MAKES ONE POINT PLAIN
“Extraordinary!” ejaculated the detective, whose habitual coolness
seemed utterly upset by the unexpected discovery. “This adds an
entirely new feature to the case.”
“What, I wonder, could have been the motive in giving the notes to
mademoiselle?” queried his companion.
“How can we tell?” said the other. “It at least proves one thing,
namely, that the man in the owl’s dress is the individual we suspected.”
“Do you then believe him to be the actual assassin?” I asked.
But the detectives, with the aid of the Director of the Casino, were
busy counting the stolen notes. There were sixty, each for one thousand
francs.
They examined the leather jewelry case, but found no mark upon it nor
upon the paper wrappings. The box was such as might have once contained
a bracelet, but the raised velvet-covered spring in the interior had
been removed in order to admit of the introduction of the bank-notes,
which, even when folded, formed a rather large packet.
“They are undoubtedly those stolen from M’sieur Thorne,” the detective
said. “In these circumstances it is our duty to take possession of them
as evidence against the criminal. I shall lodge them with the Prefect
of Police until we have completed the inquiry.”
“Certainly,” I answered. “I have no desire to keep them in my
possession. The history connected with them is far too gruesome. But
whatever motive could there be in handing them to me?”
“Ah, that we hope to discover later,” the detective responded,
carefully folding them, replacing them in the case, and taking charge
of the wrappings, which it was believed might form some clue. “At
present it would seem very much as though the assassin handed you the
proceeds of his crime in order to convince you that robbery was not the
motive.”
“Then you do believe that the man in the owl’s dress was the real
culprit?” I cried eagerly. “If so, I have actually danced to-night
with poor Reggie’s murderer!” I gasped.
“It is more than likely that we shall be able to establish that fact,”
the subordinate observed in a rather uncertain tone.
“How unfortunate,” ejaculated his superior, “that we allowed him to
thus slip through our fingers--and with the money actually upon him
too!”
“Yes,” observed the Director of the Casino. “You have certainly
to-night lost an excellent opportunity, messieurs. It is curious that
neither of you noticed mademoiselle in the box talking with this
mysterious individual.”
“That was, I think, impossible,” I remarked. “We sat quite back in the
small alcove.”
“What number was your box?” the Director asked.
“Fifteen.”
“Ah! of course,” he said quickly. “There is, I remember, a kind of
alcove at the back. You sat in there.”
“Well,” observed the chief detective, “no good can be done by remaining
here longer, I suppose, so we had better endeavor to trace this
interesting person by other means. The fact that he has given up the
proceeds of the crime is sufficient to show that he means to leave
Nice. Therefore we must lose no time,” and he glanced at his watch.
“Ten minutes to two,” he said. Then turning to his assistant, he
ordered him to drive to the station and see whether the man who had
worn the disguise of the night-bird was among the travellers leaving
for Marseilles at two-thirty.
“Remain on duty at the station until I send and relieve you,” he said.
“There are several special trains to Cannes and Monte Carlo about three
o’clock on account of the ball. Be careful to catch them all. It is my
opinion that he may be going to cross the frontier at Ventimiglia. I’ll
telephone there as soon as I get down to the bureau.”
“Bien, m’sieur,” answered the other, and as they went out, wishing me
good-night, I followed them, asking of the senior of the pair,--
“Tell me, m’sieur, what should be my best course of action. Do you
think the threats are serious?”
“Not at all,” he answered reassuringly. “My dear mademoiselle, don’t
distress yourself in the very least regarding what he has said. He
has only endeavored to frighten you into rendering him assistance. Act
just as you think proper. Your experience to-night has certainly been a
strange one; but if I were in your place I would return to the hotel,
sleep soundly, and forget it all until--well, until we make an arrest.”
“You expect to do so, then?”
“We, of course, hope so. In my profession, you know, everything is
uncertain. So much depends upon chance,” and he smiled pleasantly.
