The sergeant’s attitude was noncommittal.
“You had better see the commissaire, Mademoiselle,” he suggested. “To tell you the truth, I think that he has had enough of the Hôtel du Soleil. We know the place from cellar to attic and we have never found any one there who had in the least the appearance of a criminal.”
Jeannine was very pale but she kept her voice steady.
“I will see your commissaire,” she said. “Wait for one moment first. I must telephone.”
She made her way into the room behind. Mechanically she asked for the Hôtel de Paris and mechanically she asked for Lord Dalmorres. He answered her sleepily, but when he heard the sob in her voice he was wide awake in a moment and he interrupted without hesitation her stream of incoherent words.
“I will meet you at the gendarmerie in ten minutes,” he promised.
At the gendarmerie the commissaire was unexpectedly difficult.
“It is not a credible story which this poor old lady tells,” he pointed out. “My belief is that she has been knocked down and that her mind is wandering. In any case, what can I do? I have one gendarme at my disposal and my sergeant here, who must remain to look after the office.”
“Supposing,” Lord Dalmorres asked, “you were convinced that there was a band of desperate criminals whom it was your duty to arrest up at the Hôtel du Soleil, what would you, under those circumstances do?”
“I should apply for aid to the Gendarmerie at Monaco,” was the prompt reply.
Dalmorres led the way back to the car. At the gendarmerie in the Principality they had again a difficult task before them. They were received at first with the utmost coldness. Dalmorres swept all that on one side.
“I beg you to listen to me, Monsieur le Commissaire,” he said. “I am Lord Dalmorres and I am the best known of all the English judges. I have been Lord Chancellor of Great Britain and am even now a member of the Privy Council. I know more about criminals and criminal life than any one in these parts. Treat me, I beg of you, with consideration.”
The commissaire rose from his seat and placed chairs himself for his visitors.
“Milord Dalmorres,” he said respectfully, “your name is very well known. My staff and my services are at your disposal. I will only add—if you will permit me—one little word.”
“By all means go ahead,” Dalmorres assented. “The only thing is, please remember that they may be doing a man to death while we hang about here.”
There was a twitch of his lips which suggested that the commissaire would have smiled if he had dared. His respect for his visitor, however, kept him grave.
“Milord Dalmorres,” he said, “this is all I will say. Our Principality has been cursed this season by a series of abominable crimes. I admit that we have been unable to discover their source, but at the same time I complain most bitterly that we have been impeded in our task by the well-meant but blundering efforts of certain amateurs. The young gentleman whose name you have mentioned is one of them. Three times this season on information received from him and other perfectly well-meaning people, the Hôtel du Soleil has been searched from floor to attic. On no occasion has a single suspicious circumstance been reported. The hotel is kept by a respectable Frenchman who has been mayor of his village and who is naturally indignant at our continual visits. What he will say to this last one I cannot imagine, but in the face of your request, Lord Dalmorres, nothing else counts. I will bring six gendarmes with me fully armed, and we will proceed at once, or rather I am afraid it must be in half an hour’s time, to the hotel. I must request, however, that you are also there, because I tell you frankly that the blame for this last raid upon Monsieur Viotti’s premises I shall place entirely upon your shoulders.”
“I will accept the whole responsibility,” Dalmorres declared. “Please do not let us detain you another minute. All that we want to do is to start.”
“One moment, please,” Jeannine interposed. “There is something we have forgotten to ask. Had you arranged here or at the other establishment to send gendarmes up to the Hôtel du Soleil last night with Major Thornton, the Englishman?”
“We certainly had not,” was the curt reply, “and if Major Thornton had applied for such assistance, we should not have dreamed of according it. We have not, if you will permit my saying so, a great opinion of Major Thornton. His position has been misrepresented to us. We have discovered that he has no connection whatever with the English Foreign Office or with Scotland Yard.”
“God bless my soul!” Dalmorres groaned.
Jeannine had turned deathly pale. She would have collapsed but her companion placed his arm around her waist.
“For the love of God, hurry!” she begged.
CHAPTER XXIII
There was certainly nothing sinister or forbidding about the exterior of the Hôtel du Soleil when the three cars full of visitors drew up outside its doors at about half-past eleven that morning. The gendarmes, according to orders given on the way up, posted themselves at different points, with instructions to stop any one leaving the hotel. Lord Dalmorres, with Jeannine and the commissaire, stepped inside the bar, which presented an unusually hospitable appearance. Sam, very spruce in a clean white coat, was busy serving cocktails to two chance callers whose car was outside. One of the two golfers who had been there on the previous Sunday was taking an apéritif in the corner. The fisherman was dividing his attention between a mixed vermouth and the adjusting of a reel. Jeannine went straight to the counter.
“Have you seen Mr. Sloane yesterday or to-day, Sam?” she asked.
“Why, no, Miss,” he answered. “Mr. Sloane hasn’t been up here that I know of, since you was with him. We’ve been pretty busy but I should have noticed an old client, I’m sure.”
“Do you happen to know a Major Thornton?” Jeannine asked.
The man shook his head.
“Never heard of the gentleman,” he replied. “Can I fix you a nice Martini, Miss?” he enquired.
They all three made a pretence of drinking their cocktails. Afterwards they followed the maître d’hôtel, who had appeared with the luncheon menu into the restaurant. The place was half filled and Monsieur Pierre Viotti was walking around amongst his clients. He straightened himself as he recognised his three visitors, and for a single moment he flinched. The gesture, however, was scarcely noticeable. He came forward with a strained but welcoming smile.
“Mademoiselle Jeannine,” he said, holding out his chubby hand, “a pleasure to see you. Monsieur Bérard, you come far too seldom. A table for three it is that you wish? I will see my maître d’hôtel. He will doubtless arrange something special for you.”
“One moment, Monsieur Viotti,” the commissaire begged. “Let me first present you to Lord Dalmorres, a very famous Englishman.”
“Enchanté, Monsieur,” Viotti murmured. “You are very kind that you honour my little hotel.”
The commissaire groaned but took the plunge. They had drifted into a corner of the restaurant and were some distance from the general company.
“Monsieur Viotti, we are here at the request of this gentleman, to search your hotel.”
“To search it! What for?” Monsieur Viotti demanded.
“Certain criminals,” the commissaire replied, “and a young man in pursuit of them who has disappeared.”
Monsieur