Kidnapping Madame Storey E-Book

H. Footner

• Herausgeber: idb
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 401

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

At a time when the crime of kidnapping was sweeping the country like a plague, my employer Madame Storey and I attended the first night of a Paul Vallorbe play at the Bijou Theatre. Lately the kidnappers had been soaring to unprecedented heights of boldness. Nearly every week the son or the daughter of some prominent family was discovered to be missing, and enormous sums of money had been collected in ransoms. At the moment there seemed to be no effective way of dealing with the outrages. The Paul Vallorbe first night was the first night of the season and the whole town was there. Mme. Storey, who knows everybody and is intimate with none, takes me with her on such occasions as a kind of buffer. When she has a companion it is more difficult for people to fasten themselves on her.

Leseprobe

* An idb Ebook *

Kidnapping Madame Storey - and Other Stories

Footner, H ( Hulbert ) 

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Contents

MADAME STOREY'S GIGOLO

THE SCENT OF ALMONDS

PINK-EYE

THE KIDNAPPING OF MADAME STOREY

THE MURDERS IN THE HOTEL CATHAY

MADAME STOREY'S GIGOLO

1

When Mme. Storey and I arrived at Monte Carlo she registered us at the Hôtel de Paris as Mrs. Renfrew and Miss Renfrew. I was to pass as her sister-in-law for the time being. She wanted to avoid the attentions of society and the press.

But she couldn't get away with it. I noticed that the clerk looked at her hard and consulted a photograph under his desk. Presently an elegant gentleman came bustling up and introduced himself as le directeur. Bowing like a jack-knife he ushered us with his own magnificent presence to a beautiful suite on the second floor. I am sure they were the best rooms in the house; imperial suite; millionaire's love-nest.

"Ah, tres-belle!" said Mme. Storey, looking around her. "But much too grand for me, Monsieur. I can't afford it."

"Non! Non!" he protested, waving his hands, "you misunderstand, Madame. Your privacy will be respected, but we know who you are. You shall be the guest of the principality of Monaco as long as you will honour us. His Highness the Prince has commanded it!"

"Nice of him," said Mme. Storey.

When the little man had vanished in a cloud of compliments, she said to me dryly, "Something tells me there's a nigger in this elegant woodpile, my Bella!"

However, the rooms were lovely, a corner suite with windows on one side looking out on the Casino and the gardens, and on the other the ineffable blue sea. Whatever they may say, the old Paris is still one of the hotels in the world, and they went all out for us. Bell-boys arrived in a procession bringing baskets of flowers, fruit, boxes of chocolates.

Presently, as if to give point to Mme. Storey's words, another elegant gentleman arrived in our salon, less showy than the first, but better style. Prominent Executive was written all over him, or whatever the French equivalent may be; but I shall refer to our caller merely as Monsieur B.

He kissed our hands and when the inevitable compliments had been delivered, came right down to business. "This lady," he asked politely, looking at me, "may I speak before her?"

"My secretary, Miss Brickley," said Mme. Storey. "She is present at all interviews."

"Nothing could be more opportune than your visit to Monte Carlo at this time," said Monsieur B. enthusiastically. "I have read so much of your successes in solving intricate crimes. Of all people in the world you are the one I most wish to consult with. Professionally, I mean."

"But I'm on my vacation," objected Mme. Storey.

"No matter! No matter! You can deal with this affair without interfering in the least with your pleasures."

"What is it?" she asked.

His face turned grave. "There is a gang of young men operating here," he said, "what shall I say? gigolos. Every day ladies are being blackmailed and in some cases robbed. It culminated last week in the suicide of a lady of title here in one of our hotels."

"I hadn't heard of it," said Mme. Storey.

"We kept it out of the papers," he said, "but of course it's a matter of common gossip. People say naturally that she lost all she possessed at the gaming tables. But that is not so. She was betrayed, robbed and blackmailed by these scoundrels, and the unfortunate lady could not face her family."

Mme. Storey was not attracted by the case. "Gigolos?" she said, running up her eyebrows. "Surely that's a matter for your police."

"They are helpless," said Monsieur B., spreading out his hands. "When we make an arrest there is never any evidence because the victim will not testify. When these young men become known to us we can put them on the train. But soon they return. Or others take their places. We can forbid them to enter the Casino, the Sporting Club or the hotels under our management, but they pick up their victims outside. And if they suspect that the eye of the police is on them, they tempt the infatuated women to accompany them to Mentone, or Nice, or Cannes, where they are out of our jurisdiction."

Mme. Storey sent a droll glance in my direction. Evidently Monte Carlo was losing business. That was the real rub.

"The gigolos, in themselves, they are nothing," Monsieur B. went on, dismissing them with a gesture. "What makes them dangerous is the fact that they are organised and directed by a subtle intelligence here in Monte Carlo. Find that man or that woman, Madame; break up this ring, and you may ask what you will of us!"

She shook her head. "I am on my vacation," she said. "I am weary of crime. Better order me changed to a more modest suite, Monsieur, and forget about me."

