“Eh, bien!“ he exclaimed, bending over her. “It is not so bad then. Madame feels better?”
The old woman opened her eyes but she was powerless to speak. Jean Laurent scratched his head. He was a strong man and a willing worker, but he knew nothing about looking after an elderly lady on the point of collapse. He suddenly thought of the flask of red wine, together with his lunch, which occupied the spare seat. He uncorked it, poured a little into a mug and forced some between her teeth. It might have killed but, as a matter of fact, it revived her. She opened her eyes.
“Jeannine,” was the name she murmured. “Mademoiselle Jeannine.”
“Is that your daughter or some one?” he asked. “We’ll find her down in Monte Carlo perhaps.”
The woman had closed her eyes as though the effort had been too much for her. Jean Laurent started up his engine and, with one arm propping up his passenger, he drove skilfully but wheezily down into Monte Carlo. Arrived there he pulled up outside the gendarmerie.
“This is what has arrived,” he announced. “I have picked up an old lady in the middle of the road. Just about a hundred yards outside my gate she was. What am I to do with her?”
The sergeant looked at him keenly.
“Picked her up, eh?”
“That is what I said. She was lying in the middle of the road.”
“You’re sure you did not knock her down?”
Jean was strikingly eloquent for several minutes. The sergeant followed him out into the street. The old lady was beginning to groan again but she was showing more signs of vitality.
“What is the matter, Madame?” the sergeant asked. “Did this man knock you down?”
“Nobody knocked me down,” she replied faintly. “I could go no farther and I fell.”
“Where did you come from?”
“From the Hôtel du Soleil,” she faltered. “Mademoiselle Jeannine, they have killed him.”
“Killed who?”
“My husband.”
“This,” the sergeant remarked, “appears to be a case. Do you know who she is?”
“I had no idea,” Jean Laurent answered, “until she mentioned the Hôtel du Soleil. There was an old couple always hanging about the place, the woman singing and the man playing the guitar. I believe this is the woman. Can I leave her here?” he asked. “I have the finest artichokes in the world, but they will be wasted unless I can get them into Nice market by half-past six. My name is Jean Laurent and I live at the Villa Laurent.”
The sergeant copied down the name.
“Help me in with her,” he assented, “and you can go.”
They established her in a small room behind the bureau. The sergeant’s wife made coffee for her and life came flickering back. She made a determined attempt to tell her story.
“They have killed my husband,” she began. “They shot him while he was trying to warn the young American gentleman to go away.”
“Who are they?”
“The Wolves of Monsieur Viotti.”
The sergeant stretched out his hand for the telephone book. Without a doubt, this was a case for the mental hospital.
“They mean to kill Mr. Roger Sloane, a rich young American gentleman,” she went on. “They have him up there at the Hôtel du Soleil. I can—I am the only one who can—save him. I want Mademoiselle Jeannine.”
The sergeant laid down the book and rang up for the commissaire instead. The name of Roger Sloane was very well known and there had been a good deal of talk about the Hôtel du Soleil lately.
“Madame would do well to rest for a few minutes,” he said, as he replaced the receiver on the hook. “Monsieur le Commissaire is coming, and he will attend to what Madame has to say.”
Madame dozed peacefully for some twenty minutes, then she drank more coffee, and by the time the commissaire arrived, out of breath and temper, she was almost coherent.
“What is this I hear?” he demanded. “A woman picked up in the road who says that some one has killed her husband.”
“They killed my husband before my eyes a few hours ago,” the woman moaned. “But it is of the living I speak now. It is a very kind gentleman, Mr. Roger Sloane—”
“We know him,” the commissaire replied. “Go on.”
“He is at the Hôtel du Soleil. They have him a prisoner there. They will kill him. You must send gendarmes at once.”
“Name of God!” the commissaire exclaimed indignantly, “I’ve already sent gendarmes three times to that hotel. It is some fools’ game they are playing. The place has been searched from floor to ceiling. It is owned and kept by a most respectable man who was mayor of his village. The next person who comes to me with crazy stories of the Hôtel du Soleil will go to prison for it.”
The woman was stupefied at his outburst. She could do nothing but rock her head and moisten her dry lips.
“You talk too loudly,” she complained. “My head is going round. If you will not help, I must find Mademoiselle Jeannine. We must get there before they kill him.”
The sergeant plucked his superior by the sleeve and led him away. They whispered together for several moments. Then the commissaire returned.
“We can help you to find Mademoiselle Jeannine,” he confided. “She is the fiancée of the Mr. Roger Sloane you spoke of. You had better go to her with your story.”
“I am the only one who can save him,” the woman moaned, “and I am so far away. Take me please, then, to Mademoiselle Jeannine.”
They put her into a police automobile and they motored up to Madame Vinay’s. Madame Vinay came downstairs, a little cross at being disturbed so early in the morning, but alive with interest as soon as she saw the police car and the gendarme in uniform.
“It is for Mademoiselle Jeannine,” the latter announced. “We understand that she lives with you.”
“Until last night,” Madame Vinay announced. “Last night she moved to the villa of the aunt of the young gentleman she is going to marry—the Lady Julia Harborough at Cap Martin. There is no trouble, I hope?”
The sergeant merely saluted and they drove off. In twenty minutes they were on the terrace of the villa at Cap Martin and five minutes later Mademoiselle Jeannine appeared fully dressed.
“Tell me what is the matter, Sergeant,” she implored. “Is it of Mr. Sloane you bring news?”
“It is this old lady who has brought the news, Mademoiselle,” the man replied. “She was picked up in the road at Beausoleil this morning, trying to reach Monte Carlo and find you. She is telling some queer story of her husband having been murdered up there this morning.”
“I will tell my story,” the woman interrupted. “Mademoiselle, you came with the young American gentleman to the bar at the Hôtel du Soleil. We sang to you Neapolitan songs and my husband played the guitar.”
“Of course I remember,” Jeannine assented. “Tell me the news you bring, I beg of you. I am very anxious.”
“Mademoiselle, they have him, that dear young gentleman, in that evil place! I know nothing else and my head is going around. They have killed