“Then I presume you will communicate with me later as to the further
result of your investigations?” I suggested.
“Most certainly. Mademoiselle shall be kept well informed of our
operations, never fear.”
We were at the door of the Casino, where a great crowd had assembled to
watch the maskers emerging.
“Shall I call you a fiacre?” he asked quite gallantly.
“No, thank you,” I responded. “I’ll walk. It’s only a few steps to the
Grand.”
“Ah, of course,” he laughed. “I had forgotten. Bon soir, mademoiselle.”
I wished him good-night, and next second he was lost in the crowd,
while with my mind full of my extraordinary adventure I walked along
the Quai St. Jean Baptiste to the hotel.
The incidents had been so strange that they seemed beyond belief.
I found the faithful Felicita dozing, but Ulrica had not returned.
When she entered, however, a quarter of an hour later, she was in
the highest of spirits, declaring that she had experienced a most
delightful time.
“My opinion of the Carnival ball, my dear, is that it is by far the
jolliest function on the Riviera,” she declared. Then in the same
breath she proceeded to give me an outline of her movements from the
time we were lost to one another in the crowd. She had, it appeared,
had supper with Gerald and several friends, and the fun had been fast
and furious. Her dress was badly torn in places, and certainly her
dishevelled appearance showed that she had entered thoroughly into the
boisterous merriment of the Carnival.
“And you?” she inquired presently. “What in the world became of you? We
searched everywhere before supper, but couldn’t find you.”
“I met a rather entertaining partner,” I responded briefly.
“A stranger?”
“Yes,” and I gave her a look by which she understood that I intended to
say nothing before Felicita.
Therefore the subject was dropped, and as I resolved to tell her of my
adventure later, she left me for the night.
I am seldom troubled by insomnia, but that night little sleep came to
my eyes.
I lay there thinking it all over. I had now not the slightest doubt but
that the man in the owl’s dress was the assassin of poor Reggie. And I
had chatted amicably with him. I had actually danced with him! The very
thought held me horrified.
What marvellous self-confidence the fellow had displayed; what cool
audacity, what unwarrantable interference in my private affairs, and
what a terrible counter-stroke he had effected in presenting me with
the actual notes filched from the dead man’s pockets! The incident was
rendered none the less bewildering on account of the entire absence of
motive. I lay awake reflecting upon it the whole night long.
When we took our morning coffee together I related to Ulrica all that
had passed. She sat, a pretty, dainty figure, in her lace-trimmed and
beribboned robe-de-chambre, leaning her bare elbows upon the table, and
listening open-mouthed.
“And the police actually allowed him to escape scot-free?” she cried
indignantly.
“Yes.”
“The thing is monstrous. I begin to think that their failure to trace
the murderer is because they are in league with him. Here, abroad,
one never knows. My dear Carmela, depend upon it that in this world
of Monte Carlo the police are bribed just as the press, the railway
men, and porters are bribed by those rulers of the Riviera, the
Administration of the Société des Bains de Mer de Monaco.”
“That may be so,” I observed wonderingly. “But the fact still remains
that last night I danced with Reggie’s assassin.”
“Did he dance well?”
“Oh Ulrica! Don’t treat the thing humorously!” I protested.
“I’m not humorous. The worst of Carnival balls is that they’re such
mixed affairs. One meets millionaires and murderers, and rubs shoulders
with the most notorious women in Europe. Your adventure, however, is
absolutely unique. If it got into the papers what a nice little story
it would make, wouldn’t it?”
“For Heaven’s sake, no!” I cried.
“Well, if you don’t want it to reach the _Petit Niçois_ or the
_Eclaireur_ you’d better be pretty close about it. Poor Reggie’s murder
is a mystery, and the public fondly delight to read anything about a
mystery.”
We discussed it for a long time, until the entrance of Felicita caused
us to drop the subject. Yes, it was, as Ulrica had declared, an
absolute enigma.
