“Nothing,” said Durant, repressing his consternation at this news. “I was wondering what he’d say if he knew!”
Makoff chuckled. “The cook will be discharged tomorrow night. The maid goes with Dardent—she’s his wife, by the way. The Baronne leaves tomorrow night also, via Southampton, for Paris. You and Michael will be here Monday morning. When Larson drinks his early tea, he’s done for. Places are already booked for you and Michael on the noon plane from Croydon for Paris. It’ll be another day or two at least before Larson’s body is discovered, perhaps much longer. You and Michael will bring the stuff. Your seat in the plane is booked in your own name, Michael’s in that of Giles Hopper—his passport identity. All clear?”
“Quite,” said Durant, “except the necessity for murder. Why not rob him and go? Murder in England means that the law will be at your heels for life.”
“Certainly.” Makoff eyed him with a grim smile. “But why talk of murder, my dear man? An empty vial of chloral, purchased in a New York drug-store; a dead American, who has rented a house for three months and occupied it for three days; a letter stating that speculations in exchange have wiped out his fortune—who would call it murder? Guests, servants, all dissipated as a dream!”
“It is artistic, certainly.” Durant’s tone was dry. “I only objected to so much work. Why bother to kill him?”
“Because Americans have loud voices.” Makoff chuckled. “And certainly we do not want the law after us! Surely you can realize this?”
Durant nodded and banished his frown. “Right! Indeed, it is magnificent. This Michael is an admirable fellow—I congratulate you on having him. He handles details wonderfully!”
“He should,” said Makoff. “He’s no other than Michael Korin, who killed Grand Duke Vassily last year in Tours and turned over all his papers to me. Well, I’ve no time to lose. Give my regards to the charming Baronne—and this envelope. It’s her passage to Paris.”
Durant took the envelope, shook hands with Makoff and returned to the dinner-table.
Inwardly he was in a ferment of anxiety and excitement; had it been his own neck in peril, he would have lost no whit of his usual icy coolness—but here was another matter. By this time, perhaps, the fact would be known that Larson had rented a house in Richmond—and Scotland Yard would be down on him full force. Had Boris Makoff only known it, he could have robbed Larson with absolute impunity!