Part 12

Steppe had seen the notice but had not read it. If it had not been affixed! One turn of the handle and every paper would have been reduced to a black pulp. He tried to remember what was stored in the cursed thing. There were drafts, memoranda, letters from illicit agents, a record of certain transactions which would not look well--the Mackenzie report! Later he remembered the photograph in the sealed envelope. Why had Sault gone to the safe? The report he had had from the police--they had been with him for the best part of the morning--was to the effect that Sault had been arrested at the moment he was swinging the dials. What was Sault after? He could not read: only documents were in the safe.

A footman appeared. "Who?--Morelle--show him in."

Ronnie was looking wan and tired. He had not recovered from his fright.

"Well? I got your 'phone call. Don't 'phone me, d'ye hear--never! You get people listening in at any time; just now the exchanges will be stiff with detectives. What were you trying to tell me when I shut you up?"

"About Sault--he came to me last night."

"Huh! Fine thing to talk about on the 'phone! Did you tell the police?"

"No, and I've ordered François to say nothing. After Sault went, I sent François to--to Moropulos' house. I knew Sault was going there."

"How did you know? And why did he come to you anyway?"

The answer Ronnie had decided upon after much cogitation. "Oh--a rambling statement about Moropulos. I couldn't make head or tail of it. He said he was going to the house; I was afraid of trouble, so I sent François."

"You knew Moropulos was in Hampshire--I told you they were both there."

"I'd forgotten that. I don't want to come into this, Steppe--"

"What you 'want', matters as much to me as what your François wants. If Sault says he came to your flat--but he won't. He'll say nothing--nothing."

He looked keenly at the other. "That was all he said, huh? Just a rambling statement? Not like Sault that, he never rambles. Did he tell you that he killed Moropulos?"

Ronnie hesitated.

"He did! Try to speak the truth, will you? So he told you he had killed the Greco?"

"I didn't take him seriously. I thought he must be joking--"

"Fine joke, huh? Did Sault ever pull that kind of joke? You're not telling me the truth, Morelle--you'd better. I'm speaking as a friend. What did he come to talk to you about, huh? He never even knew you--had no dealings with you. Why should he come to you after he'd committed a murder?"

"I've told you what happened," said Ronnie desperately.

Again the quick scrutiny. "Well--we shall see."

Ronald waited for a dismissal.

"That sounds like the doctor's voice," he said suddenly.

Steppe strode to the door and opened it.

"Why, Beryl, what brings you out? Good morning, doctor--yes, very bad news."

Beryl came past him and went straight to Ronald. "Did you see him, Ronnie--did he come to you?"

"To me--of course not. I hardly knew him."

"Don't lie," said Steppe impatiently, "we're all friends here. What makes you think he went to Morelle, Beryl?"

"I wondered."

"But you must have had some reason?"

She met the big man's eyes coldly. "Must I be cross-examined? I had a feeling that he had been to Ronnie. I don't know why--why does one have these intuitions?"

"We saw it in the morning papers," explained the doctor. "I am fearfully worried; poor Moropulos, it is dreadful."

Steppe smiled unpleasantly. "He is the least troubled of any of us," he said callously, "and the next least is Sault. I saw the detective who arrested him. He said Sault went straight to sleep the moment they put him into the cell, and woke this morning cheerful. He must have nerves of iron."

"Can anything be done for him, Mr. Steppe?"

"He shall have the best lawyer--that Maxton fellow. He ought to be retained. As far as money can help, I'll do everything possible. I don't think it will make a scrap of difference."

"Mr. Steppe, you knew what an evil man Moropulos was: you know the provocation he offered to Ambrose Sault, isn't it possible that the same cause that made him kill this man, also sent him to the safe?"

"What safe is this--was that in the newspapers too?"

"Yes: he was not a thief, was he? He would not be trying to open the safe for the sake of getting money? He came to get something that Moropulos had."

"I wonder--" Steppe was impressed. "It may have been the photograph."

Ronnie checked the exclamation that terror wrung. He was livid.

"Do you know anything about a photograph?" asked Steppe with growing suspicion.

