I think one of the rummiest affairs I was ever mixed up with, in the
course of a lifetime devoted to butting into other people’s business,
was that affair of George Lattaker at Monte Carlo. I wouldn’t bore you,
don’t you know, for the world, but I think you ought to hear about it.
We had come to Monte Carlo on the yacht _Circe_, belonging to an old
sportsman of the name of Marshall. Among those present were myself, my
man Voules, a Mrs. Vanderley, her daughter Stella, Mrs. Vanderley’s
maid Pilbeam and George.
George was a dear old pal of mine. In fact, it was I who had worked him
into the party. You see, George was due to meet his Uncle Augustus, who
was scheduled, George having just reached his twenty-fifth birthday, to
hand over to him a legacy left by one of George’s aunts, for which he
had been trustee. The aunt had died when George was quite a kid. It was
a date that George had been looking forward to; for, though he had a
sort of income—an income, after all, is only an income, whereas a chunk
of o’ goblins is a pile. George’s uncle was in Monte Carlo, and had
written George that he would come to London and unbelt; but it struck
me that a far better plan was for George to go to his uncle at Monte
Carlo instead. Kill two birds with one stone, don’t you know. Fix up
his affairs and have a pleasant holiday simultaneously. So George had
tagged along, and at the time when the trouble started we were anchored
in Monaco Harbour, and Uncle Augustus was due next day.
Looking back, I may say that, so far as I was mixed up in it, the thing
began at seven o’clock in the morning, when I was aroused from a
dreamless sleep by the dickens of a scrap in progress outside my
state-room door. The chief ingredients were a female voice that sobbed
and said: “Oh, Harold!” and a male voice “raised in anger,” as they
say, which after considerable difficulty, I identified as Voules’s. I
hardly recognized it. In his official capacity Voules talks exactly
like you’d expect a statue to talk, if it could. In private, however,
he evidently relaxed to some extent, and to have that sort of thing
going on in my midst at that hour was too much for me.
“Voules!” I yelled.
Spion Kop ceased with a jerk. There was silence, then sobs diminishing
in the distance, and finally a tap at the door. Voules entered with
that impressive, my-lord-the-carriage-waits look which is what I pay
him for. You wouldn’t have believed he had a drop of any sort of
emotion in him.
“Voules,” I said, “are you under the delusion that I’m going to be
Queen of the May? You’ve called me early all right. It’s only just
seven.”
“I understood you to summon me, sir.”
“I summoned you to find out why you were making that infernal noise
outside.”
“I owe you an apology, sir. I am afraid that in the heat of the moment
I raised my voice.”
“It’s a wonder you didn’t raise the roof. Who was that with you?”
“Miss Pilbeam, sir; Mrs. Vanderley’s maid.”
“What was all the trouble about?”
“I was breaking our engagement, sir.”
I couldn’t help gaping. Somehow one didn’t associate Voules with
engagements. Then it struck me that I’d no right to butt in on his
secret sorrows, so I switched the conversation.
“I think I’ll get up,” I said.
“Yes, sir.”
“I can’t wait to breakfast with the rest. Can you get me some right
away?”
“Yes, sir.”
So I had a solitary breakfast and went up on deck to smoke. It was a
lovely morning. Blue sea, gleaming Casino, cloudless sky, and all the
rest of the hippodrome. Presently the others began to trickle up.
Stella Vanderley was one of the first. I thought she looked a bit pale
and tired. She said she hadn’t slept well. That accounted for it.
Unless you get your eight hours, where are you?
“Seen George?” I asked.
I couldn’t help thinking the name seemed to freeze her a bit. Which was
queer, because all the voyage she and George had been particularly
close pals. In fact, at any moment I expected George to come to me and
slip his little hand in mine, and whisper: “I’ve done it, old scout;
she loves muh!”
“I have not seen Mr. Lattaker,” she said.
I didn’t pursue the subject. George’s stock was apparently low that
a.m.
The next item in the day’s programme occurred a few minutes later when
the morning papers arrived.
Mrs. Vanderley opened hers and gave a scream.
“The poor, dear Prince!” she said.
“What a shocking thing!” said old Marshall.
“I knew him in Vienna,” said Mrs. Vanderley. “He waltzed divinely.”
Then I got at mine and saw what they were talking about. The paper was
full of it. It seemed that late the night before His Serene Highness
the Prince of Saxburg-Leignitz (I always wonder why they call these
chaps “Serene”) had been murderously assaulted in a dark street on his
way back from the Casino to his yacht. Apparently he had developed the
habit of going about without an escort, and some rough-neck, taking
advantage of this, had laid for him and slugged him with considerable
vim. The Prince had been found lying pretty well beaten up and
insensible in the street by a passing pedestrian, and had been taken
back to his yacht, where he still lay unconscious.
“This is going to do somebody no good,” I said. “What do you get for
slugging a Serene Highness? I wonder if they’ll catch the fellow?”
“‘Later,’” read old Marshall, “‘the pedestrian who discovered His
Serene Highness proves to have been Mr. Denman Sturgis, the eminent
private investigator. Mr. Sturgis has offered his services to the
police, and is understood to be in possession of a most important
clue.’ That’s the fellow who had charge of that kidnapping case in
Chicago. If anyone can catch the man, he can.”
About five minutes later, just as the rest of them were going to move
off to breakfast, a boat hailed us and came alongside. A tall, thin man
came up the gangway. He looked round the group, and fixed on old
Marshall as the probable owner of the yacht.
“Good morning,” he said. “I believe you have a Mr. Lattaker on
board—Mr. George Lattaker?”
“Yes,” said Marshall. “He’s down below. Want to see him? Whom shall I
say?”
“He would not know my name. I should like to see him for a moment on
somewhat urgent business.”
“Take a seat. He’ll be up in a moment. Reggie, my boy, go and hurry him
up.”