“WHERE am I?”
About him were bare, white-washed walls; the light came by grudgingly through a small barred window that gave on rock and shrub. He struggled to a sitting position on the pallet bed on which he lay. The place reeled round and round. He groaned, and put his hand to his head. It was bandaged. It ached atrociously. What had happened? He tried to think, but thinking was painful. Memory returned in gleams and dashes. Bit by bit the evening before came back to him. But how to account for his present position? He gave up the effort and lay down again.
A man entered, a rather grim, brown man in a kind of uniform.
“Monsieur has awakened?”
“Yes, what place is this?”
“It is the detention room of the Monaco Police Station.”
“But why am I here?”
“Monsieur was arrested only this morning.”
“Arrested! Good Heavens! Why?”
“Ah! that is not for me to say. Monsieur will be brought before the examining magistrate in an hour. Will monsieur take petit déjeuner?”
“Bring me some strong coffee. It may buck me up.”
The coffee cleared his head wonderfully and helped him to realize his position. He had been arrested last night by those two men in the dark entry. They certainly had used him roughly enough. He would make a deuce of a row about that. The whole thing was outrageous, an error or else a dastardly plot. Then he became uneasy. Anything might happen here. He was at the mercy of the powers that be. They might throw him into one of the dungeons of the Castle. Sinister forebodings invaded him.
Presently two policemen came for him, and he walked between them to a large room where three men were sitting at a curving desk. Their backs were to a double window but he was placed in the glare of the strong light.
The three men were dusky Monegascans. They wore black frock coats and black bow ties. The centre one was severe and stout, the one on the right severe and thin, the third was young, intelligent and amiable looking. It was evident they were important personages in the judiciary system of the Principality, probably the examining magistrate, the state attorney and the chief of police. The stout one addressed him curtly.
“Your name is Hugh Kildair?”
“Yes.”
“You inhabit a room on the third floor of the Villa Lorenza?”
“Yes.”
The magistrate consulted his notes. There was a silence. Hugh saw six piercing eyes fixed on his face.
“Can you account for your movements from ten o’clock until midnight yesterday evening?”
Hugh reflected that his movements during that time consisted of somewhat stertorous respirations on the sofa of Mrs. Belmire’s sitting room, and hesitated. But after all, he thought, he had no need to be reticent as far as Mrs. Belmire was concerned. He resented those damned descendants of Saracen pirates, though. What had they against him?
“I don’t understand,” he protested. “What have I been arrested for? It’s an outrage. I’ll appeal to the British consul.”
The youngest of the men interposed smoothly. “You do not seem to realize the seriousness of your position, monsieur. You will do well to answer the question.”
Hugh was impressed.
“Well,” he said, “I was with a lady, if you wish to know.”
“Kindly give us her name.”
“A Mrs. Belmire, an English lady.”
The three exchanged glances. The thin one shrugged his shoulders. The pleasant one smiled meaningly.
“She is known to us,” said the fat one. “Will you be so good as to tell us where and how you passed the entire evening.”
Hugh repressed his growing indignation. He answered sullenly enough:
“I met her at eight at the Carlton. We had dinner. At ten we took a voiture and went to her hotel. There I fell asleep on her sofa and awoke about twelve. I remained till nearly one, when I left for my room. In the dark entry of the house where I live, my way was barred by a man.... But then you know more than I do about what happened from then on.”
“Why did you attempt to draw your pistol?”
“I was nervous. In the past few weeks there have been attempts to injure me.”
The pleasant looking man nodded confirmation to this. The thin man then said:
“We had better get hold of the English lady at once. She is not the most desirable of witnesses, but ... if what monsieur says is supported, he has an undeniable alibi and we can release him.”
“Release me! Of course, you will. What have I done, tell me. What am I charged with?”
“There is no charge yet. You are arrested on suspicion only.”
“Of what?”
The three looked at each other. Then the fat one bent forward dramatically.
“Of murder.”
“Good God! Whose murder?”
The lean one fixed his piercing eyes on Hugh’s face.
“Professor Durand was murdered in his room last night, between ten and twelve.”
All three watched him closely. He was dazed by the shock. He stared at them blankly.
“Horrible!” he murmured. “The poor old man ... murdered!...”
“Yes, stabbed to the heart.”
“But who did it? Why have you arrested me?”
“Because the concierge says he saw you go up to the old man’s room a little after ten, and leave a little after eleven.”
“Me!”
“Yes. If you can prove that you were elsewhere, then the man must have been mistaken. We’ll see the English lady at once.”
But alas! a telephone call to the Pension Pizzicato informed them that Mrs. Belmire had left early that morning with Mr. Fetterstein in a high powered car. Destination unknown.
“Hum!” said the magistrate, “that makes it bad for you. We are willing to release you if you can prove an incontestable alibi. We don’t want any trouble here. But if you cannot we must hand you over to the French authorities.”
“Hold on,” said Hugh. “Fetterstein was there too, in the room.”
“You mean Monsieur Fetterstein, the multi-millionaire American?”
“Yes, the same.”
“Ah!” All three looked impressed.
“If only Monsieur Fetterstein would testify in your favour that would end the matter as far as you are concerned. He is well known to us and much esteemed.”
“But can’t you find him?”
“That might be hard. There is all France to search. Cannot your friends here hire a lawyer, get some one to help you,—a detective?...”
