RELATES SOME ASTOUNDING FACTS
The amazing discovery held us in speechless bewilderment.
The favorite of Fortune, who only a couple of hours before had been so
full of life and buoyant spirits, and who had left us with a promise to
return within ten minutes, was now lying still and dead in the privacy
of our own room. The ghastly truth was so strange and unexpected as to
utterly stagger belief. A mysterious and dastardly crime had evidently
been committed there.
I scarce knew what occurred during the quarter of an hour that
immediately followed our astounding discovery. All I remember is
that Ulrica, with her face blanched to the lips, ran out into the
corridor and raised the alarm. Then there arrived a crowd of waiters,
chambermaids, and visitors, everyone excitedly asking strings of
questions, until the hotel manager came and closed the door upon them
all. The discovery caused the most profound sensation, especially when
the police and doctor arrived, quickly followed by two detectives.
The doctor, a short, stout Frenchman, at once pronounced that
poor Reggie had been dead more than half-an-hour, but the cursory
examination he was enabled to make was insufficient to establish the
cause of death.
“Do you incline to a theory of death through violence?” one of the
detectives inquired.
“Ah! At present I cannot tell,” the other answered dubiously. “It is
not at all plain that m’sieur has been murdered.”
Both Ulrica and I quickly found ourselves in a most unpleasant
position. First, a man had been found dead in our apartments, which was
sufficient to cause a good deal of ill-natured gossip; and secondly,
the police seemed to entertain some suspicion of us. We were both
cross-questioned separately as to Reggie’s identity, what we knew of
him, and of our doings at Monte Carlo that day. In response, we made
no secret of our movements, for we felt that the police might be able
to trace the culprit--if indeed Reggie had been actually murdered.
The fact that he had won that sum and that he had left us in order to
change the notes into larger ones seemed to puzzle the police. If
robbery had been the object of the crime, the murderer would, they
agreed, no doubt have committed the deed either in the train or on the
street. Why, indeed, should the victim have entered our sitting-room at
all?
That really seemed the principal problem. The whole of the
circumstances formed a complete and most puzzling enigma, but his visit
to our sitting-room was the most curious feature of all.
The thief, whoever he was,--for I inclined towards the theory of theft
and murder,--had been enabled to effect his purpose swiftly and leave
the hotel without detection. Another curious fact was that neither the
concierge nor the elevator-lad recollected the dead man’s return. Both
agreed that he must have slipped in unobserved. And if so, why?
Having concluded the examinations of Ulrica and myself and my Italian
maid, Felicita, who had returned from her evening out and knew nothing
at all of the matter, the police made a most rigorous search in our
rooms. We were present and had the dissatisfaction of watching our best
gowns and other articles tumbled over and mauled by unclean hands. Not
a corner was left unexamined, for when the French police make a search
they at least do it thoroughly.
“Ah! What is this?” exclaimed one of the detectives, picking from the
open fire-place in the sitting-room a crumpled piece of paper, which he
smoothed out carefully.
In an instant we were all eager attention. I saw that it was a sheet
of my own note-paper, and upon it in a man’s handwriting was the
commencement of a letter:
“My dear Miss Rosselli, I have----”
There it broke off short. There were no other words. The paper had
been crushed and flung away, as though the writer, on mature thought,
had resolved not to address me by letter. I had never seen Reggie’s
handwriting, but on comparison with some entries in a note-book found
in his pocket the police pronounced it to be his.
What did he wish to tell me?
About an hour after midnight we sent up to the Villa Fabron for Gerald,
who returned in the cab which conveyed our messenger.
When we told him the terrible truth he stood open-mouthed, rooted to
the spot.
“Reggie dead!” he gasped. “Murdered!”
“Undoubtedly,” answered Ulrica. “The mystery is inexplicable, but with
your aid we must solve it.”
“With my aid!” he cried. “I fear I cannot help you. I know nothing
whatever about it.”
“Of course not,” I said. “But now tell us what is your theory? You were
his best friend, and would therefore probably know if he had any enemy
who desired to wreak revenge upon him.”
