“It’s going to be a tough investigation, Kitterley. If you’ve got anything to tell me you’d better tell it now.”
Kitterley was turning back from the corpse. His eyes were wide, almost frightened. “Do you suggest that they might think I had something to do with this? Or Pat? But why, Burton, why?”
“Haven’t you yet gathered that Descamps was a gigolo, or something very close to it? And in love, without encouragement, no doubt, with Patricia?”
The youngster shook his head. “I had a faint idea Pat had someone steering her around, if that’s what you mean,” he said. “Maybe even I wondered what kind of a guy he might be. I know that sort of thing is done here. If that fact interests you, the information didn’t mean a damn thing. It wasn’t even information, for that matter, just things I’d heard.”
“I didn’t mention it,” Burton said shortly, “as a piece of gossip! I’m more interested in making you understand what the situation is. And trust these police to discover that you’re known to have a violent temper. As it stands now, you and Patricia are both under suspicion.”
“Sorry, Burton!” Kitterley broke in. “I should’ve known better. I know you! And if you’ll only help—”
“I intend to help. But I can’t do too much in the dark. Your having been driving south — that alibi, will it hold?”
For a second the boy hesitated. Then he shrugged.
“Its got to,” he said bitterly. “There’s nothing else. But Patsy had nothing to do with it, did she? You’re sure? The fellow might possibly have annoyed her and she—”
When he broke off before the thought shaped ugly in his mind, Burton told him: “It wasn’t Patricia. But it’s up to us to find out who it was. The French police, fine as the are, dearly love a crime passionel.”
“Yes, I can see! They might railroad either of us on the strength of what to them is patent evidence; and even if they didn’t succeed this thing would be hanging over us the rest of our lives! Hell, Burton,” savagely, “if they must have a dummy to try for the case, let ’em pick on me! That driving alibi can be broken down, anyway, I suspect.”
“Yes?” Burton thought it best not to pursue that. He looked narrowly at Kitterley. “And your motive? Jealousy?”
The younger man grinned unhappily. “That’s as good as any, isn’t it?” he said. “Why not? Though there’s not much room for jealousy with that poor beggar now!”
They went back inside.
Black Burton left his wife that night at Patricia’s villa. He returned to his hotel alone, and he went in somber thought.
Vivian had been staying with her younger friend for some time; then had moved from Patricia’s villa, Les Charmettes, into the hotel in town only upon word of her husband’s approaching arrival.
In the morning Monsieur Ouchy appeared at the Hotel Negresco. Burton received him as an old friend, gravely. He knew Frenchmen; knew that underneath the official’s manner there was warmth. Knew that though Ouchy loved the good things of life, its wines and finest viands, the man was more than competent for his job. In Paris Ouchy had left behind him something of a record.
But nevertheless Ouchy was not one to overlook any possibility. Burton realized this anew, when Ouchy announced with due gravity:
“It is all so regrettable, my good friend Monsieur Burton. But we have made the check on this Monsieur Kitterley.” He paused.
“Do you mean that you’ve found his alibi was no good?”
Ouchy nodded in sober fashion. “Pas bien! We of the police have our own methods, n’est-ce pas? We have discovered that it was more than possible for Monsieur Kitterley to have been here last night, much earlier than he appeared to us! What he said about his breakdown was a correct story. I confess that that news surprised me. But it took only fifteen minutes to get the car repaired!”
Burton sat back. He lit a cigarette. At last, “I suppose that means you arrest Monsieur Kitterley,” he said.
Ouchy moved his hands and got to his feet. “Pas encore. Not quite yet,” he said. “But Monsieur Kitterley will make no move that is not known to us. By tomorrow, perhaps, the arrest comes.”
He waited. Burton knew what for. The gambler said:
“I’ll see him. Maybe he does know something that will help. I assume you’re thinking that he might have killed a gigolo through jealousy?”
Gravely Ouchy nodded; added, with something twