rubicund and flawless, plump cheeks, dark shifty eyes, a perpetual grin and that telltale roll of flesh at the back of his neck. That man would be a day-by-day murderer if he could take out an insurance against being found out.”
Roger laughed.
“I hate the fellow myself,” he admitted, “but—”
Roger never finished his sentence. They all leaned forward to watch the unusual spectacle of the august-looking doorkeeper, with the silver chain around his neck, flying past the open doors. In his silk-stockinged legs and patent shoes the sight would have been ridiculous but for the man’s obvious anxiety.
“Looks like more trouble,” Roger muttered.
They all rose to their feet and trooped out into the passage. Only the ex-Mayor of La Bastide, who had begun to drink his wine, remained upon his stool. Several of the attendants were gathered around the door of the Directors’ room. In a moment or two Monsieur Thiers hastened out, crossed the corridor and entered the Salle de Jeu. They all crowded around a functionary from below, who appeared a moment later. He spoke a few rapid sentences and made his way towards Sloane.
“What’s wrong, Henry?” the latter asked.
“An accident or something serious up at the Royalty bar, Mr. Sloane,” the man answered. “They telephoned here for Doctor Grayson. He and his wife are dining with a party who have just gone into the Rooms. Monsieur Thiers has gone to fetch him.”
“The Royalty!” Sloane ejaculated. “I didn’t know it was open at this time of night.”
He swung around and reëntered the bar. Thornton was in the act of rising to his feet. Monsieur Pierre Viotti had settled down to the pleasant task of drinking his bottle of wine alone. He was crouching over the counter with squared shoulders and feet gripping the rungs of his stool, looking very much like a toad.
“Thornton,” Sloane announced, “there’s trouble up at the Royalty. Do you want to come and see what it is? My car is parked just outside.”
Thornton groaned.
“One of my last nights even to be broken into! Of course I’ll come, Sloane. I couldn’t keep away when there’s anything doing, but I was giving a supper party to Miss Saunders and a few of them.”
“There’s a new form of entertainment in Monte Carlo these nights,” Roger remarked bitterly.
Dalmorres put his head in at the door.
“Sloane,” he enquired, “where’s Mademoiselle Jeannine to-night?”
“Safely out of anything that may have happened, thank God,” was the fervent reply. “She’s dining with my aunt and two other women at the Villa. I’m going for her at half-past eleven.”
Dalmorres nodded.
“Going up to the Royalty?” he asked.
“Thornton and I are off there. Come along too, if you like.”
“I should like,” Dalmorres consented.
Arrived at the Royalty, they found a gendarme at the entrance who passed them in at once on a signal from Francis, the proprietor, who had hurried to the doorway. They passed up the garden and into the bar itself, both rooms of which were dimly lit. In one corner, the figure of a man lay stretched upon the floor. The doctor, who had already arrived, was kneeling by his side. Roger and his companions remained just inside the door, which Francis locked.
“What’s happened?” Sloane asked.
“Just as we were going to close, Mr. Sloane,” Francis told him, “a gentleman from Nice, Monsieur Viotti, came in with an American gentleman from the boat. They sat down and had drinks.”
“Were they sober?”
“Monsieur Viotti was quite sober. The American gentleman seemed fairly so, but after one whisky and soda he went kind of stupid. Monsieur Viotti did his best to stop him from having another. They had an argument and Monsieur Viotti got up and left him. The American was here by himself in that easy-chair over there. I didn’t wish to serve him anything else, so I went up to tell him that it was time we closed the bar. He used the worst language I have ever heard! Said he would stay here as long as he liked and demanded a bottle of whisky. We didn’t want any trouble, so we served him with one whisky and soda. He had a sip and when my back was turned he staggered over to the bar and filled his glass up with neat whisky. I turned around just in time to see him on his way back to his chair. I told him again that we wanted to close, but he only laughed. He began to try and tell me about the speak-easies in New York.”
“Who else was in the place?” Sloane asked.
“Not a soul, sir. Alberto left at eight and the last of the waiters went off about half an hour before Monsieur Viotti and the American gentleman arrived. Then Monsieur Viotti left me alone with him and I didn’t know how to get rid of him. At last I said that if he didn’t go, I was very sorry but I must telephone for the police. He took out a great pocketbook and began to brandish it, asked me if I knew who he was, said he was a New York millionaire, and he had come to spend one night in Monte Carlo so as to go to the bank early in the morning. He kept on waving his great pocketbook at me. Said he had eighty thousand dollars in it, and the purser wouldn’t give him the right rate of exchange, so he was going to change the whole of it here. While I was arguing with him and begging him to put his money away, the two lights I had left turned on in the place suddenly went out. I turned quickly around and I saw the shapes of two men who had entered. That was about all I could see of them. I called out but they made no answer. They came very quickly up the room and, before I could imagine what was going to happen, one of them flashed out a gun and held it to my ribs and caught me by the neck with the other hand.
“‘Come this way,’ he ordered me.”
“Rather a nasty one for you, Francis!” Sloane remarked. “I imagine you did as you were told.”
“Well, sir, I didn’t see what else I could do. I went. He pushed me through the door at the back of the bar and turned the key. He must have been here before to have known there was no other way out. I heard the American gentleman shout out—
“‘Turn on the lights!’
“Then I heard him shout again:
“‘Come on, you fellows. I don’t know who you are but have a drink!’
“After that I never heard a sound. I banged at the door and shouted, and at last I crawled through that small window and dropped into the other room, and there I got to the switches which are behind the hatstand, and turned them on. The American was lying on the floor just where his chair had been, groaning. His pocketbook was lying open by his side, absolutely empty.”
“And then?” Sloane asked.
“I telephoned for the doctor and the police. Two gendarmes came. One is outside. The other has gone to fetch the chief.”
The doctor came across the floor to them. He knew Roger and shook hands.
“Monte Carlo is getting as famous as Chicago,” he remarked.
“Is he dead?” Roger asked, pointing up the room.
The doctor shook his head.
“No, he is not dead or likely to die, unless he has bad luck. He has been drugged, and with such a powerful drug that its effect must have been almost instantaneous, and it has touched him up around the heart. I have dealt with that, though—I had something with me. I shall have to go back to the surgery—a matter of ten minutes only—and when I come back, the police had better fetch some one from the ship to look after him.”
“Had he really much money on him, I wonder?” Sloane queried.
“I know nothing about that,” the doctor replied.
“Last night, at that little night restaurant on the hill,” Dalmorres intervened, “he was telling every one what he told Francis—that