Checkmate

Auckland Star, Volume LXI, Issue 129, 3 June 1930, Page 16

Checkmate

By SYDNEY HORLER

CHAPTER- XXII. The Dreadful Thing. The prisoner listened with increasing apprehension whilst the letter was being read. If she had not been a fool she would have paid attention to the advice which Bobby had given her.' Now it was too late. "In case you should doubt the genuineness of this letter," the Comtesse said when she had concluded, "you can see the handwriting for yourself. One glance at the small neat script was sufficient. "We had an idea that your nephew fas likely to attempt to interfere with our plans and so we took measures accordingly. He was on his way up to this villa early yesterday morning with the object of inducing Mary.Mallory.to leave when ... well, why should I pursue a subject which must be very unpleasant to you? It is enough to add that at the present time Mr. Wingate is safely tucked away in a place from which it would take an army of soldiers to rescue him. Those who have been in charge of him merely await our word ... I trust I make myself clear?" "And now for your answer," quickly followed the man. Lady Wentworth, white to the lips, yet kept her head erect. "What you have told me does not make me alter my mind," she said. "Although that letter 4s in my nephew's handwriting I have more confidence in Mr. Wingate than to believe he would allow himself to fall into any trap set by you. He was already suspicious, for he had warned me that you were a criminal." "You still refuse?" Jose Santos fairly screamed the words. He waved his hands, which the prisoner noticed were gloved. "Yes—l still refuse, you scum." Then happened a very dreadful thing. The man drew a long knife from his pocket. Before he could be stopped he had rushed forward. . . .

With a long, convulsive shudder which shook her from liead to foot, Mary returned to consciousness. The immediate past was so packed with terror that she almost. hated to see the light streaming in through the window. She raised her left arm. She was fully dressed. Then what had happened? The last memory she had was of being in bed with that horrible doctor bending over her. "You are somewhat unduly excited and require calming," the beast had said —how vividly she could recall the words! —"and so I must give you something to.quieten your nerves." Withthat had come the sharp prick of a hypodermic needle again—she was becoming used to this particular momentary pain—and then forgetfulness. Had she dressed herself? She could not remember. Where had they taken her? She looked round. This room was familiar; it was one of the ground-floor apartments in the Villa Graciosa. Then she had not been taken away; she was still at home. "Home". . . how grotesquely ironical the name sounded! She was still frightfully weak. Every ounce of strength seemed to have been drained from her. Even the simple action of raising her left arm had been exhausting. But she must get up. Every minute was valuable. She had to inform the police: +hat devil-woman, the Comtesse Zamoyski, had got Lady Wentworth into her power and. . . . She suppressed the cry of fear that rose to her lips, and endeavoured to scramble to her feet.

What was that? Dear God, what was it?

Mary stared horrified at the longbladed knife which had fallen from her right hand. She had been holding that knife; her fingers had been clenched about the handle. There was no doubt about it. When she had started to put her hand flat on the floor in order to get the necessary leverage to rise, the thing had slipped out of her fingers. She had been holding that knife. . that knife on whose blade was a ghastly smear. . . .

With a scream that could not be controlled, she sprang up. Fear had now lent her the necessai-y strength. One look behind her and she lurched backwards, her whole body throbbing and her hands placed tightly against her mouth. She must have gone mad. That inanimate Thing, lying stiff in death, was Lady Wentworth. She had tried to save her, but must have failed.

They had killed the old lady, murdered her. .. . That wound in the breast. . . . Then why had she been left there? It was horrible, horrible! But she must not faint. She had to keep her strength. They might still be in the villa, and they would try to prevent her getting to the telephone in order to speak to the police. A feeling of dondly nausea attacked her as she started to walk to the door, but she fought it. A confused series of noises outside made her hold on to a chair for support. Her heart seemed to turn over. In her present exhausted state, what chance would she have against them? Then, whilst she was endeavouring to get something of a fresh grip upon herself, the door burst open and a man entered. He was in uniform, and wore the regulation dress of a sergent de ville. A French policeman! v

She listened stupidly. "Do you mean that I am to be charged with this dreadful crime?" she gasped.

The sergent de ville, an aggressive looking man with reddish hair and a long moustache, the ends of which he continually caressed, looked at her ith avid suspicion. "I say nothing—as yet, Mademoiselle. Allow me to read over the notes that I have made. Your name, you say, is Mary Mallory." "Yes." "You are English by birth." "Yes." „ "Your age is 24 years. "Yes." "You have been acting as companion in this villa to a Comtesse Zamoyski.' "That is correct." "I find the house empty—why is that?" , "I cannot-tell you—T have been ill.

"Mademoiselle, I regret to have to inform you that you must consider yourself under arrest." The sergent de ville closed his notebook with a snap. "I go now to telephone to my superiors. Should you make any attempt to escape, I give warning that I shall be compelled to deal roughly with you." The world swam about her as he left the room.

