The concierge moved towards the stationary automobile and addressed the driver. The latter made no reply. He did not even turn his head. The concierge repeated his question. Suddenly a man, who came round the side of the hotel as though he had issued from the back quarters, also muffled up and wearing a long motor coat, pushed him rudely to one side and sprang in. His companion at the wheel leaned forward. The automobile gave a convulsive jump into the air and went off, leaping and bounding, up the drive, swung into the main road and disappeared in a cloud of dust.
“Of all the filthy-looking rig-outs I ever saw in my life,” Sir Julian remarked in disgust, “I should think that one takes the cake.”
“Twelve cylinders,” the Prince observed. “A big bore, too. You would think she had been built for racing in a mountainous country. She looks as though she had just come a few thousand miles, too, and those registration figures are indecipherable. Who on earth does she belong to?”
“I have no idea, sir,” the angry concierge replied. “The man who got in must have come from the back quarters somewhere. I ask myself what queer game they can have been playing round here.”
The sun was disappearing in a vaporous cloud over towards Nice. There was a sudden chill in the breeze.
“This is the most dangerous hour of the day,” the Prince grumbled. “I think we ought to be getting along.”
Domiloff suddenly issued from the restaurant and, hurrying past the two women, joined the little group at the entrance to the hotel.
“Where is your friend Sagastrada?” he asked quickly.
“Can’t imagine,” Townleyes replied. “He’s been gone nearly ten minutes.”
Domiloff, who never seemed to be in a hurry, was already in the small square hall of the hotel.
“What number?” he demanded.
“Twenty-nine,” the man replied. “Shall I tell Monsieur you are waiting, sir?”
“I will go myself,” Domiloff answered.
He climbed the stairs swiftly, but without apparent exertion, to the first floor. On the second, his feet scarcely touched the thick, velvety carpet. The third étage was like a deserted wilderness. The air of pleasant mystery at which they had laughed an hour or so ago had gone. Number twenty-nine . . . There it was at the end of the passage. The door stood wide open. As he reached the threshold there was sufficient light for him to see everything clearly, even down to the small horrible details. A tall, bulky man, clad in shirt and trousers only, was lying face downwards upon the floor, a knife protruding from the centre of his back, a knife which had been driven right through to his chest with prodigious power. There was very little blood and the features of the man were hidden, but the long fingers were still gripping at the rug, in the thick folds of which they were almost hidden. Standing looking down at him with a ghastly look of horror upon his face was Rudolph Sagastrada.
“Rothmann?” Domiloff demanded, pointing downwards.
“Paul Rothmann,” Sagastrada answered, speaking like a man in a trance. “Stabbed from behind—brutally murdered.”
CHAPTER VIII
Table of Contents
THE Commissaire of Police of Beaulieu was young in years and had only recently been appointed to his post. He had never seen a murdered man, looked upon a Prince, or examined a millionaire bearing a name famous throughout Europe. The situation was a little beyond him. He sat at the desk in the disarranged salon. The Prince and Sagastrada occupied a divan. Townleyes was seated in an armchair. Domiloff lounged in the background. Across the centre of the room was still stretched the body of Paul Rothmann, pinned to the ground by that terrific thrust. His hair was wild and dishevelled. Death had laid its icy touch upon the ghastly distorted features. The blood had congealed round the shaft of the knife, but the weapon remained in its original position—upright and sinister.
“It seems to me,” Domiloff suggested, “that there is no reason for detaining our young friend Rudolph Sagastrada any longer, Monsieur le Commissaire. He has told you all that he knows of the affair and you have our evidence when you require it that he lunched with us in the restaurant, leaving his friend writing letters here in his apartment.”
The Commissaire waved his hand.
“Yes, yes, yes!” he exclaimed, “but my senior officer is on his way from Nice. He also wishes to examine Monsieur Sagastrada.”
