Madame lived in a big house at St. John's Wood. A South American
minister had lived there, and had spent a fortune on its interior
adornment. Reputable artists had embellished its walls and ceilings,
and if the decorations were of the heavy florid type, it is a style
which makes for grandeur. The vast drawing-room was a place of white
and gold, of glittering candelabras and crimson velvet hangings. How
Madame had come to be its possessor is a long and complicated story.
The minister was recalled from London on the earnest representations
of the Foreign Office and a budding scandal was denied its full and
fascinating development.
Madame had many friends, and her house was invariably full of guests.
Some stayed a long time with her. She liked girls about her, she
told the innocent vicar who called regularly, and might have been
calling still, if his wife had not decided that if Madame required
any spiritual consolation, she would put her own pew at her disposal.
Her object (confessed Madame) was to give her guests a good time.
She succeeded. She gave dances and entertained lavishly. She made
one stipulation: that her visitors should not play cards. There was
no gambling at Alemeda House. The attitude of the police authorities
toward Madame Ritti's establishment was one of permanent expectancy.
Good people, people with newspaper names, were guests of hers: there
was nothing furtive or underhand about her parties. Nobody had ever
seen a drunken man come or go. The guests were never noisy
only--Madame's girl guests were many. And none of the people who
came to the dances were women.
Madame was bemoaning the skepticisms of the authorities to Ronnie.
She was a very stout woman, expensively, but tastefully dressed. Her
lined face was powdered, her lips vividly red. A duller red was her
hair, patently dyed. Dyed hair on elderly women has the effect of
making the face below seem more fearfully old. She wore two ropes of
pearls and her hands glittered.
Ronnie always went to Madame Ritti in his moments of depression; he
had known her since he was little more than a schoolboy. She had a
house in Pimlico then, not so big or so finely furnished, but she had
girl guests.
"You know, Ronnie, I try to keep my house respectable. Is it not so?
One tries and tries and it is hard work. Girls have so little brain.
They do not know that men do not really like rowdiness. Is it not
so? But these policemen--oh, the dreadful fellows! They question my
maids--and it is so difficult to get the right kind of maid.
Imagine! And the maids get frightened or impertinent," she laid the
accent on the last syllable. She was inclined to do this, otherwise
her English was perfect.
The door opened and a girl lounged in. She was smoking a cigarette
through a holder--a fair, slim girl, with a straight fringe of golden
hair over her forehead.
Ronnie smiled and nodded.
"Hello, Ronnie--where have you been hiding?"
Madame snorted. "Is it thus you speak? 'Hello, Ronnie,' my word!
And to walk in smoking! Lola, you have to learn."
"I knew nobody else was here," replied the girl instantly apologetic,
"I'm awfully sorry, Madame."
She hid the cigarette behind her and advanced demurely.
"Why, it is Mr. Morelle! How do you do?"
"That is better, much better," approved Madame, nodding her huge
head. "Always modesty in girls is the best. Is it not so, Ronnie?
To rush about, fla--fla--fla!" Her representation of gaucherie was
inimitable. "That is not good. Men desire modesty. Especially
Englishmen. Americans, also. The French are indelicate. Is it not
so? Men wish to win; if you give them victory all ready, they do not
appreciate it. That will do, Lola."
She dismissed the girl with a stately inclination of her head.
"What have you been doing? We have not seen you for a very long
time. You have other engagements? You must be careful. I fear for
you sometimes," she patted his arm. "You will come tonight? You
must dress, of course. I do not receive men who are not in evening
dress. Grand habit, you understand? The war made men very careless.
The smoking jacket--tuxedo--what do you call it? and the black tie.
That is no longer good style. If you are to meet ladies, you must
wear a white bow and the white waistcoat with the long coat. I
insist upon this. I am right, is it not so? All the men wear grand
habit nowadays. What do you wish, Ronnie?"
"Nothing in particular; I thought I would come along. I am feeling
rather sick of life today."