"Never! Never!" he protested. "In any case you remain our guest, Madame."

He brought up all the arguments he could muster. Would she not, as a woman, undertake to rescue her fellow-woman from these birds of prey? Some of the victims had been American ladies. Did she not feel it her duty to ... etc., etc. Mme. Storey continued to smile, and to shake her head quite firmly; and being an experienced man he soon saw that it was useless. He left us.

2

A few minutes later Mme. Storey and I, having changed our dresses, were seated on the terrace behind the Casino. It was in the middle of the afternoon. After the fogs and frost of Northern France, the hot and brilliant sunshine was like Paradise. Below us the calm sea was bluer than ultramarine. The fantastic architecture of the Casino; the gay clothes of the women; the profusion of flowers; the band playing a Strauss waltz; everything contributed to the holiday spirit. We dissolved in satisfaction.

"Let's do something foolish," said Mme. Storey.

Presently a young man came strolling by. One of the handsomest young men I have ever seen. He looked like a Spaniard or a South American; smooth, olive face; glowing dark eyes; slim and graceful as Mercury. He looked at Mme. Storey out of the corners of his eyes, walked on a little way, and came back again.

"Here's one of them," she murmured.

"Surely not!" I protested. "That boy looks like one of the young angels painted by the Italian masters."

"Quite!" she said dryly. "But you never can tell about young men. They don't begin to show their real characters until they pass thirty."

When he passed the second time he looked directly at Mme. Storey with his velvety, compelling eyes. She smiled frankly, and he stopped.

"Charming afternoon," he said, raising his hat. His English was as good as my own.

"Charming!" said Mme. Storey. She glanced at the vacant seat beside her, and he dropped into it. He looked about twenty-four, but may have been older. Dressed with the plainness that the most fashionable young men affect, everything about him was just right.

"You have just come," he said.

"How did you guess it?"

His eyes were fixed on hers. "The terrace has a brightness it never had before," he said seriously.

She laughed delightedly. "Well! You're what we call a fast worker in America!"

He did not smile, he wasn't looking at me, but I could feel the almost hypnotic effect of his eyes. "I mean it," he said. "I have never seen anybody like you."

"Compliments are so nice," murmured Mme. Storey, trying not to laugh; "You see, they've gone out of fashion in my country."

He glanced at me significantly and then back at her as much as to say that if she would get rid of me he would really tell her something. But Mme. Storey made believe not to get it.

"A woman like you is wasted in a country of business men," he said.

"Well, one can always get on a ship," she said. "Here I am!"

"I had a feeling when I got up this morning that something wonderful was going to happen to-day," he murmured thrillingly.

Mme. Storey could no longer hold in her laughter. It rang out delightedly. The young man turned angry and sore. When she was able to speak she said—still rippling with laughter:

"I'm so sorry! I like you, really. You're so easy to look at. But I can't play up to you. Surely it must be a strain on you too, to be so romantic. Be yourself and let's enjoy the lovely weather."

There was a struggle visible in his handsome face. He scowled, and rubbed his upper lip. Then suddenly he joined in her laughter. It changed the whole character of his face. Made him look like one of our nice American boys. He had beautiful white teeth. I began to like him.

"You're right," he said, "it is a strain. But..." He finished with an expressive shrug.

Mme. Storey finished his sentence for him. "You mean it's your job to be romantic. I know. And I ought to tell you that I am a very poor prospect. You'd better toddle along and look for some older lady who is starving for romance."

His head went down, and a spasm of shame crossed his face. "You see too much," he murmured. "You despise me."

She shook her head. "I never despise anybody."

He raised his head. He was humbler now. "I'd like to take a holiday from my job," he murmured. "If you would let me stay with you."

"Why not?" she said. "I'm sure you're the handsomest young man in Monte Carlo. What shall we do?"

"Do you like dancing?" he asked eagerly.

"I adore it!"

"There's a gala at the Sporting Club this afternoon."

"Let's go.... But we must introduce ourselves. I am Mrs. Renfrew and this is Miss Renfrew my sister-in-law."

"I am Raoul d'Aymara," he said as simply as if he had been a Marquis. Perhaps he was. Spanish Marquises have fallen on evil days just now.

"We must have another man," he went on. "There are several fellows I know along the terrace.... There's Nickol Copenhaver the Dane. Dumb, but he can dance." Raoul signalled to an elegant young fellow who was loafing by the balustrade of the terrace, and the latter started towards us.

Raoul said hurriedly, half ashamed, "You understand, I shall have to play romantic when Nickol is in hearing. He wouldn't understand anything else."

The new young man came up and was introduced. He fell to my share. Tall and blonde, he seemed to be slightly in the gauze the whole time. I kept wondering if he had a real man's feelings inside his handsome shell.

It began to grow chilly on the terrace, and we adjourned to the Sporting Club. As the old Casino begins to grow out of date, the management has provided this gorgeous new palace of amusement to keep up the tone of Monte Carlo. There is nothing like it in our country. The ceiling of the restaurant must be forty feet high. One has a grand feeling of spaciousness. And what a floor! what music! what food!

