“The Evil Chateau”

King Country Chronicle, Volume XXVI, Issue 3439, 1 November 1932, Page 6

“The Evil Chateau”

□ By SYDNEY HORLER.

CHAPTER lII.—-(Continued.) The room seemed abominably hot, however, and he rose to lake off his overcoat. As he Hung the garment on the bed, something fell to the lloor. Stooping, he saw that it was the wallet he had found on the body of the murdered man. The shock was so great that he almost cried out. Incredible as it now appeared, he had completely forgotten about this wallet. He realised, of course, that no other hand but his own could have placed the thing in. his overcoat pockeT; but the surprise at finding he had possession of it was so overwhelming that lie was dazed until further reflection brought enlightenment. He urderstood then that the sense of horror at the risk of being arrested for a crime he had not committed had driven every other consideration temporarily out of his mind. This brought back a remembrance which was particularly distasteful. It was the Girl of the Baccarat Room undoubtedly who had watched him from the shadow of the quay wall. Was she a spy employed by the Casino? If the stories he had listened to in the lounge of the Chester Hotel could be believed, nothing was too fantastic in this connection. The Casino, into whose rapacious maw he had thrown every penny he possessed, was a world of its own. It made its own jaws and gave subservience to none. It employed many besides floor officials, croupiers and chefs de partie. Some of these people had mystery jobs. There were amongst them, he had been assured, many spies. No one, except the habitues, knew that these women —for a good percentage were women —acted as paid watchers. They dressed well, had a cosmopolitan manner and gambled at the tables like the ordinary patrons. But all this was so much make believe: their real purpose was .to watch those about whom the Casino officials might be suspicious.

If he were correct —and, although the truth was bitter, he felt he had at last made an accurate guess—this girl, whom he had thought so different from the rest, had been merely plying a hateful trade; there was only one worse.

He had heard —and here seemed the proof of it—that everyone who became a regular visitor to the Baccarat Room as he had done during the past week —was spied upon in an extraordinary astute but efficient manner. The Casino officials’ curiosity was omniverous—the hotel at which the man or woman in question was staying, how much they paid for their rooms, where they banked, the extent of their balance, the social position they held in their own country. All these details wer e noted. No doubt, he had attracted the notice of the officials and they had set this girl to watch him. That smile she has flashed him that afternoon as he had sat on the Groisette ... He was glad now he had ignored it. A spy! Well, it fitted in with the loathcsome place. He would get out of it — away from all its beastliness. But here reason cried out. It was easy enough to say what he would do. but it was another thing to put his resolve into practice. For a start he was penniless; he could not even pay his hotel bill, let alone plank down several pounds to be taken back In acute discomfort the thousand miles to London.

At this point Heritage’s glance fell on the wallet again. During the time he had .been threshing out the problem of the girl, he had ignored it. But now his hands were drawn to this piece of blood-streaked brown leather which less than an hour before, had cost a man his life.

That first quick look he had taken as he bent over the murdered man’s body had told him that the pocket book contained a fortune—but bow big this was he did not know until, after looking quickly round, for the fear of pry-

ing eyes was still weighing heavily on him, he took out the thick wad of notes and counted them.

It was a large wallet and it was thickly stuffed. When he had finished counting, the total came to nearly half a million francs. There was nothing but the money in the pocket book—no clue to the owner whatsoever. Five hundred thousand francs 1 over £4000! What didn’t it mean to him? That was his first thought. With this money he could become completely changed. He could command the world; he could be a conqueror instead of feeling vanquished. With this at the back of him, he could make a new start with every chance of success.

And Fate had done it? That same Fate which h e had been so busy reviling only a few hours before, had guided him to the spot where this purse of Fortunatus was waiting for him to pick up. You can’t steal!

it was the voice of conscience speaking. He turned on it with fierce anger, arguing: Can’L I? You’ll see! Haven’t I had every penny stolen—for what else can you call it? Those Casino hawks got it, anyway, and now I’ve got some of theirs. This money undoubtedly came out of the Casino—perhaps some of those notes even belonged to me. That was why the man was murdered. A crook must have watched him winning, followed him out of the Baccarat Room and then stabbed him with the intention of picking his pockets clean. When

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lie saw someone approaching, the thief developed a sudden panic and, afraid of being caught, left his spoils. All the same, you must play the game. Again the voice of conscience was speaking.