"No." Here Beryl came to the rescue.

When he saw her lips move, Ronnie expected worse.

"Whatever it was, I am sure that the safe holds the secret: Ambrose would not kill a man unless--unless there was no other solution. Won't you open the safe, Mr. Steppe?"

"I'll be damned if I do!" he vociferated violently. "There is nothing there which would save him."

"Or justify him--or show the Greek as being what he was?"

Steppe could not answer this: he had another comment to offer. His attitude toward her had changed slightly since the big diamond had blazed upon her engagement finger: a reminder of obligations past and to come.

"You're taking a hell of an interest in this fellow, Beryl?"

"I shall always take a hell of an interest in every matter I please," she said, eyeing him steadily. "Unless you satisfy me that nothing has been left undone that can be done for Ambrose, I shall go into the witness box and swear to all that I know."

"My dear--" Her father's expostulation she did not hear.

Steppe broke into it. "There is something about this business which I don't understand. You and Moropulos and this fellow dined together once--or didn't you? Sounds mighty queer, but I won't enquire--now."

"You'll open the safe?"

"No!" Steppe's jaw set like a trap. "Not to save Sault or any other man! There is nothing there to save him, I tell you. But if there was--I wouldn't open it. Get that into your mind, all of you."

She regarded him thoughtfully, and then Ronnie. He looked in another direction.

"I am taking the car, father."

Even Steppe did not ask her where she was going.

III

Christina had known in the middle of the night when the police came to search Sault's room. A detective of high rank had been communicative; she heard the story with a serenity which filled the quaking Evie with wonder. If her face grew of a sudden peaked, a new glory glowed in her eyes.

Mrs. Colebrook wept noisily and continued to weep throughout the night. Christina meditated upon an old suspicion of hers, that her mother regarded Ambrose Sault as being near enough the age of a lonely widow woman, to make possible a second matrimonial venture. This view Evie held definitely.

"Oh, Chris--my dear, I am so sorry," whimpered the younger girl, when the police had taken their departure. "And I've said such horrid things about him. Chris, poor darling, aren't you feeling awful--I am."

"Am I feeling sorry for Ambrose? No." Christina searched her heart before she went on. "I'm not sorry. Ambrose was so inevitably big. Something tremendous must come to him: it couldn't be otherwise."

"I was afraid something might happen." Evie shook her head wisely. "This Greek man was very insulting. Ronnie told me that. And if poor Ambrose lost his temper--"

"Ambrose did not lose his temper," Christina interrupted brusquely. "If Ambrose killed him, he did it because he intended doing it."

"In cold blood!" Evie was horrified.

"Yes: Ambrose must have had a reason. He tells me so--don't gape, Evie, I'm not delirious. Ambrose is here. If I were blind and deaf and he sat on this bed he would be here, wouldn't he? Presence doesn't depend on seeing or hearing or even feeling. He'd be here if he was not allowed to touch me. Go back to bed, Evie. I'm sleepy and I want to dream."

Beryl arrived soon after eleven. Evie was out and Mrs. Colebrook, red-eyed, brought her up to the bedroom. Christina was sure the girl would come and had got up and dressed in readiness.

Some time went by before they were alone. Mrs. Colebrook had her own griefs to express, her own memories to retail. She left at last singultient in her woe.

"Do you think you are strong enough to come to the house?" asked Beryl. "I could call for you this afternoon. Perhaps you could stay with me for a few days. I feel that I want you near to me."

This, without preliminary. They were too close to the elementals to pick nice paths to their objectives. They recognized and acknowledged their supreme interests as being common to both.

"Mother would be glad to get rid of me for a day or two," said Christina.

"And I am sending my father abroad," nodded Beryl, with a faint smile. "When shall I come?"

"At three. You have not seen him?"

Beryl shook her head.

"They are taking him into the country. We shall never see him again," she said simply. "He will not send for us. I am trying to approach it all in the proper spirit of detachment. He is a little difficult to live up to--don't you feel that?"

