Terence Brown, who had been favoured with a sight of the loup, helped himself plentifully.
“I am bound to confess,” he said, “that my country stands behind much of this increase in ruthless crime. Bootlegging started it, of course. Here was a law one felt justified in disobeying. And from that one moved onwards. Crime began to appeal to a different sort of mentality. At the present moment, I am perfectly convinced that some of the most dangerous criminals in the world are men of brains and position. Explorers who used to shoot lions, bully and kill natives, and hoist the flag of their country in the far-away places are indulging in very similar instincts nearer home. … Jean,” he added, turning to the sommelier, “another glass of that delicious white wine, please.”
“I don’t like Mr. Terence Brown’s theory,” Thornton remarked grimly. “The one thing we dread at the Yard is the educated criminal. The Bill Sykes type scarcely exists any more.”
A messenger boy from the hall approached the table and handed a note and card to Terence Brown. With a glance of apology towards his host he tore open the envelope and read.
“My dear Sloane,” he said, lowering his voice a little. “This comes in the nature of a coincidence. The note is from my friend Monsieur Pleydou, the commissaire of police here on whom I called this morning. He desires to impart some information at once. May I invite him to join us?”
“By all means,” Sloane agreed.
Monsieur Pleydou was ushered in, a grave-looking man with black beard and imperial, dark clothes and a general air of solemnity. He shook hands with Terence Brown, bowed to the others to whom he was introduced and accepted a glass of wine. He took the déjeuner always, he explained, at midday.
“Gentlemen,” he announced, “I bring you news. The murderer of Luke Cheyne has confessed. The mystery is solved.”
There was a murmur of interest. Monsieur Pleydou continued.
“A letter was brought to the Police Station this morning signed by a certain Samuel Crowley, confessing to the crime and giving particulars as to how it was executed. It was apparently partly an act of personal vengeance on the part of this man who had had unfortunate business transactions with Mr. Cheyne in New York and partly an ordinary robbery. Our police at once visited the small ketch upon which Crowley had been living in the harbour and found that he had disappeared. His body was discovered only an hour ago.”
There were a few moments of curious silence. Somehow or other to one or two of the auditors at any rate the story seemed to lack substance.
“Did the confession which Mr. Crowley left,” Roger asked, “contain any particulars as to how he committed the crime?”
“They were scarcely necessary,” the police commissary replied, “but as a matter of general interest he did leave some particulars. He entered the hotel by the front way, muffled up, and walked straight ahead. It was a perfectly simple thing to do as it was past four o’clock in the morning. A great many of the guests are in the habit of coming home at that time from the night clubs and naturally the members of the staff who were about were sleepy. He found the lift boy, for instance, fast asleep, which made his task easier. He chloroformed him, pulled him out of sight and sat just at the bend of the stairs with his hand upon the electric switch waiting for Mr. Cheyne, of whose impending departure from the Club he had been advised by a confederate.”
“And the money?” Erskine enquired.
“A certain amount of it—quite enough to confirm Crowley’s story—was found in his cabin. The remainder will doubtless be recovered later. That is an affair between us and the administration. It is a sad story, gentlemen, and the only satisfactory part of it is that it clears up the mystery of Monsieur Cheyne’s death.”
Every one seemed to feel that there was little else to be said. Monsieur Pleydou accepted coffee, a liqueur and cigar and the conversation drifted away to the always interesting subjects of the unreported suicides and robberies in the Casino. When the luncheon broke up Thornton, who seemed to have taken a fancy to Roger, walked with him and Erskine to the courtyard where the latter’s car was waiting to take them to the tennis courts.
“You own a villa in the neighbourhood, I understand?” Thornton enquired of his late host. “When are you leaving?”
“I’m not quite sure,” Roger confided, “that I shall leave at all for the present. Things seem to me as though they might become too interesting down here. I am returning to my villa for luncheon to-morrow, but I am keeping my room here and I shall probably stay on for some time.”
“I am not sure that you’re wise,” Thornton reflected. “If there is any gang work going on down here, you would probably be a marked man after your luncheon to-day. You’ll be safer at the villa, Mr. Sloane.”
“That may be so, but I don’t think I shall stay there. Am I allowed to ask you one question?”
“Just one,” was the rather grudging reply, “and I think I can guess what it will be.”
Roger clambered up to Erskine’s side in the car and waved the porter away. He leaned towards Thornton.
“You are not accepting whole-heartedly this solution of Luke Cheyne’s murder?”
Major Thornton smiled frostily. His voice had sunk almost to a whisper, although they were alone in the courtyard.
“I am not,” he admitted. “I am wondering whether the police here are trying to be very clever indeed or whether you are up against a gang of criminals with new ideas.”
CHAPTER VI
Roger, with Jeannine by his side, stood on the terrace of his villa the next day after luncheon and gazed with a shudder at a flamboyant new château, fortunately half hidden by a turning in the road.
“Who on earth has built that atrocity, Bardells?” he asked his butler, who was serving the coffee.
“Monsieur Viotti, who was Mayor of the place last year, sir,” the man replied. “He has come in, people say, for a great deal of money. A wealthy brother in America. At any rate, he has become rich. He has a large apartment in Nice, an hotel on the Corniche between Eze and Mentone; he has left all the farm and flower lands here and visits the place but seldom. His mother and sisters occupy the château.”
“God help them!” Roger muttered. “You mean, of course, the man I—”
“Precisely, sir. The man you knocked down the day you brought the young lady up.”
Roger nodded.
“I’ve seen him in the Sporting Club,” he said. “He looks just as disagreeable as ever, but opulent. By the by, Bardells, I am going to stay on at the Hôtel de Paris for a few weeks. Wisden has a list of the things I shall require. Tell him not to forget everything necessary for golf and tennis, two bathing suits and both my automatics.”
“Your automatics, sir?” the man repeated.
“The habit of living in wild countries, I suppose,” Roger remarked carelessly. “Anyhow, I like to have them. No liqueurs, thanks.”
“Very good, sir.”
The man disappeared. Roger led his companion down to the arbour.
“This is where I was sitting,”