“He hadn’t a single enemy in the world, to my knowledge,” Gerald
answered. “The motive of the crime was robbery, without a doubt. Most
probably he was followed from Monte Carlo by someone who watched his
success at the tables. There are always some desperate characters among
the crowd there.”
“Do you think, then, that the murderer was actually watching us ever
since the afternoon?” I inquired in alarm.
“I think it most probable,” he responded. “At Monte Carlo there is a
crowd of all sorts and conditions of outsiders. Many of them wouldn’t
hesitate to commit murder for the sum which poor Reggie had in his
pockets.”
“It’s terrible!” ejaculated Ulrica.
“Yes,” he sighed, whilst his face grew heavy and thoughtful. “This
awful news has upset me quite as much as it has you. I have lost my
best friend.”
“I hope you will spare no effort to clear up the mystery,” I said, for
I had rather liked the poor boy ever since chance had first thrown
us together in Washington, and on the renewal of our acquaintance a
few days previously my estimate of his character and true worth had
considerably improved. It was appalling that he should be thus struck
down so swiftly and in a manner so strange.
“Of course, I shall at once do all I can,” he declared. “I’ll see the
police and state all I know. If this had occurred in England or in
America there might be a chance of tracing the culprit by the numbers
on the bank-notes. In France, however, the numbers are never taken, and
stolen notes cannot be recovered. However, rest assured, both of you,
that I’ll do my very best.”
There was a tap at the door at that moment, and opening it, I was
confronted by a tall, dark-bearded Frenchman, who explained that he was
an agent of police.
To him Gerald related all he knew regarding poor Reggie’s
acquaintances and movements while on the Riviera, and afterwards in
company with the detective he went to the rooms we had abandoned and
there gazed for the last time upon the dead face of his friend.
This sudden tragic event had cast a gloom over both Ulrica and myself.
We were both nervous and apprehensive, ever debating the mysterious
reason which caused Reggie to enter our sitting-room in our absence.
Surely he had some very strong motive, or he would not have returned
straight there and commenced that mysterious letter of explanation.
As far as we could discern, his success at the tables in the afternoon
had not intoxicated him, for although young, he was a practised,
unemotional player, and to him gains and losses were alike--at least,
he displayed no outward sign of satisfaction beyond a broad smile when
his winning number was announced by the croupier. No, of the many
theories put forward, that of Gerald seemed the most sound, namely,
that he had been followed from Monte Carlo with evil intent.
The _Petit Niçois_, the _Eclaireur_, and the _Phare du Littoral_ were
next day full of “The Mystery of the Grand Hotel.” In the article we
were referred to as Mademoiselle Y. and Mademoiselle R., as is usual in
French journalism, and certainly the comments made by the three organs
in question were distinguished by undisguised suspicion and sorry
sarcasm. The _Petit Niçois_, a journal which had on so many recent
occasions given proof of its anti-English and anti-American tone,
declared its disbelief of the story that the deceased had won the large
sum stated, and concluded by urging the police of Nice to leave no
stone unturned in its efforts to discover the murderer, which it added
would probably be found within the hotel. This remark was certainly
a pleasing reflection to cast upon us. It was as though the journal
believed that one of us--or both--had conspired to murder him.
Gerald was furious, but we were powerless to protect ourselves against
the cruel calumnies of such torchons.
The official inquiry, held next day after the post-mortem examination
had been made, revealed absolutely nothing. Even the cause of death
puzzled the doctors. There was a slight cut in the corner of the mouth,
so small that it might have been accidentally caused while he had
been eating, and beyond a slight scratch behind the left ear there was
no abrasion of the skin--no wound of any kind. On the neck, however,
were two strange marks, like the marks of a finger and a thumb, which
pointed to strangulation, yet the medical examination failed to
establish that as a fact. He died, it was declared, from some cause
which could not be determined. It might, indeed, have been a natural
death the doctors admitted, but the fact that the notes were missing
pointed very clearly and conclusively to murder.
