The Master Detective by Percy James Brebner

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"That theory would not refute my facts," I returned.

"Thirdly, the contessa herself. It is conceivable that for some reason
she wished to have the pearls stolen, perhaps for the sake of
advertisement--such things are done--or for the sake of insurance money,
or for some other reason which is not apparent. This supposition would
account for the contessa refusing to believe anything against the maid.
It would also account for the men in the corridor, seen only by the
contessa, remember, and therefore, perhaps, without any real existence."

"Of the three propositions, I most favor the last," I said.

"So do I," Quarles answered. "The first one is possible, but I fail to
trace anything of the Oriental method in the robbery, the supreme
subtlety which one would naturally expect. The second, which would almost
of necessity require the help of the maid, would in all likelihood have
been carried out before this, since the contessa has always had the
pearls at hand. If she had only just got them out of the bank I should
favor this second proposition. You remember the contessa suggested that
her husband might at some time become more sensible. I should hazard a
guess that she is still in communication with him. The death of the
strife-stirring mother may bring them together again."

"That is rather an ingenious idea," I admitted.

"Now, the third proposition would appeal to me more were I not so
interested in the woman," Quarles said. "Is she the sort of woman, for
vain or selfish reasons, to enter into such a conspiracy with her maid? I
grant the difficulty of plumbing a woman's mind--even Zena's there; but
there are certain principles to be followed. A woman is usually thorough
if she undertakes to do a thing, and had the contessa been concerned in
such a conspiracy, we should have had far more detail given to us in
order to lead us in another direction. This third proposition does not
please me, therefore."

"It seems to me we come back to the French maid," said Zena.

"We do," said Quarles. "That is the leather case, Wigan. Does it tell you
anything?"

I took it and examined it.

"You seem to have got some grease on it, Professor."

"It was like that. Greasy fingers had touched it--recently, I
judge--although, of course, the case may be an old one, and not made
especially for the earrings. It is only a smear, but it could not have
got there while the case was lying in a drawer amongst the contessa's
things. Now open it. You will find a grease mark on the plush inside,
which means that very unwashed fingers have handled it. That does not
look quite like a dainty French maid--for she is dainty, Wigan."

"That is why you examined her dress, I suppose."

"Exactly! There was no suspicion of grease upon it. Facts have prejudiced
you against Angelique. I do not see a thief in her, but I do see a
certain watchfulness in her eyes whenever we meet her. She knows
something, Wigan, and to-morrow I am going to find out what it is. I
think a few judicious questions will help us."

Quarles had never been more the benevolent old gentleman than when he saw
the French maid next day.

He began by telling her that he was certain she was innocent, that he
believed in her just as much as her mistress did.

"Now, when did you last see the pearls?" Quarles asked.

"The day before they were stolen."

"Your mistress was wearing them?"

"No, monsieur, but the case was on the dressing table. It was the case I
saw, not the pearls."

"So for all you know to the contrary, the case may have been empty?"

"I do not see why you should think that," she answered, and it was quite
evident to me that she was being careful not to fall into a trap.

"Just in the same way, perhaps, as you speak of the day before they were
stolen. We do not know they are stolen. Were the pearls very valuable?"

"I do not know. The contessa valued them."

"She wears one or two good rings, I noticed," said Quarles, "but I
understand the jewels she wears on the stage are paste."

"Yes, monsieur, all of it."

"Her real jewelry being at the bank!"

"That is so, monsieur."

"It is possible that the contessa has deceived us," Quarles went on, "and
wants to make us believe the earrings are stolen."

"Oh, no, monsieur!"

"Why not?"

"I am sure."

"Come, now, why are you so sure? Tell me what you know, and we will soon
have you back at the Brunswick Hotel. Had you told the men in the
corridor that all the contessa's jewelry was sham?"

"I know nothing of--"

"Wait!" said Quarles. "Think before you speak. You do not realize how
much we know about the men in the corridor. The contessa saw them,
remember."

The girl began to sob.

Very gently Quarles drew the story from her. One of the men was her
brother. She had been glad to come to England to see him, but she found
he had got into bad hands. She had helped him a little with money. She
had talked about the contessa, and when he had spoken about her wonderful
jewels she had told him they were sham.

"Did he believe you?"

"No, monsieur, he laughed at me because I did not know the real thing
from paste. I said I did, and, to prove it, mentioned the pearls."

