CHAPTER XXII
THE WHOLE OF THE SECRET
Madame Veno—alias Mrs. Sam Piggott—had a key to the door of the janitor's flat. She, her husband, and their associates could come and go as they chose when the janitor was away or upstairs.
"You won't get anything out of your husband," she said to Juliet as the three went down, she leading with mingled defiance and reluctance. "He hasn't come back to his senses yet. It wasn't so much the blow—mind you, my husband was within his rights, defending his brother-in-law from assault!—it wasn't the blow so much as the fall. The Duke fell on the back of his head. It was concussion. We had a doctor in—a friend of ours we could trust. And we weren't going to let you know till we were sure he was out of danger—ready to be moved. If he has to stand his trial for killing Markoff, why——"
"How does a man with concussion of the brain commit murder?" Juliet's question stabbed like a stiletto. By this time they were at the door of the basement flat, and Madame Veno was fumbling with a bunch of keys, Nickson's eyes upon her hands.
"Naturally the killing was done before the concussion," Madame sneered. "The Duke hated Markoff because of Pavoya. Perhaps he had reason. But that won't help him with a jury!"
Juliet could have struck the woman and trampled her under foot. She turned upon her in the dimly lit passage so fiercely that the nervous fingers jumped and let fall the key. "You fool!" the Duchess said. "You told me I should see a dead man here. Yet according to your own story my husband was struck down the night after I saw him last. One doesn't keep a dead man in a flat for weeks!"
Madame Veno drew in a sharp breath, and mumbled something which Juliet could not hear. It was easy to deduce that the story of Markoff's death by Claremanagh's hand was an impromptu effort—an inspiration which didn't quite "come off!" The woman had suddenly caught at a desperate chance. The Duke, having lost all memory of events, could be made to believe what they chose about himself. And if the Duchess and her friends could be got to credit the tale, the Markoff affair would be simplified.
He had been known to Madame's husband and stepbrother for years, even before the war, when he had fed Modern Ways in London and the Inner Circle in New York with rich titbits of scandal concerning the Russian Court. He had told Piggott that Russia had a grievance against the Claremanagh family in connection with the Tsarina pearls; that this treasure ought to be returned to the Crown; and Piggott had suspected that Markoff was "out" to get it if he could. This visit of his to New York was for some reason sub rosa. His passport was made out for a merchant of skins named Halbin; but he had called upon his two old acquaintances and offered for sale the most intimate personal secrets of Trotsky and Lenin. The brothers-in-law had guessed that he wanted the Tsarina pearls for himself, if they could be got, as he had once pretended to want them for the Russian Crown. So, when by amazing luck they found themselves in possession of the famous rope, their first thought was to bargain with Markoff-Halbin. He had risen to the bait, and had made an offer. It sounded satisfactory, but the money was not forthcoming. A "friend" was to produce it. Meanwhile, when it was learned through the "leak" at the Duchess's that Sanders sought Markoff, shelter was given him; also the "benefit of the doubt." But little doubt remained when he tried to steal the pearls! As for the consequences of this attempt, they were upon the man's own head! And at worst, the doctor would certify that death had not been the direct result of a blow, but of heart failure.
The end had come the day before the Duchess was invited to Madame Veno's; and had it not come, Madame de Saintville might have been left in peace till her help was wanted in some other direction. With Markoff dead, and his problematic "offer" wiped from the slate, the best remaining hope was the Duchess. Claremanagh would not be able to testify against the man who had struck him down—would not even know that Sam Pigott had revenged himself at last for the caning episode in London. He and the pearls could be handed over to the Duchess; price, a million dollars; and no one would ever know where and how he had spent those weeks missing from his calendar.
The scheme had been in fine working order up to the moment when that middle door had suddenly opened! Madame Veno thought bitterly of the mistake they had all made in sending for the Duchess. The thing might surely have been managed in another way! But it was useless to cry over spilt milk—a million dollars' worth of spilt milk! They must be grateful if the Enemy held his tongue, and they kept out of jail.