“That is so without a doubt, sir,” the man asserted positively.
There was a brief silence. Monsieur Froquet seemed in no way discomposed.
“The whole affair is very boring,” he declared. “I borrowed fifteen mille from your barman and you find something wrong with one of the notes. I cannot help that. It is not my concern.”
“You must realise, though, that it is very much our concern,” Monsieur Thiers insisted, “to trace the origin of that note. And from what the barman says, it is impossible that the note you passed up to the chef to change was a note that came from him.”
“Why impossible?”
“Because there is a mark upon it—a mark here,” the director pointed out, tapping the back of the note, “a white dot. The notes bearing this mark were not put into circulation until after seven o’clock this evening.”
“I had the note from the barman,” Monsieur Froquet declared brusquely. “I can say no more. If I could help you, I should be glad. As I cannot—”
He moved towards the door, but the inspector, who had remained standing in the background, a dark shadowy figure, blocked the way.
“Monsieur Froquet,” the director said gravely, “you are, of course, well known to us and your reputation and the reputation of your family is above reproach. So far as I am aware, however, you are a newcomer to our Casino this season. Will you be so kind as to tell us where you are staying and your home address?”
“You can find it in the telephone book or in any directory,” the young man declared angrily. “I am staying with my own people—that is all I need to say.”
The director bowed.
“In that case, we will not trouble you further, Monsieur Froquet,” he said. “It is evident that Jack must have been mistaken. We will examine his accounts later.”
“I am at liberty then, I presume, to depart?” the young man asked, with a contemptuous smile.
“Most certainly,” his inquisitor assented. “You have been kind enough to answer our questions and we offer you our thanks. The affair is a mystery. It must be investigated. Voilà tout.”
Monsieur Froquet turned to leave the room and no one seemed to have any intention of detaining him further. The director leaned forward in his place, frowning.
“You see, gentlemen, how it is,” he pointed out. “What we have is evidence and not evidence. To me it seems a great pity that we ever interfered with the young man. It is all very well for Jack here to say that the notes which he handed to Monsieur Froquet were notes which had been in his till all the afternoon, but who is to believe it? It is not evidence. There is no proof. Money is flowing in and out all the time. It is, in my opinion, a cause for regret that we have interfered in this matter at all.”
“I am surprised that you should say so,” Roger answered, a little warmly. “If the evidence of your own barman is to be believed—and in my opinion Jack is absolutely honest—Monsieur Froquet is connected with the band of criminals who are going to empty the Principality of visitors and even of residents if they are allowed their way much longer.”
“There is no evidence,” Monsieur Thiers asserted coldly, “of the existence of any band such as you describe in the Principality.”
“Two murders within the month—” Roger began.
“Nothing of the sort, sir,” the director interrupted. “One murder and a simple suicide. And both affairs promptly cleared up in satisfactory fashion by our very efficient police staff.”
Roger groaned as he turned away.
“In that matter, sir,” he regretted, “we are not entirely in accord.”
Later in the evening Roger found Thornton seated in an easy chair in the bar. He threw himself into a vacant place by his side with a little gesture of despair.
“The Commissaire will do nothing,” he announced. “He considers the evidence altogether insufficient and in any case he would require sworn information from Lord Bradley personally. The young man seems to be quite well known. He is the son of a rich jeweller in Nice but he is in disgrace with his father, owing to his gambling propensities. I wonder where he is now?”
“I think I can guess,” Thornton replied. “He was talking with that atrocious little bounder from Nice—Viotti, I think you told me his name was—and they went out together along the passage. What’s happened I expect is, he’s gone into the Salle Privée by the private way.”
“I hope to God they won’t let him leave the place,” Roger exclaimed anxiously. “I’ve squared the telephone man all right. He hasn’t attempted to call any one up. If he once got away and gave the Casino people the slip, though, it might be all up with poor Bradley.”
“Let’s see if the yacht’s still there,” Thornton suggested.
They made their way into the roulette room and, drawing the blinds a little on one side, looked out on to the harbour. The White Lady was lying at her accustomed moorings with all her lights ablaze.
“She’s there, all right,” Roger observed. “I think I shall go down and let Bradley know that his scheme has gone wrong.”
“We’ll have a word with Monsieur Thiers first,” Thornton proposed.
They made their way to the director’s room. The latter looked up at their entrance and, although he was as courteous as ever, he showed no signs of pleasure at their reappearance.
“We’ve been wondering whether, now that you have thought the matter over,” Roger said, “you might not feel disposed to ask the young man to step down to the Police Station. After all, he tried to pass a note which was obtained by blackmail.”
“I fear that it is too late for that,” Monsieur Thiers regretted. “Monsieur Froquet left the building a short time ago, fetched his own motor car and drove off in the direction of Nice.”
“But what about your espionage?” Thornton demanded. “Didn’t you have him followed?”
“Our espionage only exists on the premises,” was the cool reply. “It is not our business to trace the movements of our clients outside. Monsieur Froquet is quite well known and would, I am sure, be available if we needed him at any moment.”
The two men both stared at Monsieur Thiers, momentarily aghast. Then, without waiting to say good night to him, they made for the door. They uttered no word of reproach but their manner left him with a vague sense of discomfort which he was soon to find justified.
They were both in good condition and in less than five minutes they were halfway down the steps leading on to the quay. The yacht lay before them brilliantly lit and with the gangway aft strongly guarded. Thornton pointed downwards.
“Isn’t that just like Bradley?” he groaned. “The one night when he ought to lie close—look at the fool.”
Roger’s eyes followed his companion’s pointing finger. Bradley, his white shirt almost dazzling in the strong light, had just strolled up the companion way, smoking a cigar and stood now in plain view, leaning over the rail and looking out to sea. He had evidently left the smoking-room door open behind him, letting out a brilliant shaft of illumination. They could even see him tapping the ash from his cigar on the rail.
“Oh, my God, what fools men are!” Thornton exclaimed angrily. “I’ve had that sort of thing to deal with all my life. They call it courage, I suppose. A night like this! Come on.”
Before they could move, however, they saw a swiftly played-out drama which they neither of them ever forgot. From somewhere thirty or forty yards away in the blackness of the harbour came a faint