Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo

E >> E. Phillips Oppenheim >> Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21

"How go things, friend Allen?" he enquired, dropping his voice a little.

The man glanced uneasily around. There was, however, no one in his
immediate vicinity.

"Badly," he admitted.

"Still no success, eh?" Selingman asked, drawing up a chair and seating
himself.

"The man is secretive by nature," was the gloomy reply. "One would
imagine that he knew he was being watched. Everything which he receives
in the way of a written communication is at once torn up. He is the most
difficult order of person to deal with--he is methodical. He has only
the hotel valet to look after his things but everything is always in its
place. Yesterday I went through his waste-paper basket. I took home the
contents but the pieces were no larger than sixpences. I was able to put
together one envelope which he received yesterday morning, which was
franked 'On His Majesty's Service,' and the post-mark of which was
Downing Street."

Selingman shook his head ponderously and then replied seriously:

"You must do better than that, my Sherlock Holmes--much better."

"I can't make bricks without straw," Allen retorted sullenly.

"There is always straw if one looks in the right place," Selingman
insisted, puffing away at his cigar. "What we want to discover is,
exactly how much does Hunterleys know of certain operations of ours
which are going on here? He is on the watch--that I am sure of. There is
one known agent in the place, and another suspected one, and I am pretty
certain that they are both working at his instigation. What we want to
get hold of is one of his letters to London."

"I have been in and out of his rooms at all hours," the other said. "I
have gone into the matter thoroughly, so thoroughly that I have taken a
situation with a firm of English tailors here, and I am supposed to go
out and tout for orders. That gives me a free entree to the hotel. I
have even had a commission from Sir Henry himself. He gave me a coat to
get some buttons sewn on. I am practically free of his room but what's
the good? He doesn't even lead the Monte Carlo life. He doesn't give one
a chance of getting at him through a third person. No notes from ladies,
no flower or jewelry bills, not the shadow of an assignation. The only
photograph upon his table is a photograph of Lady Hunterleys."

"Better not tell our friend Draconmeyer that," Selingman observed,
smiling to himself. "Well, well, you can do nothing but persevere,
Allen. We are not niggardly masters. If a man fails through no fault of
his own, well, we don't throw him into the street. Nothing parsimonious
about us. No need for you to sit about with a face as long as a fiddle
because you can't succeed all at once. We are the people to kick at it,
not you. Drink a little more wine, my friend. Give yourself a liqueur
after luncheon. Stick a cigar in your mouth and go and sit in the
sunshine. Make friends with some of the ladies. Remember, the sun will
still shine and the music play in fifty years' time, but not for you.
Come and see me when you want some more money."

"You are very kind, sir," the man replied. "I am going across to the
hotel now. Sir Henry has been about there most of the morning but he has
just gone in to Ciro's to lunch, so I shall have at least half-an-hour."

"Good luck to you!" Selingman exclaimed heartily. "Who knows but that
the big things may come, even this afternoon? Cheer up, and try and make
yourself believe that a letter may be lying on the table, a letter he
forgot to post, or one sent round from the bank since he left. I am
hopeful for you this afternoon, Allen. I believe you are going to do
well. Come up and see me afterwards, if you will. I am going to my hotel
to lie down for half-an-hour. I am not really tired but I have no friend
here to talk with or anything to do, and it is a wise economy of the
human frame. To-night, mademoiselle will have returned. Just now every
one has deserted me. I will rest until six o'clock. Au revoir, friend
Allen! Au revoir!"

Selingman climbed the hill and entered the hotel where he was staying.
He mounted to his room, took off his coat, at which he glanced
admiringly for a moment and then hung up behind the door. Finally he
pulled down the blinds and lay down to rest. Very soon he was asleep....

The drowsy afternoon wore on. Through the open windows came the sound of
carriages driven along the dusty way, the shouts of the coachmen to
their horses, the jingling of bells, the hooting of motor horns. A lime
tree, whose leaves were stirred by the languorous breeze, kept tapping
against the window. From a further distance came the faint, muffled
voices of promenaders, and the echo of the guns from the Tir du Pigeons.
But through it all, Selingman, lying on his back and snoring loudly,
slept. He was awakened at last by the feeling that some one had entered
the room. He sat up and blinked.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed.

A man in the weird disguise of a motor-cyclist was standing at the foot
of the bed. Selingman continued to blink. He was not wholly awake and
his visitor's appearance was unpleasant.

"Who the devil are you?" he enquired.

