Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo

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

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"It's a great ethical question," Hunterleys declared, "too great for us
to discuss now, Sidney. Tell me, do you really mean to go on with this
attempt of yours to-night?"

"I must," Roche replied. "Frenhofer wants me to give up the roof idea,
but there is nothing else worth trying. He brought a fresh plan of the
room with him. There it lies on the table. As you see, the apartment
where the meeting will take place is almost isolated from the rest of
the house. There is only one approach to it, by a corridor leading from
the hall. The east and west sides will be patrolled. On the south there
is a little terrace, but the approach to it is absolutely impossible.
There is a sheer drop of fifty feet on to the beach."

"You think they have no suspicion about the roof?" Hunterleys asked
doubtfully.

"Not yet. The pane of glass is cut out and my entrance to the house is
arranged for. Frenhofer will tamper with the electric lights in the
kitchen premises and I shall arrive in response to his telephonic
message, in the clothes of a working-man and with a bag of tools. Then
he smuggles me on to the spiral stairway which leads out on to the roof
where the flag-staff is. I can crawl the rest of the way to my place.
The trouble is that notwithstanding the ledge around, if it is a
perfectly clear night, just a fraction of my body, however flat I lie,
might be seen from the ground."

Hunterleys studied the plan for a moment and shook his head.

"It's a terrible risk, this, Roche," he said seriously.

"I know it," the other admitted, "but what am I to do? They keep sending
me cipher messages from home to spare no effort to send further news, as
you know very well, and two other fellows will be here the day after
to-morrow, to relieve me. I must do what I can. There's one thing,
Felicia's off my mind now. Briston's a good fellow and he'll look after
her."

"In the event of your capture--" Hunterleys began.

"The tools I shall take with me," Roche interrupted, "are common
housebreaker's tools. Every shred of clothing I shall be wearing will be
in keeping, the ordinary garments of an _ouvrier_ of the district. If I
am trapped, it will be as a burglar and not as a spy. Of course, if
Douaille opens the proceedings by declaring himself against the scheme,
I shall make myself scarce as quickly as I can."

"You were quite right when you said just now," Hunterleys observed,
"that Douaille will find himself in a difficult position. There is no
doubt but that he is an honest man. On the other hand, it is a political
axiom that the first duty of any statesman is to his own people. If they
can make Douaille believe that he is going to restore her lost provinces
to France without the shedding of a drop of French blood, simply at
England's expense, he will be confronted with a problem over which any
man might hesitate. He has had all day to think it over. What he may
decide is simply on the knees of the gods."

Roche sealed up the letter he had been writing, and handed it to
Hunterleys.

"Well," he said, "I have left everything in order. If there's any
mysterious disappearance from here, it will be the mysterious
disappearance of a newspaper correspondent, and nothing else."

"Good luck, then, old chap!" Hunterleys wished him. "If you pull through
this time, I think our job will be done. I'll tell them at headquarters
that you deserve a year's holiday."

Roche smiled a little queerly.

"Don't forget," he pointed out, "that it was you who scented out the
whole plot. I've simply done the Scotland Yard work. The worst of our
job is," he added, as he opened the door, "that we don't want holidays.
We are like drugged beings. The thing gets hold of us. I suppose if they
gave me a holiday I should spend it in St. Petersburg. That's where we
ought to send our best men just now. So long, Sir Henry."

They shook hands once more. Roche's face was set in grim lines. They
were both silent for a moment. It was the farewell of men whose eyes are
fixed upon the great things.

"Good luck to you!" Hunterleys repeated fervently, as he turned and
walked down the tiled way.

CHAPTER XXIV

HUNTERLEYS SCENTS MURDER

The concierge of the Hotel de Paris was a man of great stature and
imposing appearance. Nevertheless, when Hunterleys crossed the road and
climbed the steps to the hotel, he seemed for a moment like a man
reduced to pulp. He absolutely forgot his usual dignified but courteous
greeting. With mouth a little open and knees which seemed to have
collapsed, he stared at this unexpected apparition as he came into sight
and stared at him as he entered the hotel. Hunterleys glanced behind
with a slight frown. The incident, inexplicable though it was, would
have passed at once from his memory, but that directly he entered the
hotel he was conscious of the very similar behaviour and attitude
towards him of the chief reception clerk. He paused on his way, a little
bewildered, and called the man to him. The clerk, however, was already
rushing towards the office with his coat-tails flying behind him.
Hunterleys crossed the floor and rang the bell for the lift. Directly he
stepped in, the lift man vacated his place, and with his eyes nearly
starting out of his head, seemed about to make a rush for his life.