Play the game! Hadn’t he tried to play the game—and miserably failed? Hadn’t the cards been marked against him time after time? Had he had a single stroke of luck before this? Besides, the decision had been made for him; he dared not go to the police in the morning. He would be suspected of having committed the murder . ... lie might even be sent to that pet inferno of theirs, Devil’s Island

. . . . No, the first thing in the morning he was away. If he couldn’t get a seat for the train at Cook’s he would stand the whole thirty hours. He felt himself poisoned by the air of this place.

With that, he undressed and got into bed. But no sleep would come; every time the shutters rattled he imagined a strong detachment of the local gendarmerie were waiting in the grounds and every time a board creaked in the corridor outside it was, to his excited fancy, the manager of the hotel come to inform him that he was sorry but lie could no longer stay in the Chester as he was under grave suspicion of being a desperate criminal. Even when half past seven brought the garcon with the customary coffee and rolls, he studied the waiter carefully before allowing him to enter the ruum.

CHAPTER IV.—THE MYSTERY ENVELOPE.

The garcon had opened the shutters, letting in the glorious sunshine. Sitting up in bed, Stephen bathed in it as he ate the crisp rolls and fresh butter and drank the delicious coffee. Daylight had brought its reassurance; the fears of the night before had vanished to a great extent. Was he going to allow under-sized French policemen to monkey with him? Not likely! He was going away that day. The thought of getting back to wellremembered scenes—the snuggery in that little hotel in the Adelphi, the pub in St. Martin’s Lane where you could get such an astonishingly good lunch for a couple of bob; the walk along the Bayswater road at night. The cinema in Shatesbury Avenue which showed really intelligent films. He was insular ,no doubt, but give him England every time I Rather than continue to live here he’d prefer to starve in London, which he’d been the worst kind of fool ever to leave.

He finished the coffee with relish

* * * * “Entrez, please!” The pleasant voice of M. Caron, the hotel manager, called the invitation. He was sitting in his usual place in his spacious office. “Ah, Monsieur Heritage! I wish I see you well this morning? But need I ask? You English have the looks of the—what you say?—roboost.” “Oh, I’m not so bad, Mr Caron, thanks." A slight pause. “I’ve come to say that I must leave to-day.” A pair of expressive hands were raised. Heritage laughed.

“Don’t worry about that. I think the Chester is about the best hotel I have ever stayed in—l congratulate you. No, I’m not going anywhere else; the fact

is I have to go back to England.” “No doubt your business calls for you.” M. Caron made the remark in a tone of sympathetic understanding. “Yes—er—in a way . . . Well,

thanks for making me so comfortable, M. Caron; if ever I come to Cannes again, I shall certainly pop along to the Chester. Do you mind letting me have my account?” “Mademoiselle will see to that immediately; Monsieur Heritage is unfortunately leaving us to-day,” he announced to his attractive secretary, who now entered.

Mademoiselle’s most charming gesture called upon an unjust Heaven to witness her despair. Although he had been quite unconscious of the fact, Stephen had been the subject of a considerable amount of secret interest to the owner of the white hands which now busied themselves with a huge

ledger. Suddenly Mademoiselle stopped her industry. “But what am I thinking of?” she exclaimed, springing up. “There is a note for Monsieur!” “For me?” Fear attacked him quickly. ‘For you, Monsieur Heritage.” The eyes of the speaker twinkled mischievously. She turned to a shelf behind her and took down an envelope.

lie took it mechanically. Yes, it had is name—typewritten: Stephen Heritage, Esq., The Chester otel, Cannes.

“Esq.” That was an English form of address. But perhaps the local police —from whom else could it have come? —desired to pay him this compliment before becoming offensive. He had to end Ihe suspense. “Permit me, Monsieur,” said M. Caron, and extended a paper knife.

Heritage slit" the top of the plain, foreign, cheap-looking envelope and pulled out sorn 0 crumpled pink pieces of paper.

“Someone has been repaying a debt, Monsieur," remarked Caron. Heritage did not reply. He was staring at the five notes of one thousand francs each which he held In his

hand. Placing them on the office table, he re-examined the envelope. But there was no note inside.

The bewildered recipient turned to the secretary. “Do you mind telling me who brought this, Mademoiselle?” “I will call the concierge—he will know,” was the quick reply.

(To be continued.)