“A lady?”
The Comte was surprised. Not that a visit from a lady was an unusual thing at the Villa Marina, but at this particular moment the Cointe could not think who the lady was likely to be.
“She is, I think, a lady not known to Monsieur,” murmured the valet helpfully.
The Comte was more and more intrigued.
“Show her out here, Hippolyte,” he commanded.
A moment later a marvellous vision in orange and black stepped out on the terrace, accompanied by a strong perfume of exotic blossoms.
“Monsieur le Comte de la Roche?”
“At your service. Mademoiselle,” said the Comte, bowing.
“My name is Mirelle. You may have heard of me.”
“Ah, indeed. Mademoiselle, but who has not been enchanted by the dancing of Mademoiselle Mirelle? Exquisite!”
The dancer acknowledged this compliant with a brief mechanical smile.
“My descent upon you is unceremonious,” she began.
“But seat yourself, I beg of you, Mademoiselle,” cried the Comte, bringing forward a chair.
Behind the gallantry of his manner he was observing her narrowly. There were very few things that the Comte did not know about women. True, his experience had not lain much in ladies of Mirelle's class, who were themselves predatory. He and the dancer were, in a sense, birds of a feather. His arts the Comte knew, would be thrown away on Mirelle. She was a Parisienne, and a shrewd one. Nevertheless, there was one thing that the Comte could recognize infallibly when he saw it. He knew at once that he was in the presence of a very angry woman, and an angry woman, as the Comte was well aware, always says more than is prudent, and is occasionally a source of profit to a levelheaded gentleman who keeps cool.
“It is most amiable of you. Mademoiselle, to honour my poor abode thus.”
“We have mutual friends in Paris,” said Mirelle. “I have heard of you from them, but I come to see you to-day for another reason. I have heard of you since I came to Nice – in a different way, you understand.”
“Ah?” said the Comte softly.
“I will be brutal,” continued the dancer; “nevertheless, believe that I have your welfare at heart. They are saying in Nice, Monsieur le Comte, that you are the murderer of the English lady, Madame Kettering.”
“I – the murderer of Madame Kettering? pah! But how absurd!”
He spoke more languidly than indignantly, knowing that he would thus provoke her further.
“But yes,” she insisted; “it is as I tell you.”
“It amuses people to talk,” murmured the Comte indifferently. “It would be beneath me to take such wild accusations seriously.”
“You do not understand.” Mirelle bent forward, her dark eyes flashing. “It is not the idle talk of those in the streets. It is the police.”
“The police – ah?”
The Comte sat up, alert once more.
Mirelle nodded her head vigorously several times.
“Yes, yes. You comprehend me – I have friends everywhere. The Prefect himself-” She left the sentence unfinished, with an eloquent shrug of the shoulders.
“Who is not indiscreet where a beautiful woman is concerned?” murmured the Count Politely.
“The police believe that you killed Madame Kettering. But they are wrong.”
“Certainly they are wrong,” agreed the Comte easily.
“You say that, but you do not know the truth. I do.”
The Comte looked at her curiously.
“You know who killed Madame Kettering? Is that what you would say. Mademoiselle?”
Mirelle nodded vehemently.
“Yes.”
“Who was it?” asked the Comte sharply.
“Her husband.” She bent nearer to the Comte speaking in a low voice that vibrated with anger and excitement. “It was her husband who killed her.”
The Comte leant back in his chair. His face was a mask.
“Let me ask you. Mademoiselle – how do you know this?”
“How do I know it?” Mirelle sprang to her feet, with a laugh. “He boasted of it beforehand. He was ruined, bankrupt, dishonoured. Only the death of his wife could save him. He told me so. He travelled on the same train – but she was not to know it. Why was that, I ask you? So that he might creep upon her in the night – Ah!” – she shut her eyes – “I can see it happening…”
The Count coughed.
“Perhaps – perhaps,” he murmured. “Is it surely? Mademoiselle, in that case he would not steal the jewels?”
“The jewels!” breathed Mirelle. “The jewels. Ah! Those rubies…”
Her eyes grew misty, a far-away light in them. The Comte looked at her curiously, wondering for the hundredth time at the magical influence of precious stones on the female sex. He recalled her to practical matters.
“What do you want me to do, Mademoiselle?”
Mirelle became alert and businesslike once more.
“Surely it is simple. You will go to the police. You will say to them that M. Kettering committed this crime.”
“And if they do not believe me? If they ask for proof?” He was eyeing her closely.
Mirelle laughed softly, and drew her orange-and-black wrap closer round her.
“Send them to me. Monsieur le Comte,” she said softly; “I will give them the proof they want.”
Upon that she was gone, an impetuous whirlwind, her errand accomplished.
The Comte looked after her, his eyebrows obfucately raised.
“She is in a fury,” he murmured. “What has happened now to upset her? But she shows her hand too plainly. Does she really believe that Mr. Kettering killed his wife? She would like me to believe it. She would even like the police to believe it.”
He smiled to himself. He had no intention whatsoever of going to the police. He saw various other possibilities; to judge by his smile, an agreeable vista of them.
Presently, however, his brow clouded. According to Mirelle, he was suspected by the police. That might be true or it might not. An angry woman of the type of the dancer was not likely to bother about the strict veracity of her statements. On the other hand, she might easily have obtained – inside information. In that case – his mouth set grimly – in that case he must take certain precautions.
He went into the house and questioned Hippolyte closely once more as to whether any strangers had been to the house. The valet was positive in his assurances that this was not the case. The Comte went up to his bedroom and crossed over to an old bureau that stood against the wall. He let down the lid of this, and his delicate fingers sought for a spring at the back of one of the pigeon-holes. A secret drawer flew out; in it was a small brown paper package. The Comte took this out and weighed it in his hand carefully for a minute or two. Raising his hand to his head, with a slight grimace he pulled out a single hair. This he placed on the lip of the drawer and shut it carefully. Still carrying the small parcel in his hand, he went downstairs and out of the house to the garage, where stood a scarlet two-seater car. Ten minutes later he had taken the road for Monte Carlo.
He spent a few hours at the Casino, then sauntered out into the town. Presently he reentered the car and drove off in the direction ofMentone. Earlier in the afternoon he had noticed an inconspicuous grey car some little distance behind him. He noticed it again now. He smiled to himself. The road was climbing steadily upwards. The Comte's foot pressed hard on the accelerator. The little red car had been specially built to the Comte's design, and had a far more powerful engine than would have been suspected from its appearance. It shot ahead.
Presently he looked back and smiled; the grey car was following behind. Smothered in dust, the little red car leaped along the road. It was travelling now at a dangerous pace, but the Comte was a first-class driver. Now they were going down hill, twisting and curving unceasingly. Presently the car slackened speed, and finally came to a
