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 person we suspected
him to be."
"Do you believe him to be the actual assassin?" I gasped.
But the detectives, with the aid of the Director of the Theatre, were
busy counting the stolen notes. There were sixty, each for one
thousand francs.
They examined the leather jewellery 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 notes, which, even when folded, formed a rather large packet.
"They are undoubtedly those stolen from Monsieur 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 over 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 the 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
slip through our fingers thus--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 any longer, I suppose, so we had better endeavour 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 to see whether the
man who had worn the disguise of the night-bird was among the
travellers leaving for Marseilles at 2.30. "Remain on duty at the
station until I send and relieve you," he said. "There are several
special trains to Cannes and to Monte Carlo about three o'clock, on
account of the ball. Be careful to watch them all. It's my opinion
he may be going to cross the frontier at Ventimiglia. I'll telephone
there as soon as I get down to the bureau."
"_Bien, monsieur!_" answered the other.
As they went out, after wishing me good-night, I followed them,
asking of the senior of the pair:
"Tell me, monsieur, what is my best course of action? Do you think
the threats are serious?"
"Not at all," he said reassuringly. "My dear mademoiselle, don't
distress yourself in the very least regarding what this man has said.
He has only endeavoured 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 our 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 is only a few steps to
the 'Grand.'"
"Ah, of course," he laughed. "I had forgotten. _Bon soir_,
mademoiselle."
I wished him good-night, and the next moment 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's 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 very thoroughly
into the boisterous amusement of 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 dropped, and as I had promised to tell her of
my strange adventure later, she left me for the night.
I am seldom troubled by insomnia, but that night little sleep came to
my eyes. Lying awake has no attraction for anyone; yet it is an
experience which many have to suffer constantly, though not gladly.
That night my brain was troubled by a thousand conflicting thoughts.
I turned on to the side on which I usually sleep, and closed my eyes.
But immediately ideas and suggestions of all kinds rushed at me. It
was then that I recalled the mistakes of that night. I noted the
opportunities missed, thought of the right things that I had left
unsaid, and groaned at the thought of what really found utterance.
Round and round went my mental machinery, and I knew well that sleep
was not to be expected.
A terrible restlessness set in upon me, and turn succeeded turn, till
I wished myself a polygon, so that the sides to which I could change
might be more numerous. Some people have recourse to a small shelf
of bedside books to lull them to rest. I think it was Thackeray who
said, "'Montaigne' and 'Howell's Letters' are my bedside books. If I
wake at night I have one or other of them to prattle me off to sleep
again." Montaigne seems to have been a favourite author with many
people for this purpose. The cheerful, companionable garrulity of
the Gascon is the ideal pabulum for those suffering from wakeful
hours at night, for both Pope and Wycherley used to lull themselves
to sleep by his aid.
Alas! I had no Montaigne--nothing, indeed, more literary or
prattling than a couple of the local newspapers of Nice. Therefore I
was compelled to lie and endure the thoughts which fled through my
brain in a noisy whirr, and prevented me falling off into slumber.
The hotel seemed full of noise. Strange sounds came from the
staircase, and stealthy footfalls seemed to make themselves audible.
From the outer world came other sounds, some familiar, others
inexplicable--all jarring upon the delicate nerves of hearing.
I lay there thinking it all over. I had now not the slightest doubt
that the man in the owl's dress was the actual assassin of poor
Reggie. And I had chatted amiably 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 pocket! The incident
was rendered the more 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 and 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."
"No, I think not," I responded. "He was clever enough to evade
observation, and took care to make the most of the little alcove in
the box."
"But the stolen notes!" she cried. "He evidently wished to get rid
of them in order to avoid being found with the money in his
possession. So he presented you with them. A grim present,
certainly. The fellow apparently has a sense of humour."
"I tell you, my dear Ulrica, I'm terribly upset. I haven't slept at
all."
"Enough to upset anyone," she declared. "We must tell Gerald, and
ask his advice."
"No, we must not tell him all. I beg of you to say nothing regarding
myself and old Mr. Keppel."
"Certainly not. I shall be discreet, rely upon me. Gerald will
advise us how to act."
"Or the old gentleman might give us some advice," I suggested; for
Gerald was given to fits of frivolity, and this was a matter
extremely serious.
"You intend to say nothing of the appointment in London?" she
inquired, looking at me sharply.
"Nothing," I responded. "That is a secret between us."
"Do you intend to keep it?"
"I scarcely know. My actions will, of course, be controlled by the
discoveries of the police."
"The police!" she ejaculated. "I don't believe in them at all. They
make a great pretence, but do nothing."
"They evidently know the individual who came to me last night."
"Certainly. But why didn't they arrest him when he was under their
very noses. No, my dear Carmela, depend upon it, here, in this world
of Monte Carlo, the police are bribed, just as the Press, the
railwaymen, and postmen are bribed, by these 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."
"But we can trust Gerald and Mr. Keppel," I suggested.
"Of course," she answered. "But what a strange thing it is that this
man, whoever he is, noticed exactly what I also had noticed, namely,
that the old gentleman is among your admirers."
"Yes. It almost seems as though he were actually in our circle of
friends, doesn't it?"
"My dear Carmela," she said, "the affair of poor Reggie's death was
curious enough, but its motive is absolutely inscrutable. This man
who met you last night was, as the police properly described him, a
veritable artist. He disguised himself as an owl because the dress
of a bird would conceal his real height or any personal deformity,
while the face was, of course, entirely hidden by the beaked mask.
Had he gone as a pierrot, or in the more ordinary guises, he might
have betrayed himself."
"But the return of the stolen money," I observed. "Can you imagine
why he ran such a risk? He condemned himself."
"No, I really can't. It is an absolute enigma."
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
an 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 in Italy."
"One goes to keep the other cheerful, I believe," Ulrica remarked.
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 honour of addressing Mademoiselle Rosselli."
"That is my name," 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 took two cabinet pictures from his pocket and
handed them to me.
One was a prison photograph of an elderly, sad-eyed convict, with a
rather bald head and a 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 moustache denoting him to be a
foreigner.
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 anyone 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 Monsieur
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 the face of any member 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 British
Ambassador 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 in 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 police! They were impostors!"