CHAPTER IV RELATES SOME ASTOUNDING FACTS

The amazing discovery held us in speechless bewilderment.

The favourite 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 know what occurred during the quarter of an hour that immediately followed our astounding discovery. All I remember is that Ulrica, with 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 doctors arrived quickly, followed shortly afterwards 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 monsieur has been murdered."

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 secrets 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 of his having won so much money, and of his having 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 argued, no doubt have committed the deed either in the train, or in 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 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 discovery; while 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 their examination of Ulrica, myself and Felicita, my Italian maid, who had returned from her evening out, and knew nothing at all of the matter, the police made a most vigorous 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——"

That was all. 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, as 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 London, 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 of 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, where he gazed for the last time upon the dead face of his friend.

This tragic event had naturally cast a gloom over both Ulrica and myself. We were both nervous and apprehensive, ever debating the mysterious reason which caused Reggie to enter out sitting-room in our absence. Surely he had some very strong motive, or he would not have gone 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, to whom gains and losses were alike—at least, he displayed no outward sign of satisfaction other than 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 has 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 to leave no stone unturned in their efforts to discover the murderer, who, 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 had conspired to murder him.

Gerald was furious, but we were powerless to protect ourselves against the cruel calumnies of such torchons.

The official inquiry, held next day, after the post-mortem examination had been made, revealed absolutely nothing. Even the cause of death puzzled the doctors. There was a slight cut in the corner of the mouth, so small that it might have been accidentally caused while he had been eating, and beyond a slight scratch behind the left ear there was no abrasion of the skin—no wound of any kind. On the neck, however, were two strange marks, like the marks of a finger and a thumb, which pointed to strangulation, yet the medical examination failed to establish that as a fact. He died from some cause which could not be determined. It might, indeed, the doctors admitted, have been almost described as a natural death, but for the fact that the notes were missing, which pointed so very markedly to murder.

That same evening, as the winter sun was sinking behind the Esterels, we followed the dead man's remains to their resting-place in the English cemetery, high up in the olive groves of Caucade—perhaps one of the most beautiful and picturesque burial-places in the world. Winter and summer it is always a blaze of bright flowers, and the view over the olive-clad slope and the calm Mediterranean beyond is one of the most charming in all the Riviera.

The English chaplain of the Rue de France performed the last rites, and then, turning sorrowfully away, we drove back, full of gloomy thoughts, to Nice.

The puzzling incident had crushed all gaiety from our hearts. I suggested that we should immediately go on to Mentone, but Ulrica declared that it was our duty to remain where we were and give the police what assistance we could in aiding them to solve what seemed an inscrutable mystery. Thus the days which followed were days of sadness and melancholy. We ate in our own room to avoid the gaze of the curious, for all in Nice now knew the tragic story, and as we passed in and out of the hotel we overheard many whisperings.

As for myself, I had a double burden of sorrow. In those hours of deep thought and sadness, I reflected that poor Reggie was a man who might, perhaps, have become my husband. I did not love him in the sense that the average woman understands love. He was a sociable companion, clever, smart in dress and gait, and altogether one of those easy men of the world who appeal strongly to a woman of my own temperament. When I placed him in comparison with Ernest, however, I saw that I could never have actually entertained a real affection for him. I loved Ernest with a wild, passionate love, and all others were now, and would ever be, as naught to me. I cared not that he had forsaken me in favour of that ugly, tow-haired witch. I was his. I felt that I must at all hazards see him again.

I was sitting at the open window one afternoon, gazing moodily out upon the Square Massena, when Ulrica suddenly said:

"Curious that we've seen nothing more of Ernest. I suppose, however, you've forgotten him."

"Forgotten him!" I cried, starting up. "I shall never forget him—never!"

In that instant I seemed to see his dark, handsome face before me, as of old. It was in the golden blaze of a summer sunset. I heard his rich voice in my ears. I saw him pluck a sprig of jasmine, emblem of purity, and give it to me, at the same time whispering words of love and devotion. Ah, yes, he loved me then—he loved me!

I put up my hand to shut out the vision. I rose, and staggered. Then I felt Ulrica's soft hand upon my waist.

"Carmela! Carmela!" she cried, "what's the matter? Tell me, dear!"

"You know," I answered hoarsely. "You know, Ulrica, that I love him!" My voice was choked within me, so deep was my distress. "And he is to marry—to marry that woman!"

"My dear, take my advice and forget him," she said lightly. "There are lots of other men whom you could love quite as well. Poor Reggie, for instance, might have filled his place in your heart. He was charming—poor fellow! Your Ernest treated you as he has done all women. Why make yourself miserable and wear out your heart remembering a past which it is quite unnecessary to recall. Live, as I do, for the future, without mourning over what must ever be bygones."

"Ah! that's all very well," I said sadly. "But I can't help it. That woman loves him—every woman loves him! You yourself admired him long ago."

"Certainly. I admire lots of men, but I have never committed the folly of loving a single one."

"Folly!" I cried angrily. "You call love folly!"

"Why, of course," she laughed. "Do dry your eyes, or you'll look an awful sight when Gerald comes. He said he would go for a walk with us on the Promenade at four—and it's already half-past three. Come, it's time we dressed."

I sighed heavily. Yes, it was true that Ulrica was utterly heartless towards those who admired her. I had with regret noticed her careless attitude times without number. She was a smart woman who thought only of her own good looks, her own toilettes, her own conquests, and her own amusements. Men pleased her by their flattery, and she therefore tolerated them. She had told me this long ago with her own lips, and had urged me to follow her example.

"Ulrica," said I at last, "forgive me, forgive me, but I am so unhappy. Don't let us speak of him again. I will try and forget, indeed I will—I will try to regard him as dead. I forgot myself—forgive me, dear."

"Yes, forget him, there's a dear," she said, kissing me. "And now call Felicita, and let us dress. Gerald hates to be kept waiting, you know," and carelessly she began humming the refrain of the latest chanson:

        "Mandoli, Mandoli, Mandola,
Viens par-ci, viens par-là, ma brune!
Laisse le vieux jaloux qui t'importune,
        Mandoli, Mandoli, Mandola,
        Le temps fuit et voilà la lune,
C'est l'heure des baisers au clair de lune."