"Come back here," Hunterleys ordered sternly. "Take me up to my room at
once."

The man returned unsteadily and with marked reluctance. He closed the
gate, touched the handle and the lift commenced to ascend.

"What's the matter with you all here?" Hunterleys demanded, irritably.
"Is there anything wrong with my appearance? Has anything happened?"

The man made a gesture but said absolutely nothing. The lift had
stopped. He pushed open the door.

"Monsieur's floor," he faltered.

Hunterleys stepped out and made his way towards his room. Arrived there,
he was brought to a sudden standstill. A gendarme was stationed outside.

"What the mischief are you doing here?" Hunterleys demanded.

The man saluted.

"By orders of the Director of Police, monsieur."

"But that is my room," Hunterleys protested. "I wish to enter."

"No one is permitted to enter, monsieur," the man replied.

Hunterleys stared blankly at the gendarme.

"Can't you tell me at least what has happened?" he persisted. "I am Sir
Henry Hunterleys. That is my apartment. Why do I find it locked against
me?"

"By order of the Director of the Police, monsieur," was the parrot-like
reply.

Hunterleys turned away impatiently. At that moment the reception clerk
who downstairs had fled at his approach, returned, bringing with him the
manager of the hotel. Hunterleys welcomed the latter with an air of
relief.

"Monsieur Picard," he exclaimed, "what on earth is the meaning of this?
Why do I find my room closed and this gendarme outside?"

Monsieur Picard was a tall man, black-bearded, immaculate in appearance
and deportment, with manners and voice of velvet. Yet he, too, had lost
his wonderful imperturbability. He waved away the floor waiter, who had
drawn near. His manner was almost agitated.

"Monsieur Sir Henry," he explained, "an affair the most regrettable has
happened in your room. I have allotted to you another apartment upon the
same floor. Your things have been removed there. If you will come with
me I will show it to you. It is an apartment better by far than the one
you have been occupying, and the price is the same."

"But what on earth has happened in my room?" Hunterleys demanded.

"Monsieur," the hotel manager replied, "some poor demented creature who
has doubtless lost his all, in your absence found his way there and
committed suicide."

"Found his way into my room?" Hunterleys repeated. "But I locked the
door before I went out. I have the key in my pocket."

"He entered possibly through the bathroom," the manager went on,
soothingly. "I am deeply grieved that monsieur should be inconvenienced
in any way. This is the apartment I have reserved for monsieur," he
added, throwing open the door of a room at the end of the corridor. "It
is more spacious and in every way more desirable. Monsieur's clothes are
already being put away."

Hunterleys glanced around the apartment. It was certainly of a far
better type than the one he had been occupying, and two of the floor
valets were already busy with his clothes.

"Monsieur will be well satisfied here, I am sure," the hotel manager
continued. "May I be permitted to offer my felicitations and to assure
you of my immense relief. There was a rumour--the affair occurring in
monsieur's apartment--that the unfortunate man was yourself, Sir Henry."

Hunterleys was thoughtful for a moment. He began to understand the
sensation which his appearance had caused. Other ideas, too, were
crowding into his brain.

"Look here, Monsieur Picard," he said, "of course, I have no objection
to the change of rooms--that's all right--but I should like to know a
little more about the man who you say committed suicide in my apartment.
I should like to see him."

Monsieur Picard shook his head.

"It would be a very difficult matter, that, monsieur," he declared. "The
laws of Monaco are stringent in such affairs."

"That is all very well," Hunterleys protested, "but I cannot understand
what he was doing in my apartment. Can't I go in just for a moment?"

"Impossible, monsieur! Without the permission of the Commissioner of
Police no one can enter that room."

"Then I should like," Hunterleys persisted, "to see the Commissioner of
Police."

Monsieur Picard bowed.

"Monsieur the Commissioner is on the premises, without a doubt. I will
instruct him of Monsieur Sir Henry's desire."

"I shall be glad if you will do so at once," Hunterleys said firmly. "I
will wait for him here."

The manager made his escape and his relief was obvious. Hunterleys sat
on the edge of the bed.

"Do you know anything about this affair?" he asked the nearer of the two
valets.

The man shook his head.

"Nothing at all, monsieur," he answered, without pausing from his
labours.