The visitor took off his disfiguring spectacles.

"Jean Coulois--behold!" was the soft reply.

Selingman raised himself and slid off the bed. It had seemed rather like
a dream. He was wide-awake now, however.

"What do you want?" he asked. "What are you here for?"

Jean Coulois said nothing. Then very slowly from the inside pocket of
his coat he drew a newspaper parcel. It was long and narrow, and in
places there was a stain upon the paper. Selingman stared at it and
stared back at Jean Coulois.

"What the mischief have you got there?" he demanded.

Coulois touched the parcel with his yellow forefinger. Selingman saw
then that the stains were of blood.

"Give me a towel," his visitor directed. "I do not want this upon my
clothes."

Selingman took a towel from the stand and threw it across the room.

"You mean," he asked, dropping his voice a little, "that it is
finished?"

"A quarter of an hour ago," Jean Coulois answered triumphantly. "He had
just come in from luncheon and was sitting at his writing-table. It was
cleverly done--wonderfully. It was all over in a moment--not a cry. You
came to the right place, indeed! And now I go to the country," Coulois
continued. "I have a motor-bicycle outside. I make my way up into the
hills to bury this little memento. There is a farmhouse up in the
mountains, a lonely spot enough, and a girl there who says what I tell
her. It may be as well to be able to say that I have been there for
dejeuner. These little things, monsieur--ah, well! we who understand
think of them. And since I am here," he added, holding out his hand--

Selingman nodded and took out his pocket-book. He counted out the notes
in silence and passed them over. The assassin dropped them into his
pocket.

"Au revoir, Monsieur le Gros!" he exclaimed, waving his hand. "We meet
to-night, I trust. I will show you a new dance--the Dance of Death, I
shall call it. I seem calm, but I am on fire with excitement. To-night I
shall dance as though quicksilver were in my feet. You must not miss it.
You must come, monsieur."

He closed the door behind him and swaggered off down the passage.
Selingman stood, for a moment, perfectly still. It was a strange thing,
but two big tears were in his eyes. Then he heaved a great sigh and
shook his head.

"It is part of the game," he said softly to himself, "all part of the
game."

CHAPTER XXII

THE WRONG MAN

Selingman came out into the sunlit streets very much as a man who leaves
a dark and shrouded room. The shock of tragedy was still upon him. There
was a little choke in his throat as he mingled with the careless,
pleasure-loving throng, mostly wending their way now towards the Rooms
or the Terrace. As he crossed the square towards the Hotel de Paris, his
steps grew slower and slower. He looked at the building half-fearfully.
Beautifully dressed women, men of every nationality, were passing in and
out all the time. The commissionaire, with his little group of
satellites, stood sunning himself on the lowest step, a splendid,
complacent figure. There was no sign there of the horror that was hidden
within. Even while he looked up at the windows he felt a hand upon his
arm. Draconmeyer had caught him up and had fallen into step with him.

"Well, dear philosopher," he exclaimed, "why this subdued aspect? Has
your solitary day depressed you?"

Selingman turned slowly around. Draconmeyer's eyes beneath his
gold-rimmed spectacles were bright. He was carrying himself with less
than his usual stoop, he wore a red carnation in his buttonhole. He was
in spirits which for him were almost boisterous.

"Have you been in there?" Selingman asked, in a low tone.

Draconmeyer glanced at the hotel and back again at his companion.

"In where?" he demanded. "In the hotel? I left Lady Hunterleys there a
short time ago. I have been up to the bank since."

"You don't know yet, then?"

"Know what?"

There was a momentary silence. Draconmeyer suddenly gripped his
companion by the arm.

"Go on," he insisted. "Tell me?"

"It's all over!" Selingman exclaimed hoarsely. "Jean Coulois came to me
a quarter of an hour ago. It is finished. Damnation, Draconmeyer, let go
my arm!"

Draconmeyer withdrew his fingers. There was no longer any stoop about
him at all. He stood tall and straight, his lips parted, his face turned
upwards, upwards as though he would gaze over the roof of the hotel
before which they were standing, up to the skies.

"My God, Selingman!" he cried. "My God!"

The seconds passed. Then Draconmeyer suddenly took his companion by the
arm.

"Come," he said, "let us take that first seat in the gardens there. Let
us talk. Somehow or other, although I half counted upon this, I scarcely
believed.... Let us sit down. Do you think it is known yet?"