"Was this before you knew he had fallen into bad hands?"

"Yes, monsieur. On the afternoon the pearls were stolen he came to see
me at the hotel with a friend. How they got to our rooms I do not know. I
opened the door, thinking it was the contessa. My brother laughed at my
surprise, and said he and his friend wanted to see whether the
contessa's pearls were real--they had a bet about them. He thought I was
a fool, but I was quickly thinking what I must do. 'She is here,' I said.
'Come in five minutes, when she is gone.' This was unexpected for them,
and they stepped back, and I shut the door. To get the door shut was all
I could think of. I was afraid. I waited; then I went to the bell, but I
did not ring. After all, he was my brother. Then Nella called out from my
room; I was on my way to fetch a clean frock for her from the contessa's
room when my brother came. Now I fetched it, and as I came out of the
room the contessa came in. It was a great relief."

"Did she say anything about the men in the corridor?"

"Not then--not until afterwards, when she found the pearls had
been stolen."

"And you said nothing?"

"No, it was wrong, but he was my brother. How he got the pearls I do
not know."

"Where is he now?"

"I do not know."

"But you are sure he stole the pearls?"

"Who else?" and she began to sob again.

"Perhaps when he hears you have been arrested, he will tell the truth."

"No, no, he has become bad in this country. I do not love England."

"Anyhow, we will soon have you out of this," said Quarles, patting her
shoulder in a fatherly manner. "I am afraid your brother is not much
good, but perhaps the affair is not so bad as you imagine."

We left her sobbing.

"A woman of resource," said Quarles.

"Very much so," I answered. "You do not think the arrest was a mistake
now, I presume?"

"Perhaps not; no, I am inclined to think it has helped us. It is not
every woman who would have got rid of two such blackguards so
dexterously."

"It is the very thinnest story I have ever heard," I laughed.

We walked on in silence for a few moments.

"My dear Wigan, I am afraid you are still laboring under the impression
that she stole the pearls."

"I am, and that she handed them to the men in the corridor, one of whom
may have been her brother or may not."

"She didn't steal them," said Quarles.

"Why, how else could the men have got in?" I said. "You are not likely to
see that rewarding smile on the contessa's face which you talked about."

"I think I shall, but first I must face the music and explain my failure.
We will go this afternoon. Perhaps she will give us tea, Wigan."

I am afraid I murmured, "There's no fool like an old fool," but not loud
enough for Quarles to hear.

When we entered the contessa's sitting-room that afternoon the child was
playing on the floor with a small china vase, taken haphazard from the
mantelpiece, I imagine.

Whether our entrance startled her, or whether she was in a destructive
mood, I cannot say, but she dashed down the vase and broke it in pieces.

"Oh, Nella! Naughty, naughty Nella!" exclaimed her mother.

The child immediately went to Quarles.

"I want to sit on your knee," she said.

"If mother will give you such things to play with, Nella, why, of course,
they get broken, don't they?" said Quarles.

"I thought you had brought my pearls," said the contessa.

"I have come to talk about them."

"That will not help--talk."

"It may."

"Will it bring Angelique back? I am lost without Angelique."

"She will soon be back."

I smiled at his optimism.

"We saw her to-day," Quarles went on; and he told the girl's story in
detail, and in a manner which suggested that my mistake in having her
arrested was almost criminal.

The contessa seemed to expect me to apologize, but when I remained silent
she became practical.

"Still, I do not see my pearls, Monsieur Quarles."

"Contessa, your maid says you were looking at the earrings on the day
before the robbery. She saw the case on your dressing-table."

"Yes, I remember."

"Do you remember putting the case back in your drawer?"

"Of course."

"I mean, is there any circumstance which makes you particularly remember
doing so?"

"No."

"Was Nella crawling on the floor?"

"Why, yes. How did you guess that?"

"Didn't you meet the maid coming out of your room on the next afternoon?
She had gone to fetch a clean frock."

"Ah! yes, Nella got her frock dirty," said the contessa.

"Pretty frock," said the child.

"Was she playing with anything--anything off the mantelpiece?"
asked Quarles.

"No."

"Are you sure? You give her queer things to play with," and he pointed to
the fragments on the floor.

"It does not matter," said the contessa, a little angry at his criticism.
"I shall pay for it."

"Pretty frock," said the child again.