The dumb Nickol danced like another Maurice. It was heavenly, but all the time I wondered if I was in the arms of a blackmailer and a robber. Well, danger added a spice to my pleasure. I envied the other couple a little. Raoul could not only dance, he could talk. He seemed to be filled with a kind of desperate gaiety.

When the four of us were together at the table it was funny to see him start making love to Mme. Storey with a perfectly serious face. I suppose the boys spied on each other. However, as there were two orchestras, there was not much pause between dances.

Once or twice Raoul asked me to dance just for appearance' sake. When he was out of Nickol's hearing the poor lad seemed to be more frank and open. I liked him better and better. He said with a laugh:

"You know, I wouldn't be let in here alone."

"Why not?" I asked.

He spun me around. "Because of my fatal beauty.... You see the management employs dancing men of their own. There's one of them ... there's another on your left. Nice lads but a bit passé. Beginning to be a little bald on the crown, and thick through the middle. Anything as fresh and willowy as me shows up the old boys at a disadvantage."

In all his fun there was a bitter, reckless note that made me want to mother him.

Most of the time he talked about Mme. Storey. "Isn't she wonderful? I wouldn't have believed it possible that a woman of brains could be so ... so ... well, you know what I mean; so lovable!"

"Then you know who she is," I said.

"Of course I know. Rosika Storey. Such a thing can't be hidden. I would be willing to bet that everybody here knows who she is. I can hear them murmuring when we dance around together."

We danced for awhile. Raoul's style was bolder and faster than Nickol's. He guided me as smoothly and surely through the crowding couples as a bird goes through the branches of a tree. Presently he said with the laugh that didn't hide the feeling in his voice:

"Meeting a woman like that has pulled me right up by the roots. I'll never be the same man again. What is it you say in America? I'm a gone coon!"

When the dance was over we strolled out into the beautifully lighted gardens. I saw that Mme. Storey and Raoul had some sort of an understanding. They dropped Nickol politely at the foot of the hotel steps, but Raoul came up to our suite with us. There was a sharp mean look in the face of the young Dane as he turned away that I didn't like. Raoul didn't seem to care.

Up in our salon all Raoul's pumped-up gaiety dropped away. His smooth young face looked drawn and haggard. He refused to sit down. "I can't stay," he muttered. "This place is about as healthy for me as Fascist headquarters to a Communist." He moved around the room in a halting way, his head down, stroking the backs of the chairs.

"You said you had something to say to me," said Mme. Storey gravely.

"Yes. I'd better say it and go...." It wasn't so easy for him to get it out. He made a couple of false starts. "Something has happened to me this afternoon. I ... I ... Oh well, never mind me. I don't mean anything in your life."

"If you're up against it you do," she said quickly. "If you're sick of your crooked job here."

He laughed. "Sick of my job! Oh, God! Believe me, I've been sick of my job for a long time. But I kidded myself. Now I can't kid myself any longer.... No!" he cried out sharply. "Leave me out of it! This is what I want to say. You must get out of Monte Carlo. At once. By the first train!"

"But why?" asked Mme. Storey.

"I can't tell you that. I can only say that you're in danger. Horrible danger! You can't fight this thing. It's too well covered. They'll get you if you stay here!"

It was obvious that he thought Mme. Storey had accepted the job of breaking the ring of blackmailers. She didn't undeceive him.

She said, "If I were to leave now it would be suspected that you had warned me."

He laughed a bitter note. "I expect they know it already."

"What will you do?" she said. "You can't go on with your present life."

"Never mind that. Only do what I say. You see that I'm in earnest. It's true I'm taking a risk in warning you. But let that go. It's the first decent act of my life. Let me feel that I've done some good. Will you do what I say? Will you go?"

"I don't know. I'll have to consider it," said Mme. Storey.

He turned to me in a kind of desperation. "You persuade her," he said. "I can see that you're fond of her. Don't let her soil her hands with this pitch. Go away from here. There are plenty of places where you can amuse yourselves. If she stays here they'll get her!"

I could only spread out my hands helplessly. It was not for me to say anything.

"Raoul," said Mme. Storey frankly, "come in with us. You're in wrong. Join up with us and get a fresh deal. With your aid I could smash these scoundrels!"

He shook his head. "No," he said gloomily, "I couldn't betray my mob. That's the right word, isn't it? I've done pretty nearly everything in my short life, but I've never been a traitor."

"Then get out of Monte Carlo yourself," she said. "And keep on going until you are out of reach of the ring. Go to America if necessary. I'll stake you. Because I think you're worth saving."

He stared at her, and a wonderful light broke in his face. He seemed to be dazed by her offer. "A fresh deal?" he stammered. "Could I? ... Could I?"

Mme. Storey unlocked her writing case. "You'd better get away in a hurry," she said.

He pulled himself together. "Yes! I'll be followed from the moment I leave here. But I think I can shake them off. I'll walk out of town. The railway station will be watched. I'll pick up the bus for Nice somewhere along the road, and take the train from there."