"Very likely not," Selingman answered, as they crossed the road and
entered the gardens. "Coulois found him in his rooms, seated at the
writing-table. It was all over, he declares, in ten seconds. He came to
me--with the knife. He was on his way to the mountains to hide it."

They found a seat under a drooping lime tree. They could still see the
hotel and the level stretch of road that led past the post-office and
the Club to Monaco. Draconmeyer sat with his eyes fixed upon the hotel,
through which streams of people were still passing. One of the
under-managers was welcoming the newcomers from a recently arrived
train.

"You are right," he murmured. "Nothing is known yet. Very likely
they will not know until the valet goes to lay out his clothes for
dinner.... Dead!"

Selingman, with one hand gripping the iron arm of the seat, watched his
companion's face with a sort of fascinated curiosity. There were beads
of perspiration upon Draconmeyer's forehead, but his expression, in its
way, was curious. There was no horror in his face, no fear, no shadow of
remorse. Some wholly different sentiment seemed to have transformed the
man. He was younger, more virile. He seemed as though he could scarcely
sit still.

"My friend," Selingman said, "I know that you are one of our children,
that you are one of those who have seen the truth and worked steadfastly
for the great cause with the heart of a patriot and the unswerving
fidelity of a strong man. But tell me the honest truth. There is
something else in your life--you have some other feeling about this man
Hunterleys' death?"

Draconmeyer removed his eyes from the front of the hotel and turned
slowly towards his companion. There was a transfiguring smile upon his
lips. Again he gave Selingman the impression of complete rejuvenation,
of an elderly man suddenly transformed into something young and
vigorous.

"There is something else, Selingman," he confessed. "This is the moment
when I dare speak of it. I will tell you first of any living person.
There is a woman over there whom I have set up as an idol, and before
whose shrine I have worshipped. There is a woman over there who has
turned the dull paths of my life into a flowery way. I am a patriot, and
I have worked for my country, Selingman, as you have worked. But I have
worked, also, that I might taste for once before I die the great
passion. Don't stare at me, man! Remember I am not like you. You can
laugh your way through the world, with a kiss here and a bow there, a
ribbon to your lips at night, thrown to the winds in the morning. I
haven't that sort of philosophy. Love doesn't come to me like that. It's
set in my heart amongst the great things. It's set there side by side
with the greatest of all."

"His wife!" Selingman muttered.

"Are you so colossal a fool as only to have guessed it at this moment?"
Draconmeyer continued contemptuously. "If he hadn't blundered across our
path here, if he hadn't been my political enemy, I should still some day
have taken him by the throat and killed him. You don't know what risks I
have been running," he went on, with a sudden hoarseness. "In her heart
she half loves him still. If he hadn't been a fool, a prejudiced,
over-conscientious, stiff-necked fool, I should have lost her within the
last twenty-four hours. I have had to fight and scheme as I have never
fought and schemed before, to keep them apart. I have had to pick my way
through shoals innumerable, hold myself down when I have been burning to
grip her by the wrists and tell her that all that a man could offer a
woman was hers. Selingman, this sounds like nonsense, I suppose."

"No," Selingman murmured, "not nonsense, but it doesn't sound like
Draconmeyer."

"Well, it's finished," Draconmeyer declared, with a great sigh of
content. "You know now. I enter upon the final stage. I had only one
fear. Jean Coulois has settled that for me. I wonder whether they know.
It seems peaceful enough. No! Look over there," he added, gripping his
companion's arm. "Peter, the concierge, is whispering with the others.
That is one of the managers there, out on the pavement, talking to
them."

Selingman pointed down the road towards Monaco.

"See!" he exclaimed. "There is a motor-car coming in a hurry. I fancy
that the alarm must have been given."

A grey, heavily-built car came along at a great pace and swung round in
front of the Hotel de Paris. The two men stood on the pavement and
watched. A tall, official-looking person, with black, upturned
moustache, in somber uniform and a peaked cap, descended.

"The Commissioner of Police," Selingman whispered, "and that is a doctor
who has just gone in. He has been found!"

They crossed the road to the hotel. The concierge removed his hat as
they turned to enter. To all appearances he was unchanged--fat, florid,
splendid. Draconmeyer stepped close to him.

"Has anything happened here, Peter?" he asked. "I saw the Commissioner
of Police arrive in a great hurry."

The man hesitated. It was obvious then that he was disturbed. He looked
to the right and to the left. Finally, with a sigh of resignation, he
seemed to make up his mind to tell the truth.

