A Mysterious Disappearance

by Louis Tracy

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE HOTEL DU CERCLE

  Bruce did not go to Bournemouth.

  He quitted London by the next mail, and after a wearisome journey ofthirty-six hours, found himself in the garden courtyard of the Hotel duCercle at Monte Carlo.

  Refreshed by a bath and an excellent _dejeuner_, he decided to goquietly to work and search the visitors' book for himself without askingany questions. The Hotel du Cercle was a popular resort, and it took himsome time, largely devoted to the elucidation of hieroglyphicsignatures, before he was quite satisfied that no one even remotelysuggestive of the name of Sydney H. Corbett had recorded his presence inthe hotel since the first week in November.

  The barrister, for the first time, began to doubt Mrs. Hillmer. Twicehad her statements not been verified by facts. It was with an expressionof keen annoyance at his own folly in trusting so much to a favorableimpression that he turned to the hotel clerk to ask if the name of Mr.Sydney H. Corbett was familiar to him.

  The courteous Frenchman screwed up his forehead into a reflective frownbefore he answered: "But yes, monsieur. Me, I have not seen thegentleman, but he exists. There have been letters--two, three letters."

  "Ah, letters! Has he received them?"

  The attendant examined a green baize-covered board, decorated withdiamonds of tape, in which was stuck an assortment of letters, mostlyaddressed to American tourists.

  "They were here! They have gone! Then he has taken them!"

  "Yes," cried Bruce; "but surely you know something about him?"

  "Nothing. This hall is open to all the world."

  "Do you tell me that any one can come here and take any letters whichmay be stuck in that rack?"

  "Will the gentleman be pleased to consider? Many persons give theiraddress here days and weeks before they come to arrive. Some persons, inthe manner of Monte Carlo, do not wish their names to be known ofeverybody. We cannot distinguish. We do not allow the address of thehotel to be used improperly, if we know it; but there are nocomplaints."

  The barrister did not argue the matter further. He only said: "Perhapsyou can tell me thus far, as I am very anxious to meet Mr. Corbett.About how long is it since the last letter came for him?"

  "But certainly. It came yesterday. It was re-addressed from some placein London. If possible, with the next one I will keep watch for Mr.Corbett."

  So Mrs. Hillmer had not misled him. The so-called Corbett was in MonteCarlo, but had possibly disguised himself under another name. Again didBruce consult the hotel register, this time with the aid of the vendors'list in the Springbok Mine, but without result.

  There was nothing for it but to familiarize himself with Monte Carlo andits _habitues_, awaiting developments in the chase of Corbett. InJanuary, when London alternates between fog and sleet, it is not anintolerable thing to remain in forced idleness amid the sunshine andflowers of the Riviera. There are two ways of "doing" Monte Carlo. Youmay live riotously, lose your substance at the Casino, and go home on afree ticket supplied by the proprietors of the gambling saloons, or youmay enjoy to the utmost the keen air, magnificent scenery, finepromenades, and excellent music--the two latter provided by the samebenevolent agency.

  It is needless to say which of these alternatives appealed to ClaudeBruce. Being a rich man, it was of no consequence to him to lose a fewlouis in backing the red for a five minutes' bit of excitement. Being asensible one, he then quitted the Casino and went for a stroll in thegardens.

  Fashion, backed by the doctors, has decreed that no longer shallthe northern littoral of the Mediterranean be the only haven ofrest for those afflicted with pulmonary complaints. Weak-chested andconsumptive people are now banished to the windless and icy altitudesof Switzerland; so of recent years a walk through Nice, Mentone, orMonte Carlo itself is not such a depressing experience as it was whenevery second person encountered was a hopeless invalid.

  A pigeon-shooting match was in progress, and, as Bruce fell in with afriend who took a prominent part in local life, the two entered the clubgrounds to watch the contest.

  At the moment a handsome, well-set-up young Englishman was shooting offa tie with a Russian count. A very pretty girl, with a delicate andrefined beauty enhanced by a pleasant expression, was taking a mostunfeminine interest in the slaughter of the pigeons by the Englishman.

  Her eyes spoke her thoughts. It was as if they said: "I do not want thebirds to be killed, but I want a certain person to win."

  Nine birds each had been grassed, and the Russian was growing impatient.The Englishman was cool, his fair backer keenly excited. The Count firedand missed his tenth. Up rose the Englishman's bird, and the girl couldnot restrain an impetuous "Now!"

  So the Englishman missed also.

  Amidst the buzz of comment which arose, Bruce said to his companion:"What's going on?"

  "This is the final tie in the International. It is a big prize, and eachman has backed himself heavily. The two are Albert Mensmore and CountBischkoff. The girl has taken all the nerve out of Mensmore. Baraccident, he is a goner."

  The cynic was right. In the thirteenth round the count alone scored, andsmiled largely in response to his antagonist's quiet congratulations. Asfor the girl, it was with difficulty she restrained her tears.

  "I think that we have witnessed a tragedy," said Bruce's acquaintance asthey walked off; and the barrister agreed with him. He was sorry forMensmore and his pretty supporter. Mayhap the loss of the match meant agreat deal to both of them.

  That night he learned by chance that Mensmore lived at the Hotel duCercle. He met him in the billiard-room and tried to inveigle him intoconversation. But the young fellow was too miserable to respond to hisadvances. Beyond a mere civil acknowledgement of some slight act ofpoliteness, Bruce could not draw him out.