Mme. Storey had taken a packet of bank notes from her case, and was writing a card. "Give this to my agent in Paris," she said, "and let me hear from you through him."

Raoul thrust the notes and the card in his breast pocket. His face was working strangely. "I can't say anything," he muttered.

"Don't try," said Mme. Storey.

He seized her hand, and was about to kiss it, but she drew it away. "You may kiss my lips, handsome boy," she said smiling.

He did so; and immediately ran out of the room.

When he had gone I dropped into a chair. I felt as if all the strength had oozed out of my legs. "What will you do?" I faltered. "When he disappears they will suppose that he has confessed everything to you."

"I reckon they will," said Mme. Storey coolly. She considered for a moment. "I don't know what I will do," she said slowly. "But certainly I'm not going to let anybody run me out of Monte Carlo."

I knew she was going to say it, but a little groan escaped me.

"But you don't have to stay here, Bella," she added with quick kindness. "After all, this is a holiday. There is no need for you to be frightened to death."

"I stay where you are," I said grimly.

3

After Raoul had gone Mme. Storey looked over some mail that had arrived during the afternoon. Amongst it was a note which had been delivered by hand. It was signed Amos Rudd.

"Bless my fathers! Amos Rudd!" she exclaimed. "He used to be a great man in New York. President of the Madison National. Sold out when his bank was merged. I thought he had passed out years ago, and here he is risen like Lazarus in Monte Carlo. He must be about a hundred!"

Mr. Rudd had written to ask her to dinner at his villa. He apologised for the shortness of the notice, saying that he had just heard of her arrival, and as he was entertaining some of his friends that night, he hoped she would waive ceremony and join them. He would be very glad to have her travelling companion also, he said.

"Let's go, Bella," she said. "If he's a resident here we may pick up some valuable information."

I agreed, of course, but I had an uncomfortable feeling that she was about to be drawn into the ugly case of the gigolos in spite of herself.

So a telephone message was sent to Mr. Rudd that we were coming, and we proceeded to get dressed.

Our host lived in almost feudal fashion in a sort of castle on the Cap Martin side. We were welcomed in a salon big enough for kings with a loggia opening on the moonlit sea. Rudd was a tiny man like a fledgling bird, all beak and eyes with no feathers to speak of. Thus age returns to the semblance of youth. He had hardly a fledgling's innocence though. There was a fixed grin in his little withered face.

I disliked his wife at sight. Not the same wife he had left New York with, Mme. Storey remarked later. A tall, luscious blonde with drooping lips and weary eyes. A woman of the highest fashion strung with jewels, she looked, to put it bluntly, capable of any crime.

Mr. Rudd squeaked, "Rosika! You were only a little girl when I saw you last! You've grown older and I've grown younger. He! He! He!" His wife drawled with infinite fatigue, "Chawmed, Madame Storey. I hope you won't find Monte too boring."

The company was a small one. There was a Prince Grimaldi, a tottering old beau with his hair plastered down. Several American women hung around him simply because the taste of his title (which they pronounced "Prance") was like honey on their lips. There was a Count who was a little younger but worse favoured; and there was a bundle of wraps and veils enclosing an aged lady who was related to the late Sultan of Turkey. All we could see of her was a long and inquisitive nose.

Amongst the Americans there was a bloated couple who were always spoken of in hushed voices as the James Wentworth Hawkinses. What they had done to deserve it I couldn't find out. The male Hawkins resembled a bull-dog—but no dog could look so brutal. Something happens to Americans when they forsake their country for good. They hit the skies [Transcriber's note: skids?] morally.

Mme. Storey and I were much the youngest persons present. Amongst that crew my tall friend stood out like a lady in a museum. They all felt the contrast, I think. They all lavished compliments on her—and cordially disliked her.

Dinner was kept waiting by the non-arrival of somebody called Turner Moale. From the conversation I gathered that nothing in Monte Carlo was complete without Turner Moale. His name headed every subscription list. He gave the most delightful entertainments at his villa on the rock of Monaco.

Turner Moale; Turner Moale; the name rang through my head like some old rhyme. Suddenly it came to me that my mother used to talk about Turner Moale. When she was a girl he was the number one matinee idol of New York. Women used to mob the stage door in order to touch him as he passed.

Presumably he had been forced off the stage by age, and here he was established as the social arbiter of Monte Carlo. I wanted to change the ancient wheeze to run: When Americans die they rise up in Monte Carlo. I felt as if I were in a company of ghosts.

Presently he arrived, a very old man but marvellously preserved. I expect he had been in the hands of his valet for hours. Rosy and dignified, beautifully turned-out, he was certainly a personage. Everybody had to look when he came in. With his cool airs and his affability he was like a little Highness himself.

He made directly for my employer and kissed her hand as if he were conferring an order upon her. "Rosika Storey!" he exclaimed. "The desire of my life is granted!" He drew her hand under his arm. "I shall take you in to dinner. I don't care what anybody says. I shall fight for it!"

Everybody laughed. It appeared that Turner Moale must be allowed to do whatever he liked.