"How did the fellow get into my room?"

"One knows nothing," the other man muttered.

Hunterleys watched them for a few minutes at their labours.

"A nice, intelligent couple of fellows you are," he remarked pleasantly.
"Come, here's a louis each. Now can't you tell me something about the
affair?"

They came forward. Both looked longingly at the coins.

"Monsieur," the one he had first addressed regretted, "there is indeed
nothing to be known. At this hotel the wages are good. It is the finest
situation a man may gain in Monte Carlo or elsewhere, but if anything
like this happens, there is to be silence. One dares not break the
rule."

Hunterleys shrugged his shoulders.

"All right," he said. "I shall find out what I want to know, in time."

The men returned unwillingly to their tasks. In a moment or two there
was a knock at the door. The Commissioner of Police entered, accompanied
by the hotel manager, who at once introduced him.

"The Commissioner of Police is here, Sir Henry," he announced. "He will
speak with you immediately."

The official saluted.

"Monsieur desires some information?"

"I do," Hunterleys admitted. "I am told that a man has committed suicide
in my room, and I have heard no plausible explanation as to how he got
there. I want to see him. It is possible that I may recognise him."

"The fellow is already identified," the Director of Police declared. "I
can satisfy monsieur's curiosity. He was connected with a firm of
English tailors here, who sought business from the gentlemen in the
hotel. He had accordingly sometimes the entree to their apartments. The
fellow is reported to have saved a little money and to have visited the
tables. He lost everything. He came this morning about his business as
usual, but, overcome by despair, stabbed himself, most regrettably in
the apartments of monsieur."

"Since you know all about him, perhaps you can tell me his name?"
Hunterleys asked.

"James Allen. Monsieur may recall him to his memory. He was tall and of
pale complexion, respectable-looking, but a man of discontented
appearance. The intention had probably been in his mind for some time."

"Is there any objection to my seeing the body?" Hunterleys enquired.

The official shrugged his shoulders.

"But, monsieur, all is finished with the poor fellow. The doctor has
given his certificate. He is to be removed at once. He will be buried at
nightfall."

"A very admirable arrangement, without a doubt," Hunterleys observed,
"and yet, I should like, as I remarked before, to see the body. You know
who I am--Sir Henry Hunterleys. I had a message from your department a
day or two ago which I thought a little unfair."

The Commissioner sighed. He ignored altogether the conclusion of
Hunterleys' sentence.

"It is against the rules, monsieur," he regretted.

"Then to whom shall I apply?" Hunterleys asked, "because I may as well
tell you at once that I am going to insist upon my request being
granted. I will tell you frankly my reason. It is not a matter of
curiosity at all. I should like to feel assured of the fact that this
man Allen really committed suicide."

"But he is dead, monsieur," the Commissioner protested.

"Doubtless," Hunterleys agreed, "but there is also the chance that he
was murdered, isn't there?"

"Murdered!"

Monsieur Picard held up his hands in horror. The Commissioner of Police
smiled in derision.

"But, monsieur," the latter pointed out, "who would take the trouble to
murder a poverty-stricken tailor's assistant!"

"And in my hotel, too!" Monsieur Picard intervened.

"The thing is impossible," the Commissioner declared.

"Beyond which it is ridiculous!" Monsieur Picard added.

Hunterleys sat quite silent for a moment.

"Monsieur the Commissioner," he said presently, "and Monsieur Picard, I
recognise your point of view. Believe me that I appreciate it and that I
am willing, to a certain extent, to acquiesce in it. At the same time,
there are considerations in this matter which I cannot ignore. I do not
wish to create any disturbance or to make any statements likely to
militate against the popularity of your wonderful hotel, Monsieur
Picard. Nevertheless, for personal reasons only, notwithstanding the
verdict of your doctor, I should like for one moment to examine the
body."

The Commissioner of Police was thoughtful for a moment.

"It shall be as monsieur desires," he consented gravely, "bearing in
mind what monsieur has said," he added with emphasis.

The three men left the room and passed down the corridor. The gendarme
in front of the closed door stood on one side. The Commissioner produced
a key. They all three entered the room and Monsieur Picard closed the
door behind them. Underneath a sheet upon the bed was stretched the
figure of a man. Hunterleys stepped up to it, turned down the sheet and
examined the prostrate figure. Then he replaced the covering reverently.