"Is it, Nella? I should like to see it."

The child slipped from his knee.

"Where are you going?" asked the contessa.

"To fetch my dirty, pretty frock."

"Don't be silly, Nella."

"I should like to see it," said Quarles.

"I wish you would take less interest in the child and more in my pearls."

"Humor the child and let her show me the frock, then we will talk about
the pearls."

With a bad grace the contessa went with Nella into the maid's room.

Quarles looked at me and at the fragments of the vase on the floor.

"Do you find them suggestive?"

"I am waiting to see the contessa in a real temper," I answered.

The child came running in with the frock, delighted to have got
her own way.

"Aye, but it is dirty," said Quarles, and he became absorbed in the
garment, nodding to the prattling child as she showed him tucks and lace.

"And now about my pearls," said the contessa.

Quarles put down the frock and stood up.

"There is the case," he said, taking it from his pocket; "we have got to
put the pearls into it, Contessa, may I look into your bedroom?"

The request astonished her, and it puzzled me.

"Why, yes, if you like."

She went to the door, and we all followed her.

"A dainty room," said the professor. "It is like you, contessa."

She laughed at the absurdity of the remark, and yet there was some truth
in it. The room wasn't really untidy, but it was not the abode of an
orderly person. A hat was on the bed, thrown there apparently, a pair of
gloves on the floor.

"I can always tell what a woman is like by seeing where she lives," said
Quarles. "There is no toy on the mantelpiece which Nella could break. A
pretty dressing-table, contessa."

He crossed to it and began examining the things upon it--silver-mounted
bottles and boxes.

He lifted lids and looked at the contents--powder in this pot, rouge in
that--and for a few moments the contessa was too astonished to speak.

Then there came a flash into her eyes resenting the impertinence.

"Really, monsieur--"

"Ah!" exclaimed Quarles, turning from the table with a pot in his hand.

"I want it," said the child, stretching herself up for it.

"Evidently Nella has played with this before, contessa. A French
preparation for softening the skin, I see. I should guess she was playing
with it as she crawled about the floor that afternoon. You didn't notice
her. I can quite understand a child being quiet for a long time with this
to mess about with. There was grease on her frock, and look! the smoothed
surface of this cream bears the marks of little fingers, if I am not
mistaken. It is quite a moist cream, readily disarranged, easily smoothed
flat again. Let us hope there is no ingredient in it which will
hurt--pearls."

He had dug his fingers into the stuff and produced the earrings.

"You will find a grease mark on the case," he went on. "It is evident you
could not have put the case away. Nella possessed herself of it when your
back was turned, and, playing with this cream, amused herself by burying
the pearls in it--just the sort of game to fascinate a child."

"I remember she was playing with that pot. I did not think she could get
the lid off."

"She did, and somehow the case got kicked under the bed."

"Naughty Nella!" said the contessa.

"Oh, no," said Quarles. "Natural Nella. May I wash my hands?"

Well, we had tea with the contessa, and I saw the smile which rewarded
Christopher Quarles.

I suppose he had earned it.

"When did you first think of the child?" I asked him afterwards.

"From the first," he answered; "but I was too interested in the mother to
work out the theory."

How exactly in accordance with the truth this answer was I will not
venture to say. That he was interested in the woman was obvious, and
continued to be obvious while she remained in London.

Zena and I were rather relieved when her professional engagements took
her to Berlin.

CHAPTER IX

THE DISAPPEARANCE OF MADAME VATROTSKI

I firmly believe the contessa had succeeded in fluttering the professor's
heart, and I think it was fortunate that he was soon engaged upon another
case. The fact that it was also connected with theatrical people may have
made him go into it with more zest. The contessa had given him a taste
for the theater.

The three of us were in the empty room, and after a lot of talk which had
led nowhere, had been silent for some time.

"I never believe in any one's death until I have seen the body, or until
some one I can thoroughly trust has seen it," said Quarles, suddenly
breaking the silence.

"You have said something like that before," I answered.

"It still remains true, Wigan."

"Then you think she is alive?" Is it the advertisement theory you cling
to, or do you suppose she is a Nihilist?"

"I suppose nothing, and I never cling; all I know is that I have no proof
of death," said the professor, and he launched into a discourse
concerning the difficulties of concealing a body, chiefly, I thought, to
hide the fact that he had no ideas at all about the strange case of
Madame Vatrotski.