When we sat down at the table there was a burst of animation as if a large tap had been turned on. Everybody smirking, ogling, flirting, while they picked at the different courses which were whisked on and off. But while their lips smiled their eyes were ghastly. Mme. Storey has taught me something about eyes. Every one of those dapper men and bejewelled women was frantic with boredom. They hated each other; they hated themselves. People in that state are ripe for anything.

Excepting Turner Moale perhaps. He appeared to be serene. But perhaps it was only because he had a more perfect control over his eyes. He was no better than the others but he had a better style. He was like the popular ruler of some little country a long time ago who had nothing to fear. There are no rulers like that nowadays.

"I haven't been to America for years," he said. "I can't endure their barbarous customs. In America I am told that men wear dinner jackets when there are ladies present. I shall never go there."

Mme. Storey led up to what she had in mind by telling of our encounter with the good-looking young man on the terrace; just the beginning of it. They listened with smiles, but one could see that they disliked the subject. Mme. Storey said with an innocent air:

"I suppose terrible things may happen to a woman who falls for those handsome rascals."

Silence around the table.

She went on. "In fact I have seen various references to women being robbed and blackmailed at Monte Carlo."

Not a word. Mrs. Hawkins tried to create a diversion by asking the Prince if he liked Beàrnaise sauce with his entrecôte. Mme. Storey kept on:

"Mr. Rudd, have you ever heard of these things?"

"Not I!" he said. "I'm the wrong sex."

His feeble joke produced a great laugh. Mme. Storey, undiscouraged, blandly addressed Turner Moale at her side.

"What do you think, Mr. Moale? Are these pleasant young fellows that one sees on the terrace dangerous criminals?"

"I hope so," he said maliciously.

There were loud cries of protest from his admirers.

"It adds a zest to life," he said. "We are too far sunk in our creature comforts. Nothing like a good crime or two to rouse us."

"I like to read about crimes in Chicago," drawled Mrs. Rudd, "but not at my own front door."

"The nearer, the more exciting," said Turner Moale.

"No young man by himself is especially dangerous," said Mme. Storey. "But suppose they combined to stand or fall together. Suppose they are only tools in the hands of a master who uses them for his own ends. That would be a dangerous racket. The boys, you see, would be comparatively innocent. All they would have to do would be to allow the women to make fools of themselves. Then the master would apply the screws."

"Superb!" cried Turner Moale with his noiseless old man's laugh. "You are wasted as an upholder of the law, Rosika. If you were a criminal you would go down in history!"

"Of course it's only the women in hotels who are victimised," said Mrs. Rudd languidly. "It doesn't affect us who live here."

The old Turkish woman shook with laughter inside her wrappings as if she knew some devilish joke of her own.

"Blackmail will soon become a lost art," lisped the old prince. "Because people are proud of being bad nowadays."

"Then you can blackmail them for being found in church!" retorted Turner Moale.

"If you've got a good balance at the bank you don't need to care what anybody says about you," put in Amos Rudd, grinning like a death's head.

His wife flashed a spontaneous look of hatred down the table.

"About those women who are blackmailed," said Hawkins brutally, "if they make fools of themselves I say they deserve no better than they get."

Mme. Storey took no further part in the discussion. She let them thrash it out amongst themselves as if she had learned what she wished to know.

After dinner we all drove in to town to take a whirl at the tables of the Sporting Club. A super gambling house; quiet, elegant, spacious. They don't allow it to become crowded. After all, plenty of room is the greatest luxury of all.

All the members of our party put up large sums at roulette with mask-like faces. The Turkish lady stretched forth a claw from her wrappings that trembled violently. I saw old Amos Rudd staking the dilapidated Prince on the sly. I wonder if they paid him for coming to dinner. Turner Moale played at another table and kept his back to us.

Later we descended to the night club for more dancing. It was not exactly exhilarating to be pushed around by tottering noblemen or resuscitated Americans. I thought of the handsome Raoul longingly.

When the party broke up we were besieged with invitations. These people did nothing in the world but give each other dinners every night. My heart sunk. However, Mme. Storey evaded them politely.

"I may be obliged to leave Monte Carlo to-morrow," she said. "I dare not accept anything."

How thankful I was to get back to our own quiet rooms! "Pretty awful, wasn't it?" said Mme. Storey, smiling. "However, the evening was not entirely wasted."

I looked at her inquiringly.

"Mrs. Rudd possesses a photograph of Raoul," she said, lighting a cigarette. "Along with many other handsome young men."

"What does that mean?" I said.

"I don't know. It's only a beginning."

"Then you are going to take this case!" I exclaimed with a long face.

"I may be forced to," she said enigmatically.

I opened the casements and we stepped out on the balcony, and looked down at the sea, powdered with the shadowy radiance of the moon. The moon itself was over our shoulders. It was very late and the town had fallen quiet. The fantastic Casino over the way was dark. Silence and moonlight, the unchanging things, held the frivolous city in a spell.