The Juge d'lnstruction ran his fingers through his doormat of a beard, looked round like an actor sensing the "feel" of a theatre crowd, and sat down noisily. "This is a terrible crime—a scandal to Cannes." The Commissaire of Police, who had accompanied him to the Villa Graciosa, nodded vehemently. It is politic for Commissaires of Police to agree with their superiors. There were four people in that room of tragedy. Three were men, foreigners at that, and the fourth was a girl — herself. The entire resources of the law whi-ch these three men represented—and they were tremendous — were arrayed against a girl who was entirely alone. Mary had become so stupefied by shock that ever since the sergent de ville had made his unexpected entry into that same room, hours before, her brain had been too benumbed for thought. She was like one in a trance. Even now she could scarcely realise the full significance of what was taking place. Her dominant impression was one not so much of fear but of utter, terrible loneliness.

"It is my duty to inquire into all the circumstances of this terrible crime," announced the Juge d'lnstruction, looking round at the chair in which Mary had been told to sit. "Now please tell me your story as simply as possible. But, first, I ask you one all-important question: Did you kill this Englishwoman, Lady Wentworth?" "No." "Well, now tell me your story." As the tragic narrative proceeded, the Juge d'lnstruction made many interruptions. One of these was devastating in its effect upon her. "You say you did not know that Monsieur Wingate was the nephew of the dead woman." Mary gasped. This was the final blow. She felt that nothing that might happen in the future could matter now. She closed her eyes to shut out all sight of this cruel and horrible world. "Answer me. Mademoiselle!" rasped the police official. "No—l swear I did not know it." Then came another painful query. "If, as you say, this Monsieur Wingate is a friend of yours, why have you not sent for him?" "Because —" "Yes, Mademoiselle?" "Because, in the first place, I have been unable to think—"

"That is understandable," said the official, looking across at the Commissaire, who nodded in agreement after making sympathetic noises in his throat. -"And in the second place, Mademoiselle?" pursued the Juge d'lnstruction. The words were purred, and to Mary's excited fancy, the man seated at -the table, acting as her judge, took on the shape of a great cat, making ready to spring. What sympathy he might have towards her had been quickely stifled. Yet she replied. "There had been a misunderstanding between Mr. Wingate and myself. He had snubbed me in the casino." "So! And why did he snub you, Mademoiselle ?" "I cannot tell you, unless it was because 'he saw me seated next to 'his aunt playing baccarat." A look was exchanged . between the Juge d'lnstruction and the Commissaire., "Apparently he objected to you being associated with Lady Wentworth ?" The remark seemed full of menace. "I could. not say. But he had no reason to object except—"

"Yes, Mademoiselle?" encouraged the official, his pen poised. ' "That I was connected—although innocently connected —with the woman who called herself the Comtesse Zamoyski." She felt strength returning to her. "Where is that woman?" she continued. "It is she you should cross-examine." "Unfortunately, she is not here." "Where is the man Santos, then, whom she said was her nephew? It was he who was to be the thief." "Alas! Mademoiselle, he, too, ha 6 vanished." "There was a girl they called Nadia, and a man with glasses who professed to be a doctor—where are they?" The official's smile irritated her intensely.

"Perhaps you think that these people exist only in my imagination — that I have invented them?" "I would not be so ungallant. No doubt there are such people—but they do not happen to be here." "But I am—therefore, I am bound to be the murderess? Monsieur, lam innocent, and I will'not tolerate such treatment. I demand to be represented by a lawyer—an English lawyer, if there is one in Cannes." "Justice shall be done, assuredly," was the reply in a somewhat heated tone. "I will myself give you the name and address of an eminent avocat. But there are some more questions to be answered first, if you please." "I repeat I know nothing beyond what I have already told you." The man pounced on the reply. "Do you deny first telephoning and then writing. a letter to the manager of the Chester Hotel last night ?" Mary gave a short, tragic'laugh. "I was too ill to be able to do anything of the kind even if I had wanted to—the man who claimed to be a doctor made me unconscious through a drug. He used a hypodermic needle—l must have the mark." She drew up the sleeve of her dress. Against the white skin of the upper part of her left arm, a small red spot showed distinctly. "Now will you believe me?" she asked passionately. The Commissionaire of Police coughed. Then he caught the eye of the Juge d'lnstruction. The latter beckoned to him and the two conferred together. Finally:

"Is it permitted to inquire if Mademoiselle has contracted the unfortunate habit of taking drugs?"' asked the Juge d'lnstruction. At first the full significance of the question did not occur to Mary, but when it did she felt she would go mad. "It is an abominable question," she said; "how dare you insult me by asking it?" "Mademoiselle," returned the official sternly, "I am here to inquire into the brutal murder of a defenceless and harmless woman, and I have the power to put any question I may think fit. I ask you again if you are in the habit of taking drugs ?" "Certainly not. This mark was made by the point of the hypodermic needle which that doctor used on me last night." "Describe this doctor," came the order.

Mary outlined the more saliant characteristics of the man whose touch she loathed. Again the Commissaire coughed. Again he caught the eye of the Juge destruction, who beckoned to him, and again the two conferred. At last: "What you have just eaid, Mademoiselle, certainly throws a somewhat different light on the matter," he started platitudinously, "but there remains much to be explained from your point of view. Ask M. Carou to step inside," he instructed the waiting Sergent de Ville. (To be continued daily.) j