"Yes," he said, "that is the man who has called upon me for orders from
the English tailors. His name, I believe, was, as you say, Allen. But
can you tell me, Monsieur the Commissioner, how it was possible for a
man to stab himself from the shoulder downwards through the heart?"

The Official extended his hands.

"Monsieur," he declared, "it is not for us. The doctor has given his
certificate."

Hunterleys smiled a little grimly.

"I have always understood," he observed, "that things were managed like
this. You may have confidence in me, Monsieur the Commissioner, and you,
Monsieur Picard. I shall not tell the world what I suspect. But for your
private information I will tell you that this man was probably murdered
by an assassin who sought my life. You observe that there is a certain
resemblance."

The hotel proprietor turned pale.

"Murdered!" he exclaimed. "Impossible! A murder here--unheard of!"

The Commissioner dismissed the whole thing airily with a wave of his
hand.

"The doctor has signed the certificate," he repeated.

"And I," Hunterleys added, as he led the way out of the room, "am more
than satisfied--I am grateful. So there is nothing more to be said."

CHAPTER XXV

DRACONMEYER IS DESPERATE

Draconmeyer stood before the window of his room, looking out over the
Mediterranean. There was no finer view to be obtained from any suite in
the hotel, and Monte Carlo had revelled all that day in the golden,
transfiguring sunshine. Yet he looked as a blind man. His eyes saw
nothing of the blue sea or the brown-sailed fishing boats, nor did he
once glance towards the picturesque harbour. He saw only his own future,
the shattered pieces of his carefully-thought-out scheme. The first fury
had passed. His brain was working now. In her room below, Lady
Hunterleys was lying on the couch, half hysterical. Three times she had
sent for her husband. If he should return at that moment, Draconmeyer
knew that the game was up. There would be no bandying words between
them, no involved explanations, no possibility of any further
misunderstanding. All his little tissue of lies and misrepresentations
would crumble hopelessly to pieces. The one feeling in her heart would
be thankfulness. She would open her arms. He saw the end with fatal,
unerring truthfulness.

His servant returned. Draconmeyer waited eagerly for his message.

"Lady Hunterleys is lying down, sir," the man announced. "She is very
much upset and begs you to excuse her."

Draconmeyer waved the man away and walked up and down the apartment, his
hands behind his back, his lips hard-set. He was face to face with a
crisis which baffled him completely, and yet which he felt to be wholly
unworthy of his powers. His brain had never been keener, his sense of
power more inspiring. Yet he had never felt more impotent. It was
woman's hysteria against which he had to fight. The ordinary weapons
were useless. He realised quite well her condition and the dangers
resulting from it. The heart of the woman was once more beating to its
own natural tune. If Hunterleys should present himself within the next
few minutes, not all his ingenuity nor the power of his millions could
save the situation.

Plans shaped themselves almost automatically in his mind. He passed from
his own apartments, through a connecting door into a large and
beautifully-furnished salon. A woman with grey hair and white face was
lying on a couch by the window. She turned her head as he entered and
looked at him questioningly. Her face was fragile and her features were
sharpened by suffering. She looked at her husband almost as a cowed but
still affectionate animal might look towards a stern master.

"Do you feel well enough to walk as far as Lady Hunterleys' apartment
with the aid of my arm?" he asked.

"Of course," she replied. "Does Violet want me?"

"She is still feeling the shock," Draconmeyer said. "I think that she is
inclined to be hysterical. It would do her good to have you talk with
her."

The nurse, who had been sitting by her side, assisted her patient to
rise. She leaned on her husband's arm. In her other hand she carried a
black ebony walking-stick. They traversed the corridor, knocked at the
door of Lady Hunterleys' apartment, and in response to a somewhat
hesitating invitation, entered. Violet was lying upon the sofa. She
looked up eagerly at their coming.

"Linda!" she exclaimed. "How dear of you! I thought that it might have
been Henry," she added, as though to explain the disappointment in her
tone.

Draconmeyer turned away to hide his expression.

"Talk to her as lightly as possible," he whispered to his wife, "but
don't leave her alone. I will come back for you in ten minutes."

He left the two women together and descended into the hall. He found
several of the reception clerks whispering together. The concierge had
only just recovered himself, but the place was beginning to wear its
normal aspect. He whispered an enquiry at the desk. Sir Henry Hunterleys
had just come in and had gone upstairs, he was told. His new room was
number 148.

"There was a note from his wife," Draconmeyer said, trying hard to
control his voice. "Has he had it?"