Out of the silence we heard a far-off cry. It was very faint, but it vibrated with a peculiar anguish, sharp as a stab.

"What was that?" I said startled.

"Some poor soul in trouble," murmured Mme. Storey.

It had nothing to do with us, so far as we knew, but I found myself trembling all over. "Let's go in," I said. "It's uncanny."

4

I spent a bad night, and got up ready to hate that gay and beautiful place. The air was like wine, the morning sunshine glorious, but I couldn't rise to it. Mme. Storey was a little pale too. We ate our petit déjeuner by the open window in silence.

As we sat lingering over our cigarettes, an envelope was brought to her which bore the imprint of a café in Monte Carlo. No name was written on it, but only the number of our room. She read it and handed it over to me without comment.

"DEAR R.S.

"I know that it is foolish of me to write to you, but it eases me so! They have me on the run, but so far I have been able to keep a jump or two ahead of them. I am waiting here for a friend who has promised to bring me a disguise. If I could only say some of the things that I feel! But I must not. I have no right. I can say this, though. Through you I have found myself. Whatever may happen to me now..."

There was a break at this point, and the letter was carried on in a different hand, an uneducated hand, in French. Translated, it ran:

"The gentleman told me who this was for. He had to leave in a hurry. I let him out through a back window.

"PIERRE,     "Waiter at Café des Arcades."

Mme. Storey and I exchanged an anxious glance. "Let's go and see the Grand Vizier," she said.

She was referring to M. le President of the Society of the Baths of the Sea. I nodded, and we got ready immediately.

There was nothing frivolous about his suite. Very handsome and austere. As soon as we entered we perceived that something unusual was up. Excited looking clerks were passing in and out. We had to wait until a couple of gaudy policemen made a report to Monsieur B. A presentiment of evil struck a slow chill through my veins.

When we were shown into his private office he still looked disturbed. In her forthright way Mme. Storey said:

"What has happened, Monsieur?"

"Why, nothing, nothing at all," he replied quickly—too quickly.

Mme. Storey merely looked at him in the way that draws things out of people.

"Well, a distressing accident," he said, "but nothing that need concern you or me, Madame."

She looked and waited for more.

"An unfortunate young man committed suicide last night by throwing himself over the cliffs of La Turbie."

In spite of myself a little cry was forced from me.

"What's the matter with Mademoiselle?" he asked, staring.

"She doubts if it was suicide," said Mme. Storey gravely.

"What else could it be?" he said irritably throwing up his hands. "Some poor fool who has lost all at the gaming tables! He killed himself outside our borders anyway, but the French authorities seem to think we are responsible."

"Who is he?"

"I do not know, Madame. All marks of identification had been destroyed. An investigation is in progress."

"Where is he?"

"At a mortuary in Beausoleil."

Mme. Storey's face was like marble. "Is he ... recognisable?"

"Yes, I am told that his face escaped mutilation though almost every bone in his body was broken."

"I wish to see him."

He jumped up waving his hands in distress. "No! No! it is too horrible! Isn't there somebody who could act for you? Some man?"

"I am accustomed to acting for myself," she said.

A moment or two later we were in Monsieur B's car climbing through the narrow winding streets that lead to Beausoleil, the upper town. All Monte Carlo is built like a flight of steps up the side of a mountain. Beausoleil is in French territory.

The mortuary was a private one attached to an undertaking establishment. There is a stark, nightmare quality about such places in France. At the door of the inner room Mme. Storey said kindly:

"You don't have to come in, Bella."

I shook my head, and followed at her heels like a shadow. It would have been worse to wait outside for her.

A small bare room with whitewashed walls and cement floors. A smell of iodoform. In the middle there was a slab with a sheeted form upon it; a table at the side with the dead man's clothes under another sheet. An attendant standing beside the slab pulled down the sheet a little way and we saw—what we expected to see; Raoul's beautiful head.

He was no longer glad nor sorry; neither proud nor shamefaced. Death had shaped a perfect mask of beauty. The rich brown wavy hair; the clear olive skin; the lovely mouth; and so young! so pitifully young! I began to shake inside; the tears were running down my face without my knowing it. Mme. Storey, as always when under strong emotion, was pale and cold.

She said, "This man was murdered!"

"How do you know?" gasped Monsieur B.

"His lips were sealed with surgeon's tape. If you look closely you can see traces of the gum.... I wish to see his hands."

The sheet was pulled down farther and I turned away. I could not bear any more. I heard her say:

"Observe those marks on his wrists, Monsieur. He was bound and gagged when he was carried to La Turbie."

Monsieur B. made incoherent sounds of distress.

When we had returned to his car Mme. Storey told him what we knew about the dead man. The name he had given us was no doubt an assumed one. Mme. Storey said, "I am now ready, Monsieur, to undertake the work you offered me yesterday."

Now that murder had come into it, he was not so eager. "There must be no ugly publicity," he muttered.

She looked at him coldly. "It suits me to have as little publicity as possible," she said. "But I won't consent in advance to conceal anything."

"An ugly murder! just at the beginning of the season! ruinous! ruinous!" he cried.

