I woke late in the afternoon.
Body, brain, and nerves had been thoroughly exhausted;
but now I realized that my long sleep had restored me.
Mme Dubonnet was in the kitchen, looking very unhappy. The telephone had been repaired that morning, she told me, but it was all so mysterious. The house had been disturbed, and there were many things missing. And the poor dear doctor! They had told her, only two hours before, that there was no change in his condition.
I turned on the bath taps and then went to the telephone. Dr. Brisson was at the hospital. In answer to my anxious inquiry, he said in a strained, tired voice that there was nothing to report. He could not conceal his anxiety, however.
Something told me that dear old Petrie’s hours were numbered. Sir Denis Nayland Smith had not been in touch.
“I trust that he arrived safely,” he concluded, “and succeeded in finding Dr. Emil Krus.”
“I shall be along in about an hour.”
“Nothing of the kind, my dear Mr. Sterling, I beg of you. It would only add to our embarrassment. You can do nothing. If you would consent to take my advice again, it would be this:
drive out somewhere to dinner. Try to forget this shadow, which unfortunately you can do nothing to dispel. Tell the housekeeper where you intend to go, so that we can trace you. should there be news—good or bad.”
“It’s impossible,” I replied; “I feel I must stand by.” But the tired, soothing voice at the other end of the line persisted. A man would relieve Mme Dubonnet at the villa just before dusk; “And,” Brisson concluded, “it is far better that you should seek a change of scene, if only for a few hours. Dr. Petrie would wish it. In a sense, you know, you are his patient.”
In my bath, I considered his words. Yes, I suppose he was right. Petrie had been insistent that I should not overdo things—mentally or physically. I would dine in Monte Carlo, amid the stimulating gaiety of the strangest capital in the world.
I wanted to be at my best in this battle with an invisible army. I owed it to Petrie—and I owed it to Nayland Smith.
In spite of my determination, it was late before I started out. The orderly from the hospital had arrived. He had nothing to report. Sir Denis was of opinion, I learned, that there was just a possibility of a further raid upon the Villa Jasmin being attempted, and the man showed me that he was armed.
He seemed to welcome this strange break in his normal duties. I told him that I proposed to dine at Quinto’s Restaurant. I was known there, and he could get in touch, or leave a message, at any time.
Then, heavy-hearted, but glad in a way to escape, if only for a few hours, from the spot where Petrie had been stricken down by his remorseless, hidden enemy, I set out for Monaco.
Some new and strange elements had crashed into my life. It was good to get away to a place dissociated from these things and endeavour to see them in their true perspective.
The route was pathetically familiar.
It had been Petrie’s custom on two or three evenings in the week to drive into Monte Carlo, dine and spend an hour or so in the Casino. He was no gambler—nor am I—but he was a very keen mathematician, and he got quite a kick out of pitting his wits against the invulnerable bank.
I could never follow the principle of his system. But while, admittedly, we had never lost anything, on the other hand, we had not gained.
My somewhat morbid reflections seemed to curtail the journey. I observed little of the route, until I found myself on the long curve above Monte Carlo. Dusk had fallen, and that theatrical illumination which is a feature of the place had sprung into life.
I pulled up for a moment, looking down at the unique spectacle—wonderful, for all its theatricality. The blazing colour of the flower beds, floodlighted from palm tops; the emerald green of terraced lawns, falling away to that ornate frontage of the great Casino.
It is Monte Carlo’s one and only “view”, but in its garish way it is unforgettable.
I pushed on down the sharp descent to the town, presently halting before the little terrace of an unpretentious restaurant. Tables were laid under the awning, and already there were many diners.
This was Quinto’s, where, without running up a ruinous bill, one may enjoy a perfect dinner and the really choice wines of France.
The genial maitre d’h6tel met me at the top of the steps, extending that cosmopolitan welcome which lends a good meal an additional savour. Your true restaurateur is not only an epicure; he is also a polished man of the world.
Yes, there was a small table in the corner. But I was alone to-night! Was Dr. Petrie busy?
I shook my head.
“I am afraid he is very ill,” I replied cautiously.
Hitherto the authorities had succeeded in suppressing the truth of this ghastly outbreak so near to two great pleasure resorts. I had to guard my tongue, for an indiscreet word might undo all their plans of secrecy.
“Something serious?” he asked, with what I thought was real concern: everybody loved Petrie.
“A serious chill. The doctors are afraid of pneumonia.”
Quinto raised his hands in an eloquent Southern gesture.
“Oh, these chilly nights!” he exclaimed. “They will ruin us! So many people forget to wrap themselves up warmly in the Riviera evenings. And then—” he shrugged—”they say it is a treacherous climate!”
He conducted me to a table in an angle of the wall, and pointed out, as was his custom, notabilities present that evening.
These included an ex-Crown Prince, Fritz Kreisler, and an internationally popular English novelist residing on the Cote d’Azur.
The question of what I should eat and what I should drink was discussed as between artists; for the hallmark of a great maitre d’h6tel is the insidious compliment which he conveys to his patron in conceding the latter’s opinions to be worthy of the master’s consideration.
When the matter was arranged and the wine-waiter had brought me a cocktail, I settled down to survey my fellow
guests.
My survey stopped short at a table in the opposite comer. A man who evidently distrusted the chill of the Southern evenings sat there, his back towards me. He wore a heavy coat, having an astrakhan collar; and, what was more peculiar at dinner, he wore an astrakhan cap. From my present point of view he resembled pictures I had seen of Russian nobleman of the old regime.
Facing him across the small square table was
I was about to stand up, when a slight, almost imperceptible movement of Fleurette’s head warned me unmistakably not to claim the acquaintance.
chapter fifteenth
FAIRY TRUMPET
I asked myself the question: had the gesture been real, or had I merely imagined it?
Fleurette wore a light wrap over a vary plain black evening frock. Her hair smouldered under the shaded lights so that it seemed to contain sparks of fire. She had instantly glanced aside. I could not be wrong.
At first I had experienced intense humiliation, but now my courage returned. True, she had not conveyed the message:
“Don’t speak to me.” But it had been in the nature of a warning, an admission of a mutual secret understanding, and in no sense a snub.
She was not, than, inaccessible. She was hedged around, guarded, by the jealous suspicions of her Oriental master.
I could doubt no longer.
The man seated with his back to me was the same I had seen in the car driven by the Negro chauffeur. Despite his nonconformity to type, this was Mahdi Bey. And Fleurette, for all her glorious, virgin-like beauty, must