Hugh considered. “Perhaps Monsieur Krantz would help me.”
They looked surprised; Hugh went on:
“Will you let him know the position I’m in? If any one can find them he can.”
The chief of police nodded. “He’s already interested in the case.”
The magistrate talked with the others in the Monegascan dialect. Finally he said:
“We will see what we can do. In the meantime you must remain here. We will investigate the affair thoroughly. If you are innocent you need have no fear of the result. That is all I can say for the present.”
Hugh was conducted back to his cell, and left to his own reflections. He sat for a long time in a state verging on stupor. The professor murdered,—that was the thought that drove all others from his head, made him forget even his own plight. The professor murdered! But by whom? There were those who had reason enough to want the old man out of the way; there were those who would rejoice at his death. But assassination! No, they would surely draw the line at that. Krantz had a drastic way of dealing with criminals, but he would never stain his hands with the blood of honest men. Still, he had admitted he could not always keep his subordinates in check.
If, then, it had not been the act of an irresponsible tool of Krantz, who else had an interest in disposing of the professor? As he lay through the long day he pondered on this. How slowly the time passed! He thought sadly that all his friends had gone. MacTaggart, Gimp, Tope, he was sure they would have hurried to his aid. Margot, too! Why had she not come? She must know by now where he was. A strange longing to see her came over him. It would be more comforting to see her than any one else.
In the evening to his surprise Krantz arrived. The detective entered with a smile of cheerful mockery that was rather irritating to a man in Hugh’s position.
“Hullo,” he said, laughing as if it was quite funny, “you’ve got yourself into a nice mess.”
“Have I?”
“Looks like it, doesn’t it? Here’s your concierge swearing you were in the old man’s room at the time the murder was committed. You say that you were elsewhere, but you cannot produce your witnesses. You name two people who have left the country, gone goodness knows where. Doesn’t it strike you that if they should not come back to testify for you, you will be in a devilish awkward box?”
“Look here, Krantz, you know I didn’t do it.”
“Of course, I know it,” said Krantz smilingly.
“And you know who did do it.”
The face of Krantz grew very grave. “Hum! I’m not so sure of that.”
“But what was the motive?”
“Robbery, of course. Didn’t they tell you that the safe was opened, all the papers taken? He had better luck than I, whoever he was.”
“And the system?”
“Stolen. That’s unfortunate. I wish I knew who he was.”
“Whoever has it can’t use it,” said Hugh. “It’s in cypher, and there’s only one man who can decipher it.”
“Who’s that?”
“Me.”
“That’s interesting. Humph! I’ll remember that.”
Krantz thoughtfully tapped the floor with his cane for a full minute. Then he rose.
“I’m going to help you if I can. I’ll try to find your two witnesses so that you can establish your alibi. But if I get you clear, and should ever want your aid (in an honourable way, of course) you’ll help me?”
“Yes.”
“All right. Don’t worry. Good-night.”
The visit of Krantz cheered Hugh and he was able to get some sleep. But the next two days crawled past miserably. Except for the warders with his food no one came near him; again his fears took shape. What if Mrs. Belmire and Fetterstein could not be found! Mrs. Belmire probably hated him and might be glad to revenge herself on him by keeping out of the way. But no, he thought, she was too good a sport for that. There was Fetterstein, too. Everything must come right. The time seemed so long.
On the fourth day he was again ushered into the bureau. The stout magistrate was at his desk and beside him sat the chief of police. He smiled benignly at Hugh.
“Everything has been explained,” he said, “as far as you are concerned. You are released. You need have no further fear. We regret exceedingly we have been obliged to put you to the inconvenience.”
He bowed with a gesture of dismissal, and Hugh lost no time in leaving the room. As he emerged from the police station a voice hailed him:
“Hullo there! Sorry we didn’t know you were in such a hell of a fix or we’d have got here sooner. They connected with us at Marseilles and we came right on in the car. We’ve just been and interviewed the old guy. You bet we soon straightened things out. By the way, allow me to present you to Mrs. Fetterstein.”
Hugh stared. Fetterstein with a hearty laugh was indicating a lady who was arranging her motoring veil. It was Mrs. Belmire. She looked radiant.
“Yes, we were married in Marseilles yesterday. Oh, I’m so happy! He’s really such a nice old thing. You’ve no idea. We’re going to Italy for our honeymoon. So sorry we didn’t know you were in trouble, or we’d have simply flown to the rescue. He’s made an affidavit, or something of the kind. Well, all’s well that ends well. Now we must be getting on. Come, you precious old dear. Good-bye, Mr. Kildair. Hope we’ll all meet again.”
Hugh had no time for congratulations. They sprang into a great cheese-coloured car, and were gone, leaving him in a state of utter bewilderment.
He made his way slowly back to the house he called home. Forebodings assailed him. The concierge had gone, no doubt dreading awkward explanations. Looking up Hugh saw that the windows of the professor’s room were shuttered. So also were his own. To find his room so dark, so silent, struck a chill to his heart!
“Margot! Margot!”
No reply. He pulled aside the grey curtain. Her bed had not been slept in. He searched everywhere for a note from her. Nothing! Had she carried out her threat? Had she left him as she had said she would?
He went slowly down stairs and asked the tenant of the room below for news. The woman shook her head.
“The petite blonde? No, I know nothing of her. She disappeared the night of the crime.”