The favourite of Fortune, who only a couple of hours before had been so full of life and buoyant spirits, and who had left us with a promise to return within ten minutes, was now lying still and dead in the privacy of our own room. The ghastly truth was so strange and unexpected as to utterly stagger belief. A mysterious and dastardly crime had evidently been committed there.
I scarce know what occurred during the quarter of an hour that immediately followed our astounding discovery. All I remember is that Ulrica, with face blanched to the lips, ran out into the corridor and raised the alarm. Then there arrived a crowd of waiters, chambermaids, and visitors, everyone excitedly asking strings of questions, until the hotel manager came and closed the door upon them all. The discovery caused the most profound sensation, especially when the police and doctors arrived quickly, followed shortly afterwards by two detectives.
The doctor, a short, stout Frenchman, at once pronounced that poor Reggie had been dead more than half an hour, but the cursory examination he was enabled to make was insufficient to establish the cause of death.
"Do you incline to a theory of death through violence?" one of the detectives inquired.
"Ah! at present I cannot tell," the other answered dubiously. "It is not at all plain that monsieur has been murdered."
Ulrica and I quickly found ourselves in a most unpleasant position. First, a man had been found dead in our apartments, which was sufficient to cause a good deal of ill-natured gossip; and secondly, the police seemed to entertain some suspicion of us. We were both cross-questioned separately as to Reggie's identity, what we knew of him, and of our doings at Monte Carlo that day. In response, we made no secrets of our movements, for we felt that the police might be able to trace the culprit—if, indeed, Reggie had been actually murdered. The fact of his having won so much money, and of his having left us in order to change the notes into larger ones, seemed to puzzle the police. If robbery had been the object of the crime, the murderer would, they argued, no doubt have committed the deed either in the train, or in the street. Why, indeed, should the victim have entered our sitting-room at all?
That really seemed the principal problem. The whole of the circumstances formed a complete and puzzling enigma, but his visit to our sitting-room was the most curious feature of all.
The thief, whoever he was—for I inclined towards the theory of theft and murder—had been enabled to effect his purpose swiftly, and leave the hotel without discovery; while another curious fact was that neither the concierge nor the elevator-lad recollected the dead man's return. Both agreed that he must have slipped in unobserved. And if so, why?
Having concluded their examination of Ulrica, myself and Felicita, my Italian maid, who had returned from her evening out, and knew nothing at all of the matter, the police made a most vigorous search in our rooms. We were present, and had the dissatisfaction of watching our best gowns and other articles tumbled over and mauled by unclean hands. Not a corner was left unexamined, for when the French police make a search they at least do it thoroughly.
"Ah! what is this?" exclaimed one of the detectives, picking from the open fire-place in the sitting-room a crumpled piece of paper, which he smoothed out carefully.