"If I say 'no' you will think I am eaten up with vanity," said Christina with a quick smile. "I am rather exalted at the moment, but the reaction will come perhaps, in which case I shall want to hang on to your understanding."

At three o'clock the car arrived. Mrs. Colebrook saw her daughter go without regret. Christina was unnatural. She had not shed a tear. Mrs. Colebrook had heard her laughing and had gone up in a hurry to deal with hysteria, only to find her reading Stephen Leacock. She was appalled.

"I am surprised at you, Christina! Here is poor--Mr. Sault in prison--" Words failed her, she could only make miserable noises.

"Mother has given me up," said Christina, when she was lying on a big settee in Beryl's room, her thin hand outstretched to the blaze. "Mother is a sort of female Hericletos--she finds her comfort in weeping."

Beryl was toasting a muffin at the fire.

"I wish it were a weeping matter," she said, and went straight to the subject uppermost in her mind. "Moropulos took a photograph of me coming from Ronald Morelle's flat. I had spent the night there." She looked at the muffin and turned it. "Moropulos was--nasty. He must have told Ambrose that he knew."

Christina stirred on the sofa. "Did Ambrose know?"

"Yes: I told him. Not the name of the man, but he guessed, I think--I know the photograph was in the safe. He went to Ronnie. Perhaps to kill him. I imagine Ronnie lied for his life. The police were looking for Ambrose. The--killing of Moropulos was discovered by a man who heard the shot and the car had just passed through Woking after the police had been warned. A detective saw the car outside Ronnie's flat and followed it. I don't know all the details. Father has seen the inspector in charge of the case. Do you like sugar in your tea?"

"Two large pieces," said Christina, "I am rather a baby in my love of sugar. Do you love Ronnie very much, Beryl--you don't mind?"

"No--please. Love him? I suppose so: in a way. I despise him, I think he is loathsome, but there are times when I have a--wistful feeling. It may be sheer ungovernable--you know. Yet--I would make no sacrifice for Ronnie. I feel that. I have made no sacrifice. Women are hypocrites when they talk of 'giving': they make a martyrdom of their indulgence. Some women. And it pleases them to accept the masculine view of their irresponsibility. They love sympathy. For Ambrose I would sacrifice--everything. It is cheap to say that I would give my life. I have given more than my life. So have you."

Christina was silent.

"I have faced--everything," Beryl went on. She was sitting on a cushion between Christina and the fire, her tea cup in her hands. "You have also--haven't you, Christina?"

"About Ambrose? Yes. He has passed. The law will kill him. He expects that. I think he would be uncomfortable if he was spared. He told me once, that all the way out to New Caledonia, he grieved about the people who had been guillotined for the same offense as he had committed. The unfairness of it! He never posed. Can you imagine him posing? I've seen him blush when I joked about that funny little trick of his; have you noticed it? Rubbing his chin with the back of his hand?"

Beryl nodded.

"He said he had tried to get out of the habit," Christina continued. "No, Ambrose couldn't pretend, or do a mean thing; or lie. I'm getting sentimental, my dear. Ambrose was distressed by sentimentality. Mother kissed his hand the day I stood for the first time. He was so bewildered!"

They laughed together.

"Are you marrying Steppe?" asked Christina. She felt no call to excuse the intimacy of the question.

"I suppose so. There are reasons. At present he is rather impersonal. As impersonal as a marriage certificate or a church. I have no imagination perhaps. I shall not tell him. You don't think I should--about Ronnie, I mean?"

Christina shook her red head. "No. As I see it, no. If you must marry him, you are doing enough without handing him another kind of whip to flog you with."

"I told Ambrose: that was enough," said Beryl. "My conscience was for him. Steppe wants no more than he gives."

The clock chimed five.

Ambrose at that moment was passing through the black gates of Wechester County Prison and Ronald Morelle was taking tea with Madame Ritti.