“Monsieur Sagastrada is not going into hiding,” Domiloff replied. “He is going to Monaco. I suggest that you have the body removed at once to the gendarmerie here, and if your senior officer from Nice wishes to interrogate further our friend, he can come to Monaco.”
“The situation presents difficulties,” the official at the table pointed out.
Domiloff touched Sagastrada on the shoulder.
“I think,” he said, “that we had better take our leave. What do you say, Prince?”
“Indeed, yes,” the latter declared, rising promptly to his feet. “I am beginning to hate the sight of this room. There is nothing further we can tell the authorities.”
“But Monsieur le Baron,” the Commissaire protested, “you do not entirely understand. The Police Commissaire who is on his way from Nice holds a high position. He is a person of great importance. He comes himself, as he told me on the telephone, to question the companion of the murdered man.”
“Then he can follow us to Monaco,” Domiloff repeated, his fingers already upon the handle of the door. “If he takes my advice he will devote his efforts to organizing a pursuit of the two men whose description we have given you, one of whom was without a doubt the murderer. Come along, Sagastrada.”
Domiloff opened the door. The Commissaire sprang to his feet. He summoned up all his courage.
“Halte là!” he exclaimed.
Domiloff turned his head. There was a shadow of surprise on his face. His eyebrows were slightly raised.
“Is it not that you forget yourself, Monsieur?” he asked coolly.
“I have to obey instructions,” the Commissaire pleaded. “They are to detain Monsieur Sagastrada until the arrival of le Général Roussillon. It can be only a matter of a few minutes, Monsieur le Baron.”
“Ah, so it is Roussillon who comes!” Domiloff exclaimed. “One knows something of Monsieur le Général. Sagastrada, I have offered you the protection of our small Principality and I beg you to accompany me there forthwith. Descend, Monsieur le Prince. Come with me, Sagastrada.”
Townleyes moved forward from the shadows; his face was as usual expressionless, but there were the beginnings of a frown upon his forehead.
“One moment, Baron,” he intervened. “You permit that I say a word? Remember that it was I who introduced Sagastrada.”
“Speak, by all means,” Domiloff assented.
“What I have to say is simply this,” Townleyes continued. “I recommend strongly that our young friend here wait for the coming of General Roussillon.”
“And why?” Domiloff demanded.
“It is contrary,” Townleyes went on, “to all precedent that Rudolph Sagastrada, who was the last person to see Rothmann alive, should not remain to be questioned by Roussillon. The delay is so slight—and Roussillon is a man of great importance. He is the head of all the police not only in Nice but in this district. He will think it strange indeed if he finds Rothmann’s companion has hurried away rather than face a few simple questions which the circumstances demand.”
“Does it matter?” Domiloff asked coldly.
“I consider it of great importance,” Townleyes insisted. “We may know that Rudolph Sagastrada and Rothmann were great friends. The world knows nothing of that. Roussillon will not be satisfied without questioning the man who found the dead body.”
The Commissaire rubbed his hands together.
“The Englishman whose name I do not know,” he declared, “is speaking sense. His words are the words of truth.”
“Nevertheless—” Domiloff began.
The Commissaire interrupted brusquely.
“Sergeant!” he called
out to the gendarme who was standing on guard at the door. “These gentlemen are not permitted to leave.”
The Prince, who had been chafing in the background, suddenly lost his temper.
“Get back to your place, Monsieur le Commissaire,” he ordered. “You are aware of my official position. If your men touch my companions or myself it will be the end of their career and yours—that I promise you—I, Léon de Hochepierre de Martelle.”
The Commissaire was torn with indecision. The Prince’s authority was genuine enough but he knew very well that this was no ordinary murder. The man whom he dreaded more than any other was even now rushing over from Nice. How he prayed that he might hear the arrival of the car! There was a great issue here without a doubt.
“I beg of you, Monsieur le Baron,” he pleaded. “If I do not carry out my orders I am finished.”