About four o’clock in the afternoon, when we had both dressed ready
to go out,--for we had accepted an invitation to go on an excursion
in automobile up to Tourette,--the waiter entered with a card, which
Ulrica took and read.
“Oh,” she sighed, “here’s another detective! Don’t let him keep us,
dear. You know the Allens won’t wait for us. They said four o’clock
sharp, opposite Vogarde’s.”
“But we can’t refuse to see him,” I said.
“Of course not,” she replied, and turning to the waiter ordered him to
show the caller up.
“There are two gentlemen,” he explained.
“Then show them both up,” answered Ulrica. “Be sharp, please, as we are
in a hurry.”
“Yes, madame,” responded the waiter, a young Swiss, and went below.
“I suppose they are the pair I saw last night,” I said. “The police on
the Continent seem always to hunt in couples. One never sees a single
gendarme, either in France or Italy.”
“One goes to keep the other cheerful, I believe,” Ulrica remarked, and
a few moments later the two callers were shown in.
They were not the same as I had seen in the Director’s room at the
Casino.
“I regret this intrusion,” said the elder, a dark-bearded, rather
unwholesome-looking individual with lank black hair. “I have, I
believe, the honor of addressing Mademoiselle Rosselli?”
“That’s me,” I responded briefly, for I did not intend them to cause
me to lose a most enjoyable trip in that most chic of latter-day
conveyances, an automobile.
“We are police agents, as you have possibly seen from my card, and
have called merely to ask whether you can identify either of these
photographs,” and he pulled forth two cabinet pictures from his pocket
and handed them over to me.
One was a prison photograph of an elderly, sad-eyed convict, with
baldish head and scraggy beard, while the other was a well-taken
likeness of a foppishly dressed young man of about twenty-eight, the
upward trend of his mustache giving him a foreign appearance.
Both were strangers to me. I had never seen either of them in the
flesh, at least to my knowledge, and Ulrica was also agreed that she
had never seen any one bearing the slightest resemblance to either.
“Mademoiselle is absolutely certain?” the detective asked of me.
“Absolutely,” I responded.
“Will mademoiselle have the kindness to allow her memory to go back for
one moment to the day of the unfortunate gentleman’s death?” asked the
detective with an amiable air. “At the time M’sieur Thorne was at the
table at Monte Carlo and playing with success there were, I believe,
many persons around him.”
“Yes, a crowd.”
“And near him, almost at his elbow, you did not see this man?” he
inquired, indicating the bearded convict.
I shook my head.
“I really do not recollect any face of that excited crowd,” I
responded. “He may have been there, but I certainly did not see him.”
“Nor did I,” chimed in Ulrica.
“Then I much regret troubling you,” he said, bowing politely. “In this
affair we are, as you of course know, making very searching inquiries
on account of representations made by the Ambassador of the United
States in Paris. We intend, if possible, to solve the mystery.”
“And the man who accosted me at the ball last night,” I said. “Do you
suspect him to be the original of that photograph?”
“At the ball last night? I do not follow mademoiselle.”
“But I made a statement of the whole facts to two agents of your
department at an early hour this morning, before I left the Casino.”
He looked puzzled, and his dark face broadened into a smile.
“Pardon. But I think mademoiselle must be under some misapprehension.
What occurred at the ball? Anything to arouse your suspicion?”
“To arouse my suspicion?” I echoed. “Why, a man attired in the garb of
an owl accosted me, gave me a strange warning, and actually placed in
my hands the sixty thousand francs in notes stolen from the dead man!”
“Impossible!” gasped the detective, amazed. “Where are the notes? You
should have given us information instantly.”
“I handed the notes to two police agents who were waiting in the
Director’s room, and to whom I made a statement of the whole affair.”
“What!” he cried loudly. “You have parted with the money?”
“Certainly.”
“Then mademoiselle has been most cleverly tricked, for the men to whom
you handed the proceeds of the robbery were certainly not agents of the
police!--they were impostors!”