IV

Madame lived in a big house at St. John's Wood. A South American minister had lived there, and had spent a fortune on its interior adornment. Reputable artists had embellished its walls and ceilings, and if the decorations were of the heavy florid type, it is a style which makes for grandeur. The vast drawing-room was a place of white and gold, of glittering candelabras and crimson velvet hangings. How Madame had come to be its possessor is a long and complicated story. The minister was recalled from London on the earnest representations of the Foreign Office and a budding scandal was denied its full and fascinating development.

Madame had many friends, and her house was invariably full of guests. Some stayed a long time with her. She liked girls about her, she told the innocent vicar who called regularly, and might have been calling still, if his wife had not decided that if Madame required any spiritual consolation, she would put her own pew at her disposal.

Her object (confessed Madame) was to give her guests a good time. She succeeded. She gave dances and entertained lavishly. She made one stipulation: that her visitors should not play cards. There was no gambling at Alemeda House. The attitude of the police authorities toward Madame Ritti's establishment was one of permanent expectancy. Good people, people with newspaper names, were guests of hers: there was nothing furtive or underhand about her parties. Nobody had ever seen a drunken man come or go. The guests were never noisy only--Madame's girl guests were many. And none of the people who came to the dances were women.

Madame was bemoaning the skepticisms of the authorities to Ronnie.

She was a very stout woman, expensively, but tastefully dressed. Her lined face was powdered, her lips vividly red. A duller red was her hair, patently dyed. Dyed hair on elderly women has the effect of making the face below seem more fearfully old. She wore two ropes of pearls and her hands glittered.

Ronnie always went to Madame Ritti in his moments of depression; he had known her since he was little more than a schoolboy. She had a house in Pimlico then, not so big or so finely furnished, but she had girl guests.

"You know, Ronnie, I try to keep my house respectable. Is it not so? One tries and tries and it is hard work. Girls have so little brain. They do not know that men do not really like rowdiness. Is it not so? But these policemen--oh, the dreadful fellows! They question my maids--and it is so difficult to get the right kind of maid. Imagine! And the maids get frightened or impertinent," she laid the accent on the last syllable. She was inclined to do this, otherwise her English was perfect.

The door opened and a girl lounged in. She was smoking a cigarette through a holder--a fair, slim girl, with a straight fringe of golden hair over her forehead.

Ronnie smiled and nodded.

"Hello, Ronnie--where have you been hiding?"

Madame snorted. "Is it thus you speak? 'Hello, Ronnie,' my word! And to walk in smoking! Lola, you have to learn."

"I knew nobody else was here," replied the girl instantly apologetic, "I'm awfully sorry, Madame."

She hid the cigarette behind her and advanced demurely.

"Why, it is Mr. Morelle! How do you do?"

"That is better, much better," approved Madame, nodding her huge head. "Always modesty in girls is the best. Is it not so, Ronnie? To rush about, fla--fla--fla!" Her representation of gaucherie was inimitable. "That is not good. Men desire modesty. Especially Englishmen. Americans, also. The French are indelicate. Is it not so? Men wish to win; if you give them victory all ready, they do not appreciate it. That will do, Lola."

She dismissed the girl with a stately inclination of her head.

"What have you been doing? We have not seen you for a very long time. You have other engagements? You must be careful. I fear for you sometimes," she patted his arm. "You will come tonight? You must dress, of course. I do not receive men who are not in evening dress. Grand habit, you understand? The war made men very careless. The smoking jacket--tuxedo--what do you call it? and the black tie. That is no longer good style. If you are to meet ladies, you must wear a white bow and the white waistcoat with the long coat. I insist upon this. I am right, is it not so? All the men wear grand habit nowadays. What do you wish, Ronnie?"

"Nothing in particular; I thought I would come along. I am feeling rather sick of life today."

She nodded. "So you come to see my little friends. That is nice and they will be glad. All of them except Lola; she is going out to dinner tonight with a very great friend. You know your way: they are playing baccarat in the little salon. It amuses them and they only play for pennies."

Ronnie strolled off to seek entertainment in the little salon.

He was rung up at his flat that evening four times. At midnight Steppe called him up again.

"M'sieur, he has not returned. No, M'sieur, not even to dress."

Madame Ritti, for all the rigidity of her dress regulations, made exceptions seemingly.