"It is the English gentleman, Sir Henry Hunterleys," he whispered. "He
has been found stabbed to death in his room."

"Dead?" Draconmeyer demanded, insistently.

"Stone dead, sir," the concierge replied. "He was stabbed by some one
who stole in through the bathroom--they say that he couldn't ever have
moved again. The Commissioner of Police is upstairs. The ambulance is
round at the back to take him off to the Mortuary."

Selingman suddenly seized the man by the arm. His eyes were fixed upon
the topmost step. Violet stood there, smiling down upon them. She was
wearing a black and white gown, and a black hat with white ospreys. It
was the hour of five o'clock tea and many people were passing in and
out. She came gracefully down the steps. The two men remained
speechless.

"I have been waiting for you, Mr. Draconmeyer," she remarked, smiling.

Draconmeyer remembered suddenly the packet of notes which he had been to
fetch from the bank. He tried to speak but only faltered. Selingman had
removed his hat but he, too, seemed incapable of coherent speech. She
looked at them both, astonished.

"Whatever is the matter with you both?" she exclaimed. "Who is coming
with me to the Club? I decided to come this way round to see if I could
change my luck. That underground passage depresses me."

Draconmeyer moved up a couple of steps. He was quite himself now, grave
but solicitous.

"Lady Hunterleys," he said, "I am sorry, but there has been a little
accident. I am afraid that your husband has been hurt. If you will come
back to your room for a minute I will tell you about it."

All the colour died slowly from her face. She swayed a little, but when
Draconmeyer would have supported her she pushed him away.

"An accident?" she muttered. "I must go and see for myself."

She turned and re-entered the hotel swiftly. Draconmeyer caught her up
in the hall.

"Lady Hunterleys," he begged earnestly, "please take my advice. I am
your friend, you know. I want you to go straight to your room. I will
come with you. I will explain to you then--"

"I am going to Henry," she interrupted, without even a glance towards
him. "I am going to my husband at once. I must see what has happened."

She rang the bell for the lift, which appeared almost immediately.
Draconmeyer stepped in with her.

"Lady Hunterleys," he persisted, "I beg of you to do as I ask. Let me
take you to your rooms. I will tell you all that has happened. Your
husband will not be able to see you or speak with you."

"I shall not get out," she declared, when the lift boy, in obedience to
Draconmeyer's imperative order, stopped at her floor. "If I may not go
on in the lift, I shall walk up the stairs. I am going to my husband."

"He will not recognise you," Draconmeyer warned her. "I am very sorry
indeed, Lady Hunterleys--I would spare you this shock if I could--but
you must be prepared for very serious things."

They had reached the next floor now. The boy opened the gate of the lift
and she stepped out. She looked pitifully at Draconmeyer.

"You aren't going to tell me that he is dead?" she moaned.

"I am afraid he is," Draconmeyer assented.

She staggered across the landing, pushing him away from her. There were
four or five people standing outside the door of Hunterleys' apartment.
She appealed to them.

"Let me go in at once," she ordered. "I am Lady Hunterleys."

"The door is locked," one of the men declared.

"Let me go in," she insisted.

She pushed them on one side and hammered at the door. They could hear
voices inside. In a moment it was opened. It was the Commissioner of the
Police who stood there--tall, severe, official.

"Madame?" he exclaimed.

"I am his wife!" she cried. "Let me in--let me in at once!"

She forced her way into the room. Something was lying on the bed,
covered with a sheet. She looked at it and shrieked.

"Madame," the Commissioner begged, "pray compose yourself. A tragedy has
happened in this room--but we are not sure. Can you be brave, madame?"

"I can," she answered. "Of what are you not sure?"

The Commissioner turned down the sheet a few inches. A man's face was
visible, a ghastly sight. She looked at it and shrieked hysterically.

"Is that your husband, madame?" the Commissioner asked quickly.

"Thank God, no!" she cried. "You are sure this is the man?" she went on,
her voice shaking with fierce excitement. "There is no one else--hurt?
No one else stabbed? This is the man they told me was my husband?"

"He was found there, sitting at your husband's table, madame," the
Commissioner of Police assured her. "There is no one else."

She suddenly began to cry.

"It isn't Henry!" she sobbed, groping her way from the room. "Take me
downstairs, please, some one."

CHAPTER XXIII

TROUBLE BREWING

The maitre d'hotel had presented his bill. The little luncheon party was
almost over.

"So I take leave," Hunterleys remarked, as he sat down his empty liqueur
glass, "of one of my responsibilities in life."

