“But Terence Brown,” Roger said half to himself. “Why, he was more to blame than any one. He said that he had known you in London.”
“He would,” Thornton replied. “You’ll see him in a minute or two. Come this way.”
Roger rose to his feet and followed his guide, who was walking sideways and who handled his gun as though he had grown up with it. The door of the room led straight into a much larger apartment, which had very much the appearance of a West End club smoking room, except that the ceiling was very low. It was absolutely windowless and the only ventilation appeared to come from the electric fans. Paul Viotti was seated at the head of a long table with a book bound like a ledger in front of him. By his side, a fresh carnation in his buttonhole and wearing a morning suit of wonderfully cut tweeds, was Terence Brown. Lounging in another chair was Savonarilda. Terence Brown, who was smoking a long cigar, turned his head at Roger’s entrance.
“My God!” Roger exclaimed. “What have they got you for?”
Terence Brown smiled, and it didn’t seem necessary for him to do anything else, for it was a smile of a particularly wicked quality. Roger’s hand went up to his head.
“Where’s Maggie Saunders?” he demanded, with a flickering spasm of humour.
Paul Viotti smiled.
“Ah,” he said, “there we draw the line. No ladies, Mr. Sloane. When I started this new form of industry—we were bootleggers pure and simple to begin with—our one immovable decision was—no ladies. I am vain enough to think sometimes that it is through my insistence upon this that we have prospered. We have kept from trouble which others have so easily found. My brother—you remember my brother, Mr. Sloane—he has wept tears, he has pleaded with me, he has appealed to me by all the ties of old affection between us to permit him to bring the little Jeannine into our company. A day or two of seclusion and I have no doubt that she would have been amenable, but I have always refused…. Perhaps our guest would like tea or coffee. They are on the sideboard.”
Roger helped himself to tea, and if his fingers were trembling it was not with fear.
“Well, I guess we know pretty well where we are now,” he remarked presently. “What about Sam, the barman?”
“Sam, and our only recent election, my brother,” Paul Viotti explained, “complete our little company. They are at present engaged, but they may join us later. You know us all now, Mr. Sloane. There are no more surprises for you.”
Terence Brown grinned.
“I wouldn’t say that,” he murmured.
Roger, who had finished two strong cups of tea, was feeling better. He threw himself into an easy-chair.
“How do you expect to get away with this?” he asked Viotti. “You know as well as possible that there will be a search for me. Dalmorres, amongst others, knew that I was coming up here.”
Viotti smiled.
“We have taken many precautions,” he confided. “Your car has been driven into Nice and abandoned there by two men who, in dress and manner, were the exact duplicates of you and Thornton, and who took care to leave those clues the police are so fond of at various questionable haunts in the gay city. Your disappearance will always remain a regrettable mystery, but to Nice will belong the discredit of having swallowed you.”
“But, first of all,” Roger pointed out, “this place—I take it for granted we are not far from the hotel—will have been subjected to an inch-by-inch search. I have friends in Monte Carlo who will not be satisfied with anything casual.”
“That inch-by-inch search,” Terence Brown remarked, “has already taken place three times, and let me tell you this, young fellow; the police of Monte Carlo and of Nice are fed up with having to send search parties out on a fool’s errand. Furthermore, I wouldn’t mind betting you a box of cigars that if a dozen of the most famous detectives in the world were to go down on their hands and knees and crawl over this place for a week, they would never discover the secret of this room.”
“Mr. Terence Brown is quite right in what he says,” Viotti agreed. “He is quite, quite right. We had a room constructed on this principle in New York in the heart of the city. We used it for five years without the slightest trouble.”
“Well, what are you going to do with me?” Roger asked bluntly.
Paul Viotti sighed.
“It is very sad,” he said.
“Damned hard lines,” Terence Brown echoed.
“We have spent an hour of this beautiful spring morning,” Paul Viotti continued, “trying to discover some means whereby we could justify ourselves, establish our safety, run no risk in the future—for we are very particular about that—and yet keep you alive. Alas, we failed.”
“Not a chance,” Terence Brown lamented.
“You see,” Paul Viotti explained, “we have been forced to deal with you as with a dangerous enemy. American by birth though you may be, you have that stupid bulldog persistence which we generally associate over in New York with the Irish and here with the Britisher. You wouldn’t leave us alone here, and in time who knows what might not happen? We have dealt with so many for lesser reasons. It became obvious that you must be removed.”
“You mean that you are going to kill me?” Roger demanded.
“Within ten minutes,” Viotti announced. “You have only been kept alive, in case a way might suggest itself. We are ready to hear anything you have to say. Can you suggest any means by which we can assure the absolute safety of every one of us here—Mr. Terence Brown, Prince Savonarilda, and my brother Pierre particularly—and allow you to live?”
“Anything going in the shape of cigarettes?” Roger enquired. “This needs consideration.”
Savonarilda threw over his case which Roger adroitly caught. He helped himself to two cigarettes and lit one of them.
“If I am on the threshold of eternity,” he said, “as seems remarkably possible, would it make any difference if I asked you a few questions? I should hate to go out with a clouded mind.”
Viotti looked over at his victim with a benevolent smile. He was dressed with a scrupulous care and his black satin tie was secured with a very beautiful pearl pin. He was in every respect the genial and tolerant master of ceremonies.
“Ask anything that will make that bleak passage easier,” he invited. “You have,” he added, glancing at his watch, “only seven minutes.”
“Who killed that fellow in the Casino?”
Viotti extended his hand towards Thornton.
“A beautiful gesture,” he murmured. “The young man was so terribly dangerous. Alas, my brother was to blame there. Two of his young Niçois in whom he trusted, failed us. One was not quick enough to deal with Erskine, although he had plenty of warning; the other lost his head, when he had achieved what he thought was success, and struck out on his own. He lived for an hour or two. That is as long as we permit.”
“And those carefully prepared plans of ours—” Roger began, turning towards Thornton.
“They were considered in this room,” Thornton expounded, “as soon as they were conceived. After all, Roger Sloane, it’s level odds between the person you call the criminal and the amateur absolutely unconnected with the law, who butts in on his own account. One is the sinner and the other’s the sneak. We’ve played our game out, hand for hand. You lost.”
“Mr. Roger Sloane has derived some amusement from the enterprise, without a doubt,” Viotti murmured, from the head of the table. “Your time is very close at hand now, my young friend.”