The rage for the tango, the sensational revue, for the Russian ballet,
was at its height when Madame Vatrotski's name first appeared on the
hoardings in foot-long letters.

The management of the Olympic billed her extensively as a very paragon
of marvels, but most of the critics refused to endorse this opinion.
Perhaps they were anxious to do a good turn to the home artistes who had
been rather thrust aside by the foreign invasion of the boards of the
variety theaters; at any rate, they declared her dancing was a mere
pose, not always in the best of taste, and that her beauty was nothing
to rave about.

I had not seen this much-advertised dancer, but the Olympic management
could have had no reason to regret the expense they had gone to. Whether
her dancing was good or bad, whether her beauty was real or imaginary,
the great theater was full to overflowing night after night; her picture,
in various postures, was in all the illustrated papers, and paragraphs
concerning her were plentiful.

From beginning to end actual facts about her were difficult to get; but
allowing for all journalistic exaggeration, the following statement is
near the truth.

She was an eccentric rather than a beautiful dancer, and if she was not
actually a beautiful woman there was something irresistibly attractive
about her. Her origin was obscure, possibly she was not a Russian, and if
she had any right to the title of madame, no husband was in evidence. She
was quite young; upon the surface she was a child bent on getting out of
life all life had to give, and underneath the surface she was perhaps a
cold, calculating woman, with no other aim but her own gratification,
utterly callous of the sorrow and ruin she might bring to others.

All other statements concerning her must at least be considered doubtful.
Her friends may have been too generous, her enemies unnecessarily bitter.
Personally I do not believe she was in any way connected with one of the
royal houses of Europe, as rumor said, nor that she was the morganatic
wife of an Austrian archduke.

I have said that I had never seen her. I may add that I was not in the
least interested in her.

Even when I read the headline in the paper, "Mysterious disappearance of
Madame Vatrotski," I remained unmoved; indeed, I had to think for a
moment who Madame Vatrotski was, and when the paragraph concluded that
the disappearance was probably a smart advertisement I thought no more
about the matter.

Before the end of the week, however, I was obliged to think a great deal
about this woman. It was a tribute to the dancer's popularity that her
disappearance caused widespread interest not only in London, but in the
provinces, and it speedily became evident that her friends were legion.

She had dined, or had had supper, at various times, with a score of
well-known men; she had received presents and offers of marriage from
them; she had certainly had two chances of becoming a peeress, she might
have become the wife of a millionaire, and half a dozen younger sons had
kept their families on tenter-hooks.

It was said the poet laureate had dedicated an ode to her--that Lovet
Forbes, the sculptor, was immortalizing her in stone, and Musgrave had
certainly painted her portrait.

From all sides there was a loud demand that the mystery must be cleared
up, and the investigation was entrusted to me.

From the outset it was apparent that Madame Vatrotski had played fast and
loose with her many admirers. She had not definitely refused either of
the coronets offered her, nor the millions. I say her behavior was
apparent, but I ought to say it was apparent to me, because many of
those who knew her personally would not believe a word against her.

This was the case with Sir Charles Woodbridge, a very level-headed man as
a rule, and also with Paul Renaud, the proprietor of the great dress
emporium in Regent Street, an astute individual, not easily deceived by
either man or woman.

Both these men were pleased to believe themselves the serious item in
Madame Vatrotski's life, and Sir Charles in hot-headed fashion, and
Renaud, in cold contempt, told me very plainly what they thought of me
when I suggested that the lady might not be so innocently transparent as
she seemed.

Up to a certain point it was comparatively easy to follow Madame's
movements. After the performance on Monday evening she had gone to supper
with Sir Charles at a smart restaurant, and many people had seen her
there. His car had taken her back to her rooms, and he had arranged to
fetch her next morning at half-past eleven and drive her down to
Maidenhead for lunch.

When Sir Charles arrived at her rooms next morning he was told she had
gone out and had left no message. He was annoyed, but he had to admit it
was not the first time she had broken an appointment with him.

It transpired that she had gone out that morning soon after ten, and
half-an-hour afterwards was at Reno's. Paul Renaud did not see her
there and had no appointment with her.