"It is here still, sir," the clerk replied. "I tried to catch Sir Henry
as he passed through, but he was too quick for me. To tell you the
truth," he went on, "there has been a rumour through the hotel that it
was Sir Henry himself who had been found dead in his room, and seeing
him come in was rather a shock for all of us."

"Naturally," Draconmeyer agreed. "If you will give me the note I will
take it up to him."

The clerk handed it over without hesitation. Draconmeyer returned
immediately to his own apartments and torn open the envelope. There were
only a few words scrawled across the half-sheet of notepaper:

Henry, come to me, dear, at once. I have had such a shock. I want
to see you.

Vi.

He tore the note viciously into small pieces. Then he went back to Lady
Hunterleys' apartments. She was sitting up now in an easy-chair. Once
more, at the sound of the knock, she looked towards the door eagerly.
Her face fell when Draconmeyer entered.

"Have you heard anything about Henry?" she asked anxiously.

"He came back a few minutes ago," Draconmeyer replied, "and has gone out
again."

"Gone out again?"

Draconmeyer nodded.

"I think that he has gone round to the Club. He is a man of splendid
nerve, your husband. He seemed to treat the whole affair as an excellent
joke."

"A joke!" she repeated blankly.

"This sort of thing happens so often in Monte Carlo," he observed, in a
matter-of-fact tone. "The hotel people seem all to look upon it as in
the day's work."

"I wonder if Henry had my note?" she faltered.

"He was reading one in the hall when I saw him," Draconmeyer told her.
"That would be yours, I should think. He left a message at the desk
which was doubtless meant for you. He has gone on to the Sporting Club
for an hour and will probably be back in time to change for dinner."

Violet sat quite still for several moments. Something seemed to die
slowly out of her face. Presently she rose to her feet.

"I suppose," she said, "that I am very foolish to allow myself to be
upset like this."

"It is quite natural," Draconmeyer assured her soothingly. "What you
should try to do is to forget the whole circumstance. You sit here
brooding about it until it becomes a tragedy. Let us go down to the Club
together. We shall probably see your husband there."

She hesitated. She seemed still perplexed.

"I wonder," she murmured, "could I send another message to him? Perhaps
he didn't quite understand."

"Much better come along to the Club," Draconmeyer advised,
good-humouredly. "You can be there yourself before a message could reach
him."

"Very well," she assented. "I will be ready in ten minutes...."

Draconmeyer took his wife back to her room.

"Did I do as you wished, dear?" she asked him anxiously.

"Absolutely," he replied.

He helped her back to her couch and stooped and kissed her. She leaned
back wearily. It was obvious that she had found the exertion of moving
even so far exhausting. Then he returned to his own apartments. Rapidly
he unlocked his dispatch box and took out one or two notes from Violet.
They were all of no importance--answers to invitations, or appointments.
He spread them out, took a sheet of paper and a broad pen. Without
hesitation he wrote:

Congratulations on your escape, but why do you run such risks! I
wish you would go back to England.

VIOLET.

He held the sheet of notepaper a little away from him and looked at it
critically. The imitation was excellent. He thrust the few lines into an
envelope, addressed them to Hunterleys and descended to the hall. He
left the note at the office.

"Send this up to Sir Henry, will you?" he instructed. "Let him have it
as quickly as possible."

Once more he crossed the hall and waited close to the lift by which she
would descend. All the time he kept on glancing nervously around. Things
were going his way, but the great danger remained--if they should meet
first by chance in the corridor, or in the lift! Hunterleys might think
it his duty to go at once to his wife's apartment in case she had heard
the rumour of his death. The minutes dragged by. He had climbed the
great ladder slowly. More than once he had felt it sway beneath his
feet. Yet to him those moments seemed almost the longest of his life.
Then at last she came. She was looking very pale, but to his relief he
saw that she was dressed for the Club. She was wearing a grey dress and
black hat. He remembered with a pang of fury that grey was her husband's
favourite colour.

"I suppose there is no doubt that Henry is at the Club?" she asked,
looking eagerly around the hall.

"Not the slightest," he assured her. "We can have some tea there and we
are certain to come across him somewhere."

She made no further difficulty. As they turned into the long passage he
gave a sigh of relief. Every step they took meant safety. He talked to
her as lightly as possible, ignoring the fact that she scarcely replied
to him. They mounted the stairs and entered the Club. She looked
anxiously up and down the crowded rooms.

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