The Sign of the Seven Sins
While we sat there, however, a brilliant idea occurred to him.
“Nearly all these notes are small,” he said suddenly. “I’ll go into the
Rooms and exchange the gold and small notes for large ones. They’ll be
so much easier to carry.”
“Ah!” cried Ulrica. “I never thought of that. Why, of course!”
“Very well,” he answered, “I sha’n’t be ten minutes.”
“Don’t be tempted to play again, old fellow,” urged Gerald.
“No fear of that!” he laughed, and with a cigarette in his mouth
strode away in the direction of the Casino.
We remained there gossiping for fully half-an-hour, yet he did not
return. It was only a walk of a couple of minutes from the Hermitage to
the Casino, therefore we concluded that he had met some friend and been
detained, for he, like Gerald, came there each winter and knew quite
a host of people. One makes a large circle of acquaintances on the
Riviera, many interesting but the majority undesirable.
“I wonder where he’s got to?” Gerald observed presently. “Surely he
isn’t such an idiot as to resume play.”
“No. He’s well enough aware that there’s no luck after dinner,”
remarked Ulrica. “We might, however, I think, take a last turn through
the Rooms and see whether he’s there.”
This suggestion was carried out, but although we searched every table
we failed to discover him. Until ten o’clock we lounged about, then
returned by the express to Nice.
That he should have left us in that abrupt manner was certainly
curious, but as Gerald declared he was always erratic in his movements,
and that his explanation in the morning would undoubtedly be found
entirely satisfactory, we returned together to the hotel, where we
wished our companion good-night and ascended in the elevator to our own
sitting-room on the second floor.
My good fortune pleased me, but my heart was nevertheless overburdened
with sorrow. Sight of Ernest had reopened the gaping wound which I
had so strenuously striven to heal by the aid of lighter loves. I now
thought only of him.
Ulrica, who was in front of me, gayly pushed open the door of our
sitting-room and switched on the light, but ere she crossed the
threshold she drew back quickly with a loud cry of horror and surprise.
In an instant I was at her side.
“Look!” she gasped, terrified, pointing to the opposite side of the
room. “Look!”
The body of a man was lying face downward upon the carpet, half hidden
by the round table in the centre of the room.
Together we dashed forward to his assistance and tried to raise him,
but were unable. We succeeded, however, in turning him upon his side,
and then his white, hard-set features became suddenly revealed.
“My God!” I cried, awe-stricken. “What has occurred? Why--it’s Reggie!”
“Reggie!” shrieked Ulrica, kneeling quickly and placing her gloved hand
eagerly upon his heart. “Reggie!--and he’s dead!”
“Impossible!” I gasped, petrified at the hideous discovery.
“It is true!” she went on, her face white as that of the dead man
before us. “Look! there’s blood upon his lips. See! the chair over
there is thrown down and broken. There has apparently been a fierce
struggle.”
Next instant a thought occurred to me, and bending I quickly searched
his inner pockets. The bank-notes were not there!
Then the ghastly truth became entirely plain.
Reginald Thorne had been robbed and murdered.
CHAPTER IV
RELATES SOME ASTOUNDING FACTS
The amazing discovery held us in speechless bewilderment.
The favorite of Fortune, who only a couple of hours before had been so
full of life and buoyant spirits, and who had left us with a promise to
return within ten minutes, was now lying still and dead in the privacy
of our own room. The ghastly truth was so strange and unexpected as to
utterly stagger belief. A mysterious and dastardly crime had evidently
been committed there.
I scarce knew what occurred during the quarter of an hour that
immediately followed our astounding discovery. All I remember is
that Ulrica, with her face blanched to the lips, ran out into the
corridor and raised the alarm. Then there arrived a crowd of waiters,
chambermaids, and visitors, everyone excitedly asking strings of
questions, until the hotel manager came and closed the door upon them
all. The discovery caused the most profound sensation, especially when
the police and doctor arrived, quickly followed by two detectives.
The doctor, a short, stout Frenchman, at once pronounced that
poor Reggie had been dead more than half-an-hour, but the cursory
examination he was enabled to make was insufficient to establish the
cause of death.
“Do you incline to a theory of death through violence?” one of the
detectives inquired.
“Ah! At present I cannot tell,” the other answered dubiously. “It is
not at all plain that m’sieur has been murdered.”
Both Ulrica and I quickly found ourselves in a most unpleasant
position. First, a man had been found dead in our apartments, which was
sufficient to cause a good deal of ill-natured gossip; and secondly,
the police seemed to entertain some suspicion of us. We were both
cross-questioned separately as to Reggie’s identity, what we knew of
him, and of our doings at Monte Carlo that day. In response, we made
no secret of our movements, for we felt that the police might be able
to trace the culprit--if indeed Reggie had been actually murdered.
The fact that he had won that sum and that he had left us in order to
change the notes into larger ones seemed to puzzle the police. If
robbery had been the object of the crime, the murderer would, they
agreed, no doubt have committed the deed either in the train or on the
street. Why, indeed, should the victim have entered our sitting-room at
all?
That really seemed the principal problem. The whole of the
circumstances formed a complete and most puzzling enigma, but his visit
to our sitting-room was the most curious feature of all.