She nodded. "So you come to see my little friends. That is nice and
they will be glad. All of them except Lola; she is going out to
dinner tonight with a very great friend. You know your way: they are
playing baccarat in the little salon. It amuses them and they only
play for pennies."
Ronnie strolled off to seek entertainment in the little salon.
He was rung up at his flat that evening four times. At midnight
Steppe called him up again.
"M'sieur, he has not returned. No, M'sieur, not even to dress."
Madame Ritti, for all the rigidity of her dress regulations, made
exceptions seemingly.
Ronald was sleeping soundly when Steppe strolled into his room and
let up the blind with a crash.
"Hullo?" Ronnie struggled up. "What time is it?"
"Where were you last night?" Steppe's voice was harsh, contumelious.
"I spent the night ringing you up. Have the police been here?"
"Police, no. Why should they?"
"Why should they!" mimicked the visitor, "because Sault stopped his
car before the entrance of these flats. Luckily, they are not sure
whether he went in or not. The detective who saw the car did not
notice where Sault had come from. They asked me if there was anybody
in Knightsbridge he would be likely to visit, and I said 'no', d'ye
hear? No! I can't have you in their hands, Morelle. A cur like you
would squeal and they would find out why he came. _And I don't want
to know_."
The dark eyes bent on Ronnie were glittering.
"You hear? I don't want to know. Moropulos is dead. In a week or
two Sault will be dead and Beryl will be married. Why in hell do you
jump?"
Ronnie affected a yawn and reached out for his dressing gown.
"Of course I jumped," he was bold to say, even if he quaked inwardly.
"You come thundering into my room when I'm half asleep and talk about
police and Moropulos. Ugh! I haven't your nerve. If you want to
know, Sault came here to ask me where you were. I thought he was a
little mad and told him you were out of town."
"You're a liar--a feeble liar! Get up!"
He stalked out of the room slamming the door behind him, and when
Ronnie joined him, he was standing before the mantelpiece scowling at
the Anthony.
"Now listen. They will make enquiries and it is perfectly certain
that they will trace you as being a friend of Moropulos. I want to
keep out of it, and so do you. At present they cannot connect me
with the case except that I had dealings with Moropulos. So had
hundreds of others. If they get busy with you they will turn you
inside out; I don't want you to get it into your head that I'm trying
to save you trouble. I'm not. You could roast in hell and I'd not
turn the hose on to you! I'm thinking of myself and all the trouble
I should have if the police got you scared. Sault didn't come here,
huh? Was anybody here beside you?" he asked quickly.
"Only François."
"Your servant!" Steppe frowned. "Can you trust him?"
Ronnie smiled.
"François is discreet," he said complacently.
A shadow passed across Steppe's dark face.
"About the women who come here, yes; but with the police? That is
different. Bring him in."
"I assure you, my dear fellow--"
"Bring him here!" roared the other.
Ronnie pressed a bell sulkily.
"François, you were here in the flat on Saturday night, huh?"
"Yes, M'sieur."
"You had no visitors, huh?"
François hesitated.
"No visitors, François: you didn't open the door to Sault--you know
Sault?" The man nodded.
"And if detectives come to ask you whether Sault was here, you will
tell them the truth--you did not see him. Your master had no
visitors at all; you saw nobody and heard nobody."
He was looking into a leather pocketbook as he spoke, fingering the
notes that filled one compartment.
François' eyes were on the note case, too.
"Nobody came, M'sieur. I'll swear. I was in the pantry all evening."
"Good," said Steppe, and slipped out four notes, crushing them into a
ball.
"Do you want to see me, today?" asked Ronnie, and his uncomfortable
guest glared.
"Not today. Nor tomorrow, nor any day. Where were you last night?"
François retired in his discretion.
"I went to Brighton--"
"You went to Ritti's--that--!"
He did not attempt any euphemism. Madame Ritti's elegant
establishment he described in two pungent words.
"God! You're--what are you? I'm pretty tough, huh? Had my gay
times and known a few of the worst. But I've drawn a line somewhere.
