She cried out: “Entrez, s’ll vous Plait!” And thought of how ridiculous such amenities were in this sanguinary situation. Then she waited.
In a moment, after she had heard the door open, she realized it could not have been Black Burton and Vivian. A man’s step had halted in the outer hall. She heard a whispered:
“Sacre nom de Dieu!” Then: “Madamoiselle!”
Staring out, she saw the man. What should the manager of the Cercle Tabarin be doing here? Now!
For Monsieur Jules Peret was standing there in the hall, standing and staring down at the dead man, a look of commingled amazement and horror on his fleshy features. In his hand he was holding a small brief-case which appeared forgotten in his astonishment.
The girl found herself exclaiming: “Monsieur Peret! Why have you come here — now?”
He raised his liquid eyes slowly from contemplation of the corpse. Peret was a man of medium height, inclined to fleshiness and pomposity, in his dapper manner an unfailingly calm, suave assurance. It was part of his profession in life to maintain that manner. He raised well manicured fingertips to his tiny mustache, managed:
“Mais! What can this mean, madamoiselle?”
Her voice was strained. “You can see what it means! Monsieur Descamps evidently came here during my absence and someone killed him. I didn’t come directly home after I left the Cercle. But when I did I entered to find him just as you see. But why have you come here at this hour?”
For answer he held up the small briefcase he had been carrying. Stammering somewhat:
“But a thousand pardons, madamoiselle! You forgot your winnings of tonight. And you gave no instructions that they be held for you. I took it upon myself, after conferring with Monsieur Lavergne, to bring them to you.”
Peret held out the case, flipped it open, then dumped onto the table just inside the library door a miscellaneous array of Banque de France notes. They were mostly all in large denominations. He was murmuring:
“If madamoiselle will recall she was rather distraite this evening. N’est-ce pas? We did not know. She left without the winnings. If now she will sign a receipt for me... for us...”
He jerked open a slip of paper, uncapped a fountain pen. The girl, almost grateful that she had some distraction, glanced at a pile of mille franc notes, riffled through them absently, then took the pen and scrawled her name on the receipt form.
This, at least, was customary, she knew. And just now she did not want to call attention to the fact that she had been unduly distraught, as Peret had mentioned, about the time she had left Lavergne’s Cercle Tabarin, where this Jules Peret was manager.
She pushed the paper toward him, tried to swallow, and discovered her throat would not respond. Peret was still standing there, staring at her in a peculiarly penetrating way. Now he leaned forward and wispered:
“How did it happen, madamoiselle? Thieves? Or—”
The way he left the sentence trail off she had no difficulty in understanding. After all, the dead man had been her almost constant companion for weeks. Monaco, Monte Carlo and Nice and Juan-les-Pins — all knew them side by side.
She heard the gambling house manager say: “The police! Could you manage to tell me? Perhaps I could help. What was it that happen’?”
She stared at him; then finally her gaze focused. “I don’t know,” she said. “I came in and found him — that way. That’s all I can tell you — tell anyone!”
“Then there was no quarrel?”
“I’m trying to tell you that I hadn’t seen the man — not for hours!” she expostulated. “I came back here alone from — from Monsieur Lavergne’s place, found him here. That’s all I know.”
He looked at her narrowly. Bit his lip. Then he turned and looked down intently at the man in the corner. There was little of even the dignity of death in the way Rene Descamps lay sprawled. He had been shot twice, and obviously at close range. So close that it might even have been suicide — except that there was no weapon in sight. Peret moistened his over-red lips.
Just then sounds came from outdoors. Into the strained and straining silence that the girl felt surely must overwhelm her, came the echo of a familiar voice; and a wave of relief spread over her numbed senses.
Almost hysterically, forgetting that she was afraid, she ran to the door, flung it wide. Peret remained standing there, watching her. She heard the throaty whisper of Vivian’s haiclass="underline"
“Patricia! We—”
Then she was in the older woman’s arms and the pentup, hysterical sobs had broken free at last. Peret stood motionless.
Behind the beautiful woman who had entered came the dark, tall figure of Stuart Burton. Peret had scant need for asking his identity. Black Burton was known.
As he threw off the dark slouch hat he was wearing the yellow radiance of the foyer light glinted on the burnished jet black of the gambler’s hair. Under that same dark jet cap the eyes of the man took in the entire scene. Yet not a muscle of his features moved. His eyes slid over Peret without lingering more than an instant.
Vivian Burton was almost as tall as her husband, very lovely in a youth that it seemed she might never relinquish. Her dark hair had a midnight softness under the wisp of scarf she had flung over it. Somehow it matched her eyes, deeply violet, understanding. She was comforting:
“Lucky Stuart happened to get in tonight ahead of his own itinerary. Tell us all about it.”
Her glance questioned faintly the manager of the Tabarin. Hastily Particia Blaine introduced them.
Peret said: “Of course one has heard of Monsieur Burton! And one has had the honor before of being presented to madame!”
Vivian seemed uninterested in the formalities. She merely nodded, then turned the girl away from the scene. Burton nodded to Peret, stepped forward and stood bending over the corpse. He made no attempt to touch the murdered man. In a moment he straightened and looked at Peret.
“Who is he?”
Peret told him the name. Burton made an impatient gesture. “What is he?”
Peret shrugged. “We — that is, Monsieur Lavergne employed him. He had the — what you call? — the manner with the lady clientele. In a gambling establishment you will perceive that that is quite an essential. That is, to have on hand one or two gentlemen like him...”
“Do you mean,” the gambler interrupted, “that I’m to understand our corpse here was a gigolo?”
The word seemed to affright the manager of Cercle Tabarin. “Non, non, that is, not exactly, that, monsieur. Not quite that. But he was — shall we say? — at hand. And he has been very much attached to madamoiselle. There were even rumors this last week, that they might elope.” Peret shrugged his shoulders, smiled. “Tiens! It is that we both understand what rumors are; n’est-ce pas, Monsieur Burton?”
Burton only nodded jerkily, followed with his eyes the shadow made by his young wife and the miserable girl in the next room, turned back again to Peret.
“It couldn’t have been serious,” he said quietly. “Miss Blaine is to marry an American. A man I know.”
Peret nodded. “So I — so we understood.” He stood gazing solemnly down at the corpse. At last he sighed. “It will be most embarrassing for madamoiselle, of course. But, what would you? I happened to arrive here only moments before you came. An errand.” Peret, explaining, gestured to the pile of notes on the table beyond where they were standing. “So I wish if there is anything I can do to aid madamoiselle, you, her friend, will command me.”