"I think I'd like to remain a sort of half ward, please," Felicia
objected, "in case David doesn't treat me properly."

"If he doesn't," Hunterleys declared, "he will have me to answer to.
Seriously, I think you young people are very wise and very foolish and
very much to be envied. What does Sidney say about it?"

Felicia made a little grimace. She glanced around but the tables near
them were unoccupied.

"Sidney is much too engrossed in his mysterious work to concern himself
very much about anything," she replied. "Do you know that he has been
out all night two nights this week already, and he is making no end of
preparations for to-day?"

Hunterleys nodded.

"I know that he is very busy just now," he assented gravely. "I must
come up and talk to him this afternoon."

"We left him writing," Felicia said. "Of course, he declares that it is
for his beloved newspaper, but I am not sure. He scarcely ever goes out
in the daytime. What can he have to write about? David's work is
strenuous enough, and I have told him that if he turns war correspondent
again, I shall break it off."

"We all have our work to do in life," Hunterleys reminded her. "You have
to sing in _Aida_ to-night, and you have to do yourself justice for the
sake of a great many people. Your brother has his work to do, also.
Whatever the nature of it may be, he has taken it up and he must go
through with it. It would be of no use his worrying for fear that you
should forget your words or your notes to-night, and there is no purpose
in your fretting because there may be danger in what he has to do. I
promise you that so far as I can prevent it, he shall take no
unnecessary risks. Now, if you like, I will walk home with you young
people, if I sha'n't be terribly in the way. I know that Sidney wants to
see me."

They left the restaurant, a few minutes later, and strolled up towards
the town. Hunterleys paused outside a jeweler's shop.

"And now for the important business of the day!" he declared. "I must
buy you an engagement present, on behalf of myself and all your
guardians. Come in and help me choose, both of you. A girl who carries
her gloves in her hand to show her engagement ring, should have a better
bag to hang from that little finger."

"You really are the most perfect person that ever breathed!" she sighed.
"You know I don't deserve anything of the sort."

They paid their visit to the jeweler and afterwards drove up to the
villa in a little victoria. Sidney Roche was hard at work in his
shirt-sleeves. He greeted Hunterleys warmly.

"Glad you've come up!" he exclaimed. "The little girl's told you the
news, I suppose?"

"Rather!" Hunterleys replied. "I have been lunching with them on the
strength of it."

"And look!" Felicia cried, holding out the gold bag which hung from her
finger. "Look how I am being spoiled."

Her brother sighed.

"Awful nuisance for me," he grumbled, "having to live with an engaged
couple. You couldn't clear out for a little time," he suggested, "both
of you? I want to talk to Hunterleys."

"We'll go and sit in the garden," Felicia assented. "I suppose I ought
to rest. David shall read my score to me."

They passed out and Roche closed the door behind them carefully.

"Anything fresh?" Hunterleys asked.

"Nothing particular," was the somewhat guarded reply. "That fellow
Frenhofer has been up here."

"Frenhofer?" Hunterleys repeated, interrogatively.

"He is the only man I can rely upon at the Villa Mimosa," Roche
explained. "I am afraid to-night it's going to be rather a difficult
job."

"I always feared it would be," Hunterleys agreed.

"Frenhofer tells me," Roche continued, "that for some reason or other
their suspicions have been aroused up there. They are all on edge. You
know, the house is cram-full of men-servants and there are to be a dozen
of them on duty in the grounds. Two or three of these fellows are
nothing more or less than private detectives, and they all of them know
what they're about or Grex wouldn't have them."

Hunterleys looked grave.

"It sounds awkward," he admitted.

"The general idea of the plot," Roche went on, walking restlessly up and
down the room, "you and I have already solved, and by this time they
know it in London. But there are two things which I feel they may
discuss to-night, which are of vital importance. The first is the date,
the second is the terms of the offer to Douaille. Then, of course, more
important, perhaps, than either of these, is the matter of Douaille's
general attitude towards the scheme."

"So far," Hunterleys remarked reflectively, "we haven't the slightest
indication of what that may be. Douaille came pledged to nothing. He
may, after all, stand firm."

"For the honour of his country, let us hope so," Roche said solemnly.
"Yet I am sure of one thing. They are going to make him a wonderful
offer. He may find himself confronted with a problem which some of the
greatest statesmen in the world have had to face in their time--shall he
study the material benefit of his country, or shall he stand firm for
her honour?"

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21