“There is nothing more certain in this world,” Domiloff replied sternly, “than this: If you interfere with my companions or myself you are worse than finished. You can make your peace with your superior officer. The Prince is in a position to protect you so long as you do nothing foolish in this matter. . . . Gendarme,” Baron Domiloff went on, “you must allow us to pass. It is the Prince who commands you.”
The man glanced helplessly at the Commissaire. The latter was listening feverishly for the sound of a motor horn. Domiloff led the way down the stairs.
“Is there really any particular hurry?” Townleyes asked.
For answer, Domiloff gripped his companion by the arm, pushed him across the threshold and into the car.
“Prince,” he said, “you say you can do a hundred an hour. Get through those gates and turn towards Monaco. I shall watch the needle. You understand Roussillon is already suspect. He might give Sagastrada up where others would refuse.”
Even as they turned into the main road, Domiloff, looking behind, saw a huge grey police automobile swing around by the Bristol. He smiled.
“It would be advisable,” he added, “that you make that hundred—one hundred and twenty. There may be a devil of a row about this, Sagastrada, but if we once get you into the Principality I’m damned if we are going to let these fellows get hold of you.”
The hundred kilometres an hour promised by the Prince was no fable. In rather less than fifteen minutes the long silver-grey car, which hugged the road so closely, came to a graceful stop at the side entrance of the Sporting Club. Domiloff looked up and down, then passed his arm through Sagastrada’s and hurried him through into the building. They took a lift up and a lift down, passed along a corridor where workpeople were still laying carpets and arranging electric lighting, and then to a suite of rooms which neither the Prince nor Townleyes had visited before.
The Baron’s private secretary, Nicholas Tashoff, a tall young man wearing heavy glasses, came hurriedly forward. The Baron drew him on one side and gave him some whispered instructions. Then he turned to the others.
“I have a few words to say to our young friend here,” he told them. “Prince, you will probably like to discover that Lucille has returned safely. Sir Julian, it is you who introduced Sagastrada to us. If you wish to remain and hear what I have to say, pray do. That is entirely for you to decide.”
Townleyes understood but ignored the innuendo.
“You pique my curiosity,” he said quietly. “I will remain.”
For a single second, Domiloff, who so seldom betrayed himself, gave some slight evidence of annoyance. He shrugged his shoulders, however, and turned to the Prince.
“In that case, De Hochepierre, you had better remain, also. Let me ask you a question, Sagastrada. Supposing you had stayed with your friend Rothmann and taken lunch in your salon, as we understand you were on the point of doing, do you believe that you would have shared his fate?”
“I imagine so,” Sagastrada admitted. “The only thing is, I should probably have killed one of the men, as I carry a revolver. Rothmann hated firearms and would never touch them. He was a man of peace. His murder was nothing but an act of butchery.”
“There would have been no discrimination between you two?” Domiloff continued.
“I should think not.”
“Then you may congratulate yourself upon the fact,” Domiloff went on, “that if you take ordinary precautions you are probably safe for a day or two.”
“Why safer here than elsewhere?” Townleyes asked curiously.
“On French soil,” Domiloff replied, “Sagastrada might have been handed over to the authorities of his country on a trumped-up charge. Roussillon is for the moment all-powerful, and he is a man of violent prejudices. The whole thing would have been done quickly and almost secretly. Here that cannot happen. We could neither hand over a political refugee nor one accused of any sort of crime not yet substantiated.”
“But Monaco is under French jurisdiction,” Townleyes objected.
The Baron smiled.
“Sometime within a few hours or days,” he confided, “a new charter will be signed in Paris. Monaco is no longer in its former anomalous position. It will consist of a Republic governed by seven members of the old House of Assembly and two others. It will have a new charter—I hope a new lease of life.”
“God bless my soul!” Townleyes muttered. “You’ve kept all this very quiet.”