  Next morning he saw Mensmore again. If the man looked haggard theprevious evening his appearance now was positively startling, that is,to one of Bruce's powers of observation. Ninety-nine men out of ahundred would have seen that Mensmore had not slept well. Bruce wasassured that, for some reason, the other's brain was dominated by someoverwhelming idea, and one which might eventuate in a tragic manner wereit to be allowed to go unchecked.

  For some reason he took a good deal of interest in his unfortunatefellow-countryman, and determined to help him if the opportunitypresented itself.

  It came, with dramatic rapidity.

  During dinner he noticed that Mensmore was in such a state of mentaldisturbance that he ate and drank with the air of one who is feverishlywasting rather than replenishing his strength.

  Soon after eight o'clock, at the hour when frequenters of the Casino gothere in order to secure a seat for the evening's play, Mensmore quittedthe dining-room. Bruce followed him unobstrusively, and was just in timeto see him enter the lift.

  The barrister waited in the hall, having first secured his hat andovercoat from the bureau, where he happened to have left them.

  Even while he noted the descending lift, in which he could see Mensmore,who had donned a light covert coat, the breast of which bulged somewhaton the left side, the hotel clerk came to him, triumphantly holding aletter.

  "And now, monsieur," cried the clerk, "we shall see what we shall see."

  The missive was addressed to the mysterious Sydney H. Corbett, and hadbeen forwarded by the Sloane Square Post-Office.

  With a clang the door of the lift swung open and Mensmore hastened out.Bruce had to decide instantly between the chance of seeing Corbett withhis own eyes and pursuing the fanciful errand he had mapped out inimagination with reference to the stranger who so interested him.

  "Thank you," he said to the clerk. "I am going to the Casino for anhour; you will greatly oblige me by keeping a sharp lookout for any onewho claims the letter."

  "Monsieur, it shall have my utmost regard."

  The barrister had not erred in his surmise as to Mensmore's destination.The young man walked straight across the square and entered the groundsof the famous Casino.


  Indoors, an excellent band was playing a selection from "The Geisha."The spacious _foyer_ was fast filling with a fashionable throng;without, the silver radiance of the moon, lighting up gardens, rocks,buildings, and sea, might well have added the last link to the pleasantbondage that would keep any one from the gambling saloon that night; butMensmore heeded none of these things.

  He passed the barrier, closely followed by Bruce, crossed the _foyer_,and disappeared through the baize doors that guard the magnificent roomin which roulette is played.

  Round several of the tables a fairly considerable crowd had gatheredalready. The more, the merrier, is the rule of the Casino. There issomething curiously fascinating for the gambler in the presence ofothers. It would seem to be an almost ridiculous thing for a man tostalk solemnly up to a deserted board and stake his money on the chancesof the game merely for the edification of the officials in charge.

  Bruce entered the room soon after Mensmore, and saw the latter elbowinghis way to a seat about to be vacated by a stout Spanish lady, who hadrapidly lost the sum she allowed herself to stake each day.

  She was one of those numerous players who bring to the Casino a certainamount daily, and systematically stop playing when they have either losttheir money or won a previously determined maximum.

  This method, in fact, when combined with a careful system, is the onlyone whereby even a rich individual can indulge in a costly pastime, and,at the same time, escape speedy ruin. With a fair share of luck it maybe made to pay; with continuous bad fortune the loss is spread over sucha period that common sense has some opportunity to rescue the victimbefore it is too late.

  Claude took up a position from which he could note the actions of thestranger in whom he was so interested. At first, Mensmore stakednothing. He placed a small pile of gold in front of him; he seemed tolisten expectantly to the _croupier's_ monotonous cry--"_Vingt-sept_,_rouge_, _impair_, _passe_," or "_Dixhuit_, _noir_, _pair_, _manque_,"and so on, while the little ivory ball whirred around the disc, and thelong rakes, with unerring skill, drew in or pushed forward the sums lostor won.

  The dominant expression of Mensmore's face as he sat and listened wasone of disappointment. Something for which he waited did not happen. Atlast, with a tightening of his lips and a gathering sternness in hiseyes, he placed five louis on the red, the number previously calledbeing thirteen.

  Black won.

  For the next three attempts, each time with a five louis stake on theboard, Mensmore backed the red, but still black won.

  Next to him, an Italian, betting in notes of a thousand francs each,had quadrupled his first bet by backing the black.

  Both men rose simultaneously, the Italian grinning delightedly at asmart Parisienne, who joyously nodded her congratulations, theEnglishman quiet, utterly unmoved, but slightly pallid.

  He passed out into the _foyer_ and stopped to light a cigarette. Brucenoticed that his hand was steady, and that all the air of excitement hadgone.

  These were ill signs. There is no man so calm as he who has deliberatelyresolved to take his own life. That Mensmore was ruined, that he washopelessly in love with a woman whom he could not marry, and that he wasabout to commit suicide, Bruce was as certain as though the facts hadbeen proved by a coroner.

  But this thing should not happen if he could prevent it.

  The band was now playing one of Waldteufel's waltzes. Mensmore listenedto the fascinating melody for a moment. He hesitated at the door of thewriting-room; but he went out, puffing furiously at his cigarette. Aguard looked at him as he turned to the right of the entrance, and madefor the shaded terraces overlooking the sea.

  "A silent Englishman," thought the man; and he caught sight of Bruce,also smoking, preoccupied, and solitary.

  "Another silent Englishman. _Mon Dieu!_ What miserable lives theseEnglish lead!"

  And so the two vanished into the blackness of the foliage, while, withinthe brilliantly lighted building, the _frou-frou_ of silk mingled withsoft laughter and the sweet strains of music.

  If it be true that extremes meet, then this was a night for a tragedy.