The thief, whoever he was,--for I inclined towards the theory of theft
and murder,--had been enabled to effect his purpose swiftly and leave
the hotel without detection. Another curious fact was that neither the
concierge nor the elevator-lad recollected the dead man’s return. Both
agreed that he must have slipped in unobserved. And if so, why?
Having concluded the examinations of Ulrica and myself and my Italian
maid, Felicita, who had returned from her evening out and knew nothing
at all of the matter, the police made a most rigorous search in our
rooms. We were present and had the dissatisfaction of watching our best
gowns and other articles tumbled over and mauled by unclean hands. Not
a corner was left unexamined, for when the French police make a search
they at least do it thoroughly.
“Ah! What is this?” exclaimed one of the detectives, picking from the
open fire-place in the sitting-room a crumpled piece of paper, which he
smoothed out carefully.
In an instant we were all eager attention. I saw that it was a sheet
of my own note-paper, and upon it in a man’s handwriting was the
commencement of a letter:
“My dear Miss Rosselli, I have----”
There it broke off short. There were no other words. The paper had
been crushed and flung away, as though the writer, on mature thought,
had resolved not to address me by letter. I had never seen Reggie’s
handwriting, but on comparison with some entries in a note-book found
in his pocket the police pronounced it to be his.
What did he wish to tell me?
About an hour after midnight we sent up to the Villa Fabron for Gerald,
who returned in the cab which conveyed our messenger.
When we told him the terrible truth he stood open-mouthed, rooted to
the spot.
“Reggie dead!” he gasped. “Murdered!”
“Undoubtedly,” answered Ulrica. “The mystery is inexplicable, but with
your aid we must solve it.”
“With my aid!” he cried. “I fear I cannot help you. I know nothing
whatever about it.”
“Of course not,” I said. “But now tell us what is your theory? You were
his best friend, and would therefore probably know if he had any enemy
who desired to wreak revenge upon him.”
“He hadn’t a single enemy in the world, to my knowledge,” Gerald
answered. “The motive of the crime was robbery, without a doubt. Most
probably he was followed from Monte Carlo by someone who watched his
success at the tables. There are always some desperate characters among
the crowd there.”
“Do you think, then, that the murderer was actually watching us ever
since the afternoon?” I inquired in alarm.
“I think it most probable,” he responded. “At Monte Carlo there is a
crowd of all sorts and conditions of outsiders. Many of them wouldn’t
hesitate to commit murder for the sum which poor Reggie had in his
pockets.”
“It’s terrible!” ejaculated Ulrica.
“Yes,” he sighed, whilst his face grew heavy and thoughtful. “This
awful news has upset me quite as much as it has you. I have lost my
best friend.”
“I hope you will spare no effort to clear up the mystery,” I said, for
I had rather liked the poor boy ever since chance had first thrown
us together in Washington, and on the renewal of our acquaintance a
few days previously my estimate of his character and true worth had
considerably improved. It was appalling that he should be thus struck
down so swiftly and in a manner so strange.
“Of course, I shall at once do all I can,” he declared. “I’ll see the
police and state all I know. If this had occurred in England or in
America there might be a chance of tracing the culprit by the numbers
on the bank-notes. In France, however, the numbers are never taken, and
stolen notes cannot be recovered. However, rest assured, both of you,
that I’ll do my very best.”
There was a tap at the door at that moment, and opening it, I was
confronted by a tall, dark-bearded Frenchman, who explained that he was
an agent of police.
To him Gerald related all he knew regarding poor Reggie’s
acquaintances and movements while on the Riviera, and afterwards in
company with the detective he went to the rooms we had abandoned and
there gazed for the last time upon the dead face of his friend.
This sudden tragic event had cast a gloom over both Ulrica and myself.
We were both nervous and apprehensive, ever debating the mysterious
reason which caused Reggie to enter our sitting-room in our absence.
Surely he had some very strong motive, or he would not have returned
straight there and commenced that mysterious letter of explanation.
As far as we could discern, his success at the tables in the afternoon
had not intoxicated him, for although young, he was a practised,
unemotional player, and to him gains and losses were alike--at least,
he displayed no outward sign of satisfaction beyond a broad smile when
his winning number was announced by the croupier. No, of the many
theories put forward, that of Gerald seemed the most sound, namely,
that he had been followed from Monte Carlo with evil intent.
The _Petit Niçois_, the _Eclaireur_, and the _Phare du Littoral_ were
next day full of “The Mystery of the Grand Hotel.” In the article we
were referred to as Mademoiselle Y. and Mademoiselle R., as is usual in
French journalism, and certainly the comments made by the three organs
in question were distinguished by undisguised suspicion and sorry
sarcasm. The _Petit Niçois_, a journal which had on so many recent
occasions given proof of its anti-English and anti-American tone,
declared its disbelief of the story that the deceased had won the large
sum stated, and concluded by urging the police of Nice to leave no
stone unturned in its efforts to discover the murderer, which it added
would probably be found within the hotel. This remark was certainly
a pleasing reflection to cast upon us. It was as though the journal
believed that one of us--or both--had conspired to murder him.