"You can't clean up a mess without making a bad smell," said Mme. Storey bluntly.

"Ruinous! Ruinous!"

"Very well," she said crisply, "if you wish to withdraw your offer, that is quite all right. But in that case I must warn you that I shall go ahead on my own. Whatever happens, I am going to see that the murderer of this man—I mean the real murderer, is brought to justice."

That brought him down on the run. "No! No! Madame! Of course not! Don't speak of such a thing, I beg! Certainly my offer of yesterday stands. I am anxious to co-operate with you in every way possible. No expense must be spared!" And so on. And so on.

5

We went right on to La Turbie in the car. Monsieur B. said we should find his chief of detectives on the spot. The road zigzagged endlessly back and forth across the face of the almost perpendicular mountain back of Monte Carlo. Though La Turbie almost overhangs the resort it is a half-hour's drive around those hairpin curves. We had no eye for the glorious views beneath us.

Like all the ancient villages thereabouts, La Turbie is almost a solid block of masonry tucked in the folds of the mountains. It is dominated by a huge ruined tower built by the Romans. Below the ancient part is a more modern esplanade ending in a sort of round bastion at the very edge of the cliffs. It was from this bastion that the body had been flung.

Mme. Storey had the car stopped some distance short of the end of the road, hoping to find the tracks of the car that had preceded us some eight hours before. But the pavement was hard and so many people had shuffled back and forth that all marks of tyres were obliterated.

Within the circular parapet at the end, a knot of people were gathered, peering over, discussing the affair. The chief of detectives joined us. Mme. Storey looked at him and looked at me ruefully. A worthy man! When Monsieur B. asked him what had developed he shrugged and spread his palms. Every soul in La Turbie had been asleep when it happened. Some perhaps had been wakened by the young man's cry, but they didn't know what had wakened them.

The village people drew back wonderingly at the sight of Mme. Storey. They suspected a tragic romance. We looked over—not at the glorious panorama of mountain and sea, with the red-roofed town two thousand feet below, but straight down where we could see a dark stain on the rocks at the foot of the cliff. I shivered. I can't say how far down it was, hundreds of feet.

They told us that the spot where the body had fallen was inaccessible from below, consequently, men had been lowered from the parapet to fetch it up. Indeed the ropes were still there, and the men who had gone down, telling the story to their neighbours over and over.

Mme. Storey said: "I will go down."

There was a chorus of remonstrances from the Frenchmen. She merely waited with a cold smile until they had talked themselves out.

"I will go for you," said the detective.

She shook her head. "I must use my own eyes."

In the end, of course she had her way. The men who manipulated the rope constructed a sort of sling for her. They helped her over the parapet, and presently I saw her swinging between rocks and sky, seated in the sling, clinging to the rope above her head with one hand and holding a cigarette in the other. It made me giddy, and I drew back. The village people were staring as at a marvel.

There was no accident. In half an hour they helped her over the parapet and she stood beside us safe and sound.

"Did you find anything?" asked the detective excitedly.

"No," she said coolly. The village people were listening and gaping.

When we drove away in the car she opened her hand and showed us a brown button. Clinging to it was a scrap of frayed woollen cloth of the same colour.

"When they took off his bonds there was a brief struggle," she said. "He caught hold of a button on the coat of one of his assailants and it came away in his hand. Observe that the cloth is of the finest quality, and that the button is sewed on with silk thread."

The French detective struck his fist into his palm. "I will find the wearer of that coat, Madame! You may leave it to me!"

"Quite!" she said dryly.

Back in the town we parted from our companions. The detective went off to set the usual machinery of the police in motion, while Mme. Storey and I went in search of the "Café des Arcades."

There was none of the Monte Carlo glitter about this place. The sort of shabby and inviting little resort in a side street, where French people love to sit by the hour, talking, playing dominoes, writing letters. At this time of day it was almost empty. When we sat down a waiter assiduously wiped the marble table in front of us. He was a young man with a friendly smile, and all the stored-up wisdom of the café waiter in his wary eyes.

"Are you Pierre?" asked Mme. Storey.

"But yes, Madame," he said, startled. "How do you know my name?"

"You signed it to a letter that you sent me last night."

"Yes! Yes!" he said. "And you are the lady? Ahh!"

"What do you know about the young man who gave you that letter?"

Pierre spread out his hands expressively. "I know nothing, Madame. He is a customer. He is generous. I do not know his name."

The proprietor was looking at us curiously from behind the bar, and Mme. Storey ordered aperitifs. Pierre flew to get them.

When he returned she asked: "What made the young man leave so quickly last night?"

"I do not know," said Pierre. "He show me fifty-franc note. He say quiet: 'Is there a way out at the back?' I say: 'Follow me.' I take him in the storeroom. He goes out through the window like a bird. Shove the letter in my hand. Say: 'Send it to suite "A," Hôtel de Paris.'"

"He was waiting here for a friend. Did his friend come?"

"Ah, yes! the mademoiselle. She often meet him here. Very pretty. She come and I say: 'Your gentleman is gone.' I didn't want to frighten her." He gave us a good description of the girl.