She made some trivial purchases--a veil, some lace and gloves, which were
sent to her rooms later in the day, and she left the shop about eleven.
The door-porter was able to fix the time, and was quite sure the lady was
Madame Vatrotski. She would not have a taxi, and walked away in the
direction of Piccadilly Circus. Since then she had disappeared
altogether.

A taxi-driver came forward to say he believed he had taken her to a
restaurant in Soho, but after inquiry I came to the conclusion that the
driver was mistaken.

She sent no message to the theater that night, she simply did not turn
up. To appease the audience it was announced that she was suffering from
sudden indisposition; but, as a fact, the management did not know what
had become of her, and the maid at her rooms confessed absolute ignorance
concerning her mistress's whereabouts. I have no doubt the maid would
have lied to protect Madame, but on this occasion I think she was telling
the truth.

It was after I had told Quarles the result of my inquiries, and we had
argued ourselves into silence, that he burst out with his remark about
the body, and of course what he said was true enough. Still, I was
inclined to think that Madame Vatrotski was dead. I did not believe she
had disappeared as an advertisement: there was no earthly reason why she
should, since her popularity had shown no signs of being on the wane, and
to attribute the mystery to a Nihilist plot was not a solution which
appealed to me.

"She may have returned to her rooms and met Sir Charles," Zena suggested,
after a pause. "Perhaps she found him waiting in his car at the door and
went off at once."

"Why do you make such a suggestion?" asked Quarles.

"She had plenty of time to keep the appointment; indeed, it almost looks
as if she had arranged her morning on purpose to keep it. If she had
gone with him at once her maid would not know she had returned."

Quarles looked at me.

"The same idea occurred to Paul Renaud," I said. "I can find no evidence
that Sir Charles went to Maidenhead that day, and at three o'clock in the
afternoon he was certainly at his club."

"Did he telephone to madame or attempt to communicate with her in any
way?" Quarles asked.

"He says not."

"But you do not altogether believe him, eh?"

"My opinion is in abeyance," I returned. "It is only fair to say that Sir
Charles suggested that Paul Renaud may have seen her at the shop in
Regent Street. They are suspicious of each other. Renaud was certainly on
the premises at the time she was there. Personally I do not attribute
much weight to these suspicions. I believe both men are genuine lovers,
and would be the last persons in the world to do the dancer any harm."

"Or the first," said Zena quickly. "Jealousy is a most usual motive
for crime."

"I think the child strikes a true note there, Wigan," said Quarles. "We
must keep the idea of jealousy before us--that is, if we are compelled to
believe there has been foul play. Now, one would have expected Sir
Charles to telephone to madame; that he did not do so is strange."

"His disappointment had put him in a temper."

"That hardly appeals to me as a satisfactory explanation," Quarles
returned; "but there is indirect evidence in Sir Charles's favor. Had
Madame Vatrotski intended to return to her rooms at once she would almost
certainly have taken such a small parcel as her purchases made with her.
That she did not do so suggests she had another appointment to keep.
Have you a list of madame's admirers, Wigan?"

"I am only human, professor, and you ask for the impossible," I said,
smiling. "I have a few names here, and I think they may be dismissed from
our calculations. One of the strangest points in the case is the lack of
reticence amongst her dupes."

"Dupes!" said Zena.

"I think the term is justified," I went on. "They all seem quite proud of
having been allowed to pay for sumptuous dinners and expensive presents.
Usually one expects a shrinking from publicity in these affairs, but in
this case there is nothing of the kind. I have never seen Madame
Vatrotski, but she must have had a peculiar fascination."

"I have not seen her either," said Quarles; "but I was at the Academy
yesterday, and saw Musgrave's portrait of her. Go and see it, Wigan. I
consider Musgrave the greatest portrait painter we have, or ever have
had, perhaps. His opinion of the dancer might be useful. Judging from his
canvases he must have a strange insight into character."

My opinion of pictures is worth nothing, and, to speak truthfully, I saw
little remarkable in Musgrave's portrait of Madame Vatrotski. The mystery
had caused a large number of people to linger round the portrait, and so
far as I could gather the general impression was that it did not do her
justice. Some even called it a caricature.

"You never can tell what a woman is really like across the footlights," I
overheard one man say to his companion.

"Perhaps not," was the answer; "but I have seen her out of the theater.
I dropped in at Forbes's studio the other day. He was finishing a bust
of her, and she was giving him a sitting. It is a jolly good bust, but
the woman--"

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