair of new-comers. The man was tall, dark, handsome, with a face
a trifle bronzed--a face I knew, alas! too well.
I started and must have turned pale, for I knew from Ulrica’s
expression that she noticed it.
The man who entered there, as though to taunt me with his presence,
was Ernest Cameron, that man whom I had loved,--nay, whom I still
loved,--the man who had a year ago cast me aside for another, and left
me to wear out my young heart in sorrow and suffering.
That woman was with him--the tow-haired woman whom they told me he
had promised to make his wife. I had never seen her before; she was
rather petite, with a fair, fluffy coiffure, blue-gray eyes, and
pink-and-white cheeks. She had earned, I afterwards heard, a rather
unenviable notoriety in Paris on account of some scandal or other, but
the real truth of it I could never ascertain.
Our eyes met as she entered, but she was unaware that she gazed upon
the woman who was her rival and who hated her. She had stolen Ernest
from me, and I felt that I could rise there, in that public place, and
crush the life from her slim, fragile frame.
Ernest himself brushed past my chair, but without recognizing me, and
went down the room gayly with his companion.
“Do you notice who has just entered?” asked Ulrica.
I nodded. I could not speak.
“Who?” inquired Reggie quickly.
“Some friends of ours,” she answered carelessly.
“Oh, everyone meets friends here,” he laughed, and swallowed his
champagne unsuspectingly.
Reader, if you are a woman you will fully understand how sight of that
man who held me in a fatal fascination caused within me a whirl of
passions. I hated and loved at the same instant. Even though we were
parted, I had never ceased to think of him. For me the world had no
longer any charm, for the light of my life had now gone out, and I was
suffering in silence, just as all women do who become the sport of fate.
Yes, Ulrica’s notion was, after all, very true. No man whom I had ever
met was really worth consideration. All were egoists. The rich believed
that woman was a mere toy, while the poor were always ineligible.
Reggie spoke to me, but I scarcely heeded him. Now that the man I
loved was near me I felt an increasing desire to get rid of this male
encumbrance. True, he was rich, and I knew by my own feminine intuition
that he admired me, but for him I entertained no spark of affection.
Alas! that we always sigh for the unattainable.
For me, the remainder of the meal was a dismal function. I longed to
get another glimpse of that dark, bronzed face, and of the tow-haired
woman whom he had preferred to me, but they were evidently sitting at
a table in the corner out of sight. Ulrica knew the truth, and took
compassion upon me by hastening the dinner to its end. Then we went
forth again into the cool, balmy night. The moon shone brightly and its
reflection glittered in a long stream of silver brilliance upon the
sea, the Place was gayly lit, and the white façade of the Casino with
its great illuminated clock shone with lights of every hue.
Across to the Hermitage we strolled and took our coffee there. I
laughed at Reggie’s pockets bulging with notes, for, the banks being
closed, he was compelled to carry his winnings about with him.
While we sat there, however, a brilliant idea occurred to him.
“Nearly all these notes are small,” he said suddenly. “I’ll go into the
Rooms and exchange the gold and small notes for large ones. They’ll be
so much easier to carry.”
“Ah!” cried Ulrica. “I never thought of that. Why, of course!”
“Very well,” he answered, “I sha’n’t be ten minutes.”
“Don’t be tempted to play again, old fellow,” urged Gerald.
“No fear of that!” he laughed, and with a cigarette in his mouth
strode away in the direction of the Casino.
We remained there gossiping for fully half-an-hour, yet he did not
return. It was only a walk of a couple of minutes from the Hermitage to
the Casino, therefore we concluded that he had met some friend and been
detained, for he, like Gerald, came there each winter and knew quite
a host of people. One makes a large circle of acquaintances on the
Riviera, many interesting but the majority undesirable.
“I wonder where he’s got to?” Gerald observed presently. “Surely he
isn’t such an idiot as to resume play.”
“No. He’s well enough aware that there’s no luck after dinner,”
remarked Ulrica. “We might, however, I think, take a last turn through
the Rooms and see whether he’s there.”
This suggestion was carried out, but although we searched every table
we failed to discover him. Until ten o’clock we lounged about, then
returned by the express to Nice.
That he should have left us in that abrupt manner was certainly
curious, but as Gerald declared he was always erratic in his movements,
and that his explanation in the morning would undoubtedly be found
entirely satisfactory, we returned together to the hotel, where we
wished our companion good-night and ascended in the elevator to our own
sitting-room on the second floor.
My good fortune pleased me, but my heart was nevertheless overburdened
with sorrow. Sight of Ernest had reopened the gaping wound which I
had so strenuously striven to heal by the aid of lighter loves. I now
thought only of him.
Ulrica, who was in front of me, gayly pushed open the door of our
sitting-room and switched on the light, but ere she crossed the
threshold she drew back quickly with a loud cry of horror and surprise.
In an instant I was at her side.
“Look!” she gasped, terrified, pointing to the opposite side of the
room. “Look!”
The body of a man was lying face downward upon the carpet, half hidden
by the round table in the centre of the room.
Together we dashed forward to his assistance and tried to raise him,
but were unable. We succeeded, however, in turning him upon his side,
and then his white, hard-set features became suddenly revealed.
“My God!” I cried, awe-stricken. “What has occurred? Why--it’s Reggie!”
“Reggie!” shrieked Ulrica, kneeling quickly and placing her gloved hand
eagerly upon his heart. “Reggie!--and he’s dead!”
“Impossible!” I gasped, petrified at the hideous discovery.
“It is true!” she went on, her face white as that of the dead man
before us. “Look! there’s blood upon his lips. See! the chair over
there is thrown down and broken. There has apparently been a fierce
struggle.”
Next instant a thought occurred to me, and bending I quickly searched
his inner pockets. The bank-notes were not there!
Then the ghastly truth became entirely plain.
Reginald Thorne had been robbed and murdered.