RELATES SOME ASTOUNDING FACTS
The amazing discovery held us in speechless bewilderment.
The favourite 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 know what occurred during the quarter of an hour that
immediately followed our astounding discovery. All I remember is
that Ulrica, with 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 doctors arrived quickly,
followed shortly afterwards 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 monsieur has been murdered."
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 secrets 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 of his having won so much money, and of his
having 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 argued, no doubt have committed the deed
either in the train, or in 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 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 discovery; while 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 their examination of Ulrica, myself and Felicita, my
Italian maid, who had returned from her evening out, and knew nothing
at all of the matter, the police made a most vigorous 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----_"
That was all. 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, as 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 London, 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 of 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,
where he gazed for the last time upon the dead face of his friend.
This tragic event had naturally cast a gloom over both Ulrica and
myself. We were both nervous and apprehensive, ever debating the
mysterious reason which caused Reggie to enter out sitting-room in
our absence. Surely he had some very strong motive, or he would not
have gone 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, to whom gains and losses were
alike--at least, he displayed no outward sign of satisfaction other
than 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 has 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 to leave no stone unturned in their efforts to discover the
murderer, who, 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 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 from some
cause which could not be determined. It might, indeed, the doctors
admitted, have been almost described as a natural death, but for the
fact that the notes were missing, which pointed so very markedly 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, high up in the olive groves of Caucade--perhaps one
of the most beautiful and picturesque burial-places in 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 English chaplain of the Rue de France performed the last rites,
and then, turning sorrowfully away, we drove back, full of gloomy
thoughts, to Nice.
The puzzling incident had crushed all gaiety from our hearts. I
suggested that we should immediately 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 what seemed
an 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 favour 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 more 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
remembering a past which it is quite unnecessary to recall. Live, as
I do, for the future, without mourning over what must ever be
bygones."
"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, her own
conquests, and her own amusements. Men pleased her by their
flattery, and she therefore tolerated them. She had told me this
long ago with her own lips, and had urged me to follow her example.
"Ulrica," said I at last, "forgive me, forgive me, but I am so
unhappy. Don't let us speak of him again. I will try and forget,
indeed I will--I will try to 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," and carelessly she began humming the refrain of the latest
_chanson_:
"Mandoli, Mandoli, Mandola,
Viens par-ci, viens par-là, ma brune!
Laisse le vieux jaloux qui t'importune,
Mandoli, Mandoli, Mandola,
Le temps fuit et voilà la lune,
C'est l'heure des baisers au clair de lune."