That same evening, as the winter sun was sinking behind the Esterels,
we followed the dead man’s remains to their resting-place in the
English Cemetery up in the olive-groves of Caucade, perhaps one of the
most beautiful and picturesque burial-places in all the world. Winter
and summer it is always a blaze of bright flowers, and the view over
the olive-clad slope and the calm Mediterranean beyond is one of the
most charming in all the Riviera.
The American chaplain performed the last rites, and then we turned
sorrowfully away and drove back to Nice silently, full of gloomy
thoughts.
The puzzling incident had crushed all gayety from our hearts. I
suggested that we should leave and go on to Mentone, but Ulrica
declared that it was our duty to remain where we were and give the
police what assistance we could in aiding them to solve the inscrutable
mystery. Thus, the days which followed were days of sadness and
melancholy. We ate in our own room to avoid the gaze of the curious,
for all in Nice now knew the tragic story, and as we passed in and out
of the hotel we overheard many whisperings.
As for myself, I had a double burden of sorrow. In those hours of
deep thought and sadness I reflected that poor Reggie was a man who
might perhaps have become my husband. I did not love him in the sense
that the average woman understands love. He was a sociable companion,
clever, smart in dress and gait, and altogether one of those easy men
of the world who appeal strongly to a woman of my own temperament.
When I placed him in comparison with Ernest, however, I saw that I
could never have actually entertained a real affection for him. I loved
Ernest with a wild, passionate love, and all others were now, and would
ever be, as naught to me. I cared not that he had forsaken me in favor
of that ugly, tow-haired witch. I was his. I felt that I must at all
hazards see him again.
I was sitting at the open window one afternoon, gazing moodily out upon
the Square Massena, when Ulrica suddenly said:
“Curious that we’ve seen nothing further of Ernest. I suppose, however,
you’ve forgotten him.”
“Forgotten him!” I cried, starting up. “I shall never forget
him--never!”
In that instant I seemed to see his dark, handsome face before me, as
of old. It was in the golden blaze of a summer sunset. I heard his
rich voice in my ears. I saw him pluck a sprig of jasmine, emblem of
purity, and give it to me, at the same time whispering words of love
and devotion. Ah, yes, he loved me then--he loved me.
I put up my hand to shut out the vision. I rose and staggered. Then I
felt Ulrica’s soft hand upon my waist.
“Carmela! Carmela!” she cried. “What’s the matter? Tell me, dear!”
“You know,” I answered hoarsely, “you know, Ulrica, that I love him!”
My voice was choked within me, so deep was my distress. “And he is to
marry--to marry that woman!”
“My dear, take my advice and forget him,” she said lightly. “There are
lots of other men whom you could love quite as well. Poor Reggie, for
instance, might have filled his place in your heart. He was charming,
poor fellow. Your Ernest treated you as he has done all women. Why make
yourself miserable and wear out your heart regarding a past which it
is quite unnecessary to recall? Live as I do, for the future, without
mourning over what must ever be by-gones.”
“Ah! that’s all very well,” I said sadly. “But I can’t help it. That
woman loves him--every woman loves him. You yourself admired him long
ago.”
“Certainly. I admire lots of men, but I have never committed the folly
of loving a single one.”
“Folly!” I cried angrily. “You call love folly?”
“Why, of course,” she laughed. “Do dry your eyes, or you’ll look an
awful sight when Gerald comes. He said he would go for a walk with us
on the Promenade at four, and it’s already half-past three. Come, it’s
time we dressed.”
I sighed heavily. Yes, it was true that Ulrica was utterly heartless
towards those who admired her. I had with regret noticed her careless
attitude times without number. She was a smart woman who thought only
of her own good looks, her own toilettes, and her own amusements. Men
amused her by their flattery, and she therefore tolerated them. She had
told me so long ago with her own lips, and had urged me to follow her
example.
“Ulrica,” I said at last, “forgive me--forgive me; but I am so unhappy.
Don’t let us speak of him again. I will try to forget, indeed I will--I
will try and regard him as dead. I forgot myself--forgive me, dear.”
“Yes, forget him, there’s a dear,” she said, kissing me. “And now call
Felicita and let us dress. Gerald hates to be kept waiting, you know.”