Sault in prison and Moropulos dead--and you at Ritti's! What a louse
you are!"
He stalked into the hall, shouted for François and dropped the little
paper ball into his hand. François closed the door on him
respectfully.
"A beast--!" said Ronnie, disgusted.
V
Instructed by Steppe to defend him, a solicitor interviewed Ambrose
Sault in his airy cell. He expected to find a man broken by his
awful position. He found instead, a cheerful client who, when he was
ushered into the cell, was engaged in covering a large sheet of paper
with minute figures. A glance at the paper showed the wondering
officer of the law that Sault was working out a problem in
mathematics. It was, in fact, a differential equation of a high and
complex character.
"It is very kind of Mr. Steppe, but I don't know what you can do,
sir. I killed Moropulos. I killed him deliberately. Poor soul!
How glad it must have been to have left that horrible body with all
its animal weaknesses! I was thinking about it last night: wondering
where it would be. Somewhere in the spaces of the night--between the
stars. Don't you often wonder whether a soul has a chemical origin?
Some day clever men will discover. Souls have substance, more
tenuous than light. And light has substance. You can bend light
with a magnet: I have seen it done. The ether has substance:
compared with other unknown elements, ether may be as thick as
treacle. Supposing some super-supernatural scientist could examine
the ether as we examine a shovel full of earth? Is it not possible
that the soul germ might be discovered? For a soul has no size and
no weight and no likeness to man. Some people think of a soul as
having the appearance of the body which it inspires. That is stupid.
If death can cling to the point of a needle and life grows from a
microscopic organism, how infinitesimal is the cell of the soul! The
souls of all the men and the women of the world might be brought
together and be lost on one atom of down on a butterfly's wing!"
The lawyer listened hopefully. Here was a case for eminent
alienists. He saw the governor of the jail as he went out.
"I should very much like this man to be kept under medical
observation," he said. "From my conversation with him, I am
satisfied that he isn't normal."
"He seems sane enough," replied the governor, "but I will speak to
the doctor: I suppose you will send specialists down?"
"I imagine we shall; he isn't normal. He practically refuses to
discuss the crime--occupied the time by talking about souls and the
size of 'em! If that isn't lunacy, then _I'm_ mad!"
Steppe, to whom he reported, was very thoughtful.
"He isn't mad. Sault is a queer fellow, but he isn't mad. He thinks
about such things. He is struggling to the light--those were the
words he used to me. Yes, you can send doctors down if you wish.
You have briefed Maxton?" The lawyer nodded.
"He wasn't very keen on the job. It is a little out of his line.
Besides, he'll be made a judge in a year or two, and naturally he
doesn't want to figure on the losing side. In fact, he turned me
down definitely, but I was hardly back in my office--his chambers are
less than five minutes walk away--before he called me up and said
he'd take the brief. I was surprised. He is going down to Wechester
next week."
Steppe grunted.
"You understand that my name doesn't appear in this except to Maxton,
of course. I dare say that if I went on to the witness stand and
told all I knew about Moropulos and what kind of a brute he was, my
evidence might make a difference. But I'm not going and your job is
to keep me out of this, Smith."
Steppe's attitude was definite and logical. Sault, in a measure, he
admired without liking. He saw in him a difficult, and possibly a
dangerous, man. That he had piqued his employer by his independence
and courage did not influence Steppe one way or another. It was, in
truth, the cause of his admiration. Sault was a man in possession of
a dangerous secret. The folly of entrusting two other men with the
combination word of the safe had been apparent from the first. He
had been uneasy in his mind, more because of the unknown reliability
of Moropulos, than because he mistrusted Sault, and he had decided
that the scheme for the storage of compromising documents possessed
too many disadvantages. Without telling either of his associates, he
had arranged to transfer the contents of the safe to his own custody
when the disaster occurred. The safe was in the hands of the curious
police. And the more he thought about the matter, the more
undesirable it seemed that the safe should be opened. It contained,
amongst other things, the draft of a prospectus which had since been
printed--the shares went to allotment two days before the murder.