“There were excellent reasons why we should do so,” Domiloff assured him. “The reigning House, of their own free will, exist no longer. The Palace, which the State has refused to purchase at their present price, remains the personal property of the Grimaldis. The whole affair,” Domiloff went on, throwing himself into an easy chair, tapping a cigarette upon an ashtray and lighting it, “is a triangular bargain between the Monégasque Assembly, the Société des Bains de Mer, and the representative of the House of Grimaldi.”
“When is the public announcement to be made?” Townleyes enquired.
“At our discretion,” Domiloff replied. “There will be a public holiday proclaimed, a manifesto issued, and a new flag flown.”
“And who is the head of the State?” Townleyes asked.
“Regnier and myself,” the Baron answered. “Regnier is in control of the municipal side and the public works. I have everything to look after which was formerly managed by the Société—also the finances of the State, and, so far as it can be considered to have any, its politics. In this respect I may be considered the liaison officer between the State of Monaco and the French Government.”
“I begin,” Townleyes reflected, “to understand the position.”
“A person with your brains could scarcely fail to do so,” Domiloff replied with faint sarcasm. “Our standing army, of course, is small. Our gendarmerie force is barely equal to present demands. On the other hand, every able-bodied member of the new State is, to use an English word, a fully appointed ‘special constable,’ having permission, when engaged on State affairs, to carry arms. The protection we can offer you, Sagastrada, may not be a great thing, and we may have to withdraw it at any moment, but we have now a distinct voice in our relations with foreign powers, and that is an important consideration.”
“It sounds like a fairy tale,” Sagastrada murmured.
“There are elements of the fantastic in the birth of this new State, of course,” Domiloff admitted, watching the curling upwards of the smoke from his cigarette.
“What I should like to know,” demanded the Prince, who was in a frivolous frame of mind, “is when will the ‘beano’ take place? When is the day of announcement? When is the new flag unfurled? When do we all go ‘wonky’?”
“As soon as the formalities are completed,” Domiloff told him. “I may tell you this, however, that officially the State of Monaco, under the new régime, may be said to exist at the present moment. People have been asking for many months what we are going to do with this wing of the Sporting Club, and wondering why workpeople have been engaged here night and day. Very soon the truth will be known. The new House of Assembly is here. The room in which we are seated at pre
sent is part of the new bureau. My own apartments open out from here, and various committee rooms beyond are where the real business of government will be carried on.”
“I heard rumours of a change,” Townleyes acknowledged, “but never of anything so sweeping as this.”
“The secret has been well kept,” the Baron agreed. “It was not my intention to have divulged it at this particular moment. Fate, however, has forced our hand. The murder of Rothmann at Beaulieu had its own significance. I, on behalf of the State, shall make myself responsible, for a time at any rate, so far as is humanly possible, for Sagastrada’s safety.”
The Prince glanced at his watch.
“Six o’clock!” he exclaimed. “Baron, you will excuse?”
“I myself have affairs,” Domiloff said. “But, my friends, the few words I have spoken are for yourselves alone. There will be gossip almost at once. An announcement is imminent. Until Regnier returns from Paris, however, it is important that there should be no anticipation.”
There was a little murmur of assent from the three men; Domiloff touched a bell and rose to his feet.
“One moment, Sagastrada,” he begged.
The young man lingered behind. The secretary put in his appearance. Briefly the Baron presented him.
“Nicholas,” he said, “kindly take Mr. Sagastrada to the Strangers’ Suite. It is ready, I believe, for occupation.”
“Quite, sir,” the secretary replied.
“Mr. Sagastrada is my guest in this part of the building for a few days,” Domiloff went on. “Afterwards he will make his own arrangements with Monsieur Mollinet. That is understood?”
“Perfectly, Baron.”
“Take him now and show him his apartment,” Domiloff directed, waving the two young men away. “We will meet again presently, Sagastrada.”
“You are being very kind to me, sir,” the fugitive said gratefully.
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