Ronald was sleeping soundly when Steppe strolled into his room and let up the blind with a crash.

"Hullo?" Ronnie struggled up. "What time is it?"

"Where were you last night?" Steppe's voice was harsh, contumelious. "I spent the night ringing you up. Have the police been here?"

"Police, no. Why should they?"

"Why should they!" mimicked the visitor, "because Sault stopped his car before the entrance of these flats. Luckily, they are not sure whether he went in or not. The detective who saw the car did not notice where Sault had come from. They asked me if there was anybody in Knightsbridge he would be likely to visit, and I said 'no', d'ye hear? No! I can't have you in their hands, Morelle. A cur like you would squeal and they would find out why he came. _And I don't want to know_."

The dark eyes bent on Ronnie were glittering.

"You hear? I don't want to know. Moropulos is dead. In a week or two Sault will be dead and Beryl will be married. Why in hell do you jump?"

Ronnie affected a yawn and reached out for his dressing gown.

"Of course I jumped," he was bold to say, even if he quaked inwardly. "You come thundering into my room when I'm half asleep and talk about police and Moropulos. Ugh! I haven't your nerve. If you want to know, Sault came here to ask me where you were. I thought he was a little mad and told him you were out of town."

"You're a liar--a feeble liar! Get up!"

He stalked out of the room slamming the door behind him, and when Ronnie joined him, he was standing before the mantelpiece scowling at the Anthony.

"Now listen. They will make enquiries and it is perfectly certain that they will trace you as being a friend of Moropulos. I want to keep out of it, and so do you. At present they cannot connect me with the case except that I had dealings with Moropulos. So had hundreds of others. If they get busy with you they will turn you inside out; I don't want you to get it into your head that I'm trying to save you trouble. I'm not. You could roast in hell and I'd not turn the hose on to you! I'm thinking of myself and all the trouble I should have if the police got you scared. Sault didn't come here, huh? Was anybody here beside you?" he asked quickly.

"Only François."

"Your servant!" Steppe frowned. "Can you trust him?"

Ronnie smiled.

"François is discreet," he said complacently.

A shadow passed across Steppe's dark face.

"About the women who come here, yes; but with the police? That is different. Bring him in."

"I assure you, my dear fellow--"

"Bring him here!" roared the other.

Ronnie pressed a bell sulkily.

"François, you were here in the flat on Saturday night, huh?"

"Yes, M'sieur."

"You had no visitors, huh?"

François hesitated.

"No visitors, François: you didn't open the door to Sault--you know Sault?" The man nodded.

"And if detectives come to ask you whether Sault was here, you will tell them the truth--you did not see him. Your master had no visitors at all; you saw nobody and heard nobody."

He was looking into a leather pocketbook as he spoke, fingering the notes that filled one compartment.

François' eyes were on the note case, too.

"Nobody came, M'sieur. I'll swear. I was in the pantry all evening."

"Good," said Steppe, and slipped out four notes, crushing them into a ball.

"Do you want to see me, today?" asked Ronnie, and his uncomfortable guest glared.

"Not today. Nor tomorrow, nor any day. Where were you last night?"

François retired in his discretion.

"I went to Brighton--"

"You went to Ritti's--that--!"

He did not attempt any euphemism. Madame Ritti's elegant establishment he described in two pungent words.

"God! You're--what are you? I'm pretty tough, huh? Had my gay times and known a few of the worst. But I've drawn a line somewhere. Sault in prison and Moropulos dead--and you at Ritti's! What a louse you are!"

He stalked into the hall, shouted for François and dropped the little paper ball into his hand. François closed the door on him respectfully.

"A beast--!" said Ronnie, disgusted.

V

Instructed by Steppe to defend him, a solicitor interviewed Ambrose Sault in his airy cell. He expected to find a man broken by his awful position. He found instead, a cheerful client who, when he was ushered into the cell, was engaged in covering a large sheet of paper with minute figures. A glance at the paper showed the wondering officer of the law that Sault was working out a problem in mathematics. It was, in fact, a differential equation of a high and complex character.