The draft was in his own hand, a dozen sheets of pencilled writing,
and it described in optimistic language certain valuable assets which
were in fact non-existent. The financial press had remarked upon the
fact, and not content with remarking once, had industriously
continued to remark. Steppe had made a mistake, and it was a bad
mistake. The cleverest of company promoters occasionally overstep
the line that divides the optimistic estimate from misrepresentation.
Fortunately, his name did not appear on the prospectus; most
unfortunately, he had preserved the draft. He had put it aside after
Dr. Merville had copied the document. He had a reason for this. Jan
Steppe seldom appeared in such transactions: even his name as vendor
was skilfully camouflaged under the title of some stock-holding
company. He was a supreme general who issued his orders to his
commanders: gave them the rough plan of their operations, and left
them to lick it into shape. It sometimes happened that they deviated
from his instructions, generally to the advantage of the scheme they
were working: occasionally they fell short of his requirements and
then his draft proved useful in emphasizing their error. And this
was only one of the safe's contents. There were others equally
dangerous.
Steppe believed that his servant would die. To say that he hoped he
would die would be untrue. Belief makes hope superfluous. It was
politic to spend money on the defense of a man who, being grateful,
would also be loyal. He could accept Sault's death with equanimity,
and without regret. With relief almost. Evidence could be given
which would show Moropulos in an unfavorable light. The Greek was a
drunkard: his reputation was foul: he was provocative and
quarrelsome. The weapon was his own (Sault had once taken it away
from him) a plea of self-defense might succeed--always providing that
Mr. Jan Steppe would submit himself to cross-examination, and the
reflected odium of acquaintance with the dead man and his killer.
And Mr. Jan Steppe was firmly determined to do nothing of the kind.
Sault would carry his secret to the grave unless--suppose this
infernal photograph which Moropulos had put into the safe--suppose
Sault mentioned this to the lawyers: but he would be loyal. Steppe,
having faith in his loyalty, decided to let him die.
Sir John Maxton had changed his mind on the question of defending
Sault as a result of an urgent request which had reached him
immediately after the solicitor had left his chambers.
He called on Beryl Merville on his way home. She was alone.
Christina had returned to her mother, and Dr. Merville was at Cannes,
mercifully ignorant of the comments which the financial newspapers
were passing upon a company of which he was president.
"I will undertake the defense, Beryl, though I confess it seems to me
a hopeless proposition. I had just that moment refused the brief
when you rang through. If I remember aright, I have met
Sault--wasn't he that strong looking man who came to Steppe's house
the night we were dining there? I thought so. And Moropulos--who
was he? Not the drunken fellow who made such a fool of himself? By
jove! I hadn't connected them--I have only glanced at the brief and
I am seeing Sault on Friday. Fortunately, I am spending the week-end
in the country, and I can call in on my way. Smith is attending to
the inquest and the lower Court proceedings. I saw Smith (he is the
solicitor) this afternoon: he tells me that Steppe is paying for the
defense. That is a professional secret, by the way. He also
surprised me by expressing the view that Sault is mad."
Beryl smiled. "He is not mad," she said quietly, "why does he think
so?"
Sir John humped his thin shoulders: a movement indicative of his
contempt for the lawyer's opinion on any subject.
"Apparently Sault talked about souls as though they were microbes.
Smith, being a God-fearing man, was shocked. To him the soul stands
in the same relationship to the body as the inner tube of a tire to
the cover. He is something of a spiritualist, and spiritualism is
the most material of the occult sciences--it insists that spirits
shall have noses and ears like other respectable ghosts. From what
he said, I couldn't make head or tail of Sault's view."
"Ambrose is not mad," said the girl, "he is the sanest man I have
ever met, or will meet. His view is different: he himself is
different. You cannot judge him by any ordinary standard."
"You call him 'Ambrose'," said Sir John in surprise, "is he a friend
of yours?"
"Yes."
She said no more than that, and he did not press the question. It
was impossible to explain Ambrose.