"You must have some idea of the danger that threatened him," said Mme. Storey.

Pierre shrugged. "Well, there were four young men waiting in the street," he said. "Afterwards they went away."

"Could you identify them if you saw them again?"

An expression of prudence came over the waiter's face. "Ah, no, Madame," he said quickly. "It is impossible. It was dark in the street. Their hats were pulled over their eyes."

"Pierre," said Mme. Storey gravely, "they got him!"

"Mon Dieu!" he said softly. "Is he dead?"

"He is dead!"

Pierre bustled away towards a table at a little distance, and fussed among a pile of magazines that lay upon it. He came back bringing one with his professional smile. This was for the watching proprietor's benefit. Pierre's eyes were full of tears.

"Voilà! L'Illustration, Madame," he said briskly. He leaned over and gave the table a swipe with his cloth. His back was turned towards his boss. "I have something else for you," he whispered. Digging into a pocket under his apron, he produced a tiny book in a pretty white binding. Mme. Storey slipped it out of sight.

"He give me that with the letter," whispered Pierre. "He say: 'If they get me you will hear of it, Pierre. If they get me I want the lady at the Hôtel de Paris to have this. If you hear nothing, throw it into the sea. It is dangerous to have on you.'"

Somebody called him, and he hustled away. He could give us no further help.

Under cover of the magazine, we examined the little book. To our astonishment it was—a dictionary! The slip cover was a handsome affair of vellum decorated with gold, green and red bands, but it held just a common little five-franc English-French dictionary. Every traveller knows them.

Mme. Storey ran over the pages hastily. They showed no marks of any sort.

"Just an ordinary dictionary!" I said disappointed.

"No!" she said thoughtfully. "He had some special reason for sending it." After a moment or two the explanation came to her. "This is the code book used by the gang in exchanging messages. It is not the first time that a dictionary has been used for that purpose. It will come in useful later."

We returned to the hotel. On the way Mme. Storey telegraphed to Philippe Grandet in Paris, asking him to come to Monte Carlo; a clever man who had worked for her on several former occasions. I had an uncomfortable feeling that we were being followed through the streets but I couldn't spot anybody. When I suggested to Mme. Storey that we ought to have protection, she merely shrugged.

"They would never dare murder us, Bella," she said lightly. "That would cause a sensation big enough to drive them out of business.... It would be one way of winning our case."

A busy day followed. Mme. Storey was in hourly consultation with the police. They were efficient enough as police go, but lacking in originality. I needn't put down everything we did, because in a case of this sort you have to start a hundred lines of investigation of which ninety-nine come to nothing. The chief of detectives did not find the coat from which the button had been torn; neither did he locate Raoul's little friend. Perhaps it was she who had betrayed Raoul.

During the afternoon Mr. James Wentworth Hawkins called up. He wished to know if Mme. Storey was still in Monte Carlo, and if she was available for dinner that night. The sound of his thick cruel voice over the wire made me shiver. Mme. Storey declined. Awfully sorry, she said, but she had a business engagement she couldn't get out of.

"Business in Monte Carlo!" he said with an unpleasant laugh. "That is uncommon!"

While the band was playing we sat down on the terrace for a breather, and there we had an odd experience. No handsome young man made eyes at us to-day, but one such sat down in a chair perhaps a hundred feet away, and my eyes almost popped out of my head when I saw him take a little white book with gold, green and red bands on the cover, and start reading it.

In a minute or two another young man approached him, showed him something in his hand—I had a glimpse of the red and green on white, and the first man made a somewhat lengthy communication. If we could have heard it! The second man strolled on, while the first remained sitting. Ten minutes later a third young man appeared, and the same performance was gone through with.

"The little book increases in importance," said Mme. Storey dryly. "It is their code, and it is also the badge by which they know each other!"

She had not said anything to the police about this book. "Shall you point out these men to the police?" I asked.

She shook her head. "The police will accomplish nothing. And it is up to you and I to complete a case before we strike."

When we returned to the hotel she looked at the little book thoughtfully. "It would be unlucky if they discovered that we possessed this," she said. "It is possible that they have spies in the hotel. Our rooms may be searched while we are out." She sealed it up, and posted it to herself in care of Poste Restante, Nice, where we could pick it up at any time.

6

We worked very late that night. The Commissaire de Police sent Mme. Storey a batch of reports from the various men who had been at work on the case during the day, and after studying them she had dictated suggestions for the work of the following day.

All this had been sealed up and sent off by a waiting messenger, and we were sitting in the salon of our suite, smoking, talking idly, letting ourselves relax in preparation for sleep. It was about half-past one I suppose, and a great silence had fallen on Monte Carlo, broken only by the occasional dull roar of a car on the main road at the top of the gardens. The Southern French, like their neighbours the Italians, have a great fondness for roaring through the small hours with their cut-outs open.

Suddenly there was a discreet tap on the door. We had heard no one approach.

"Who is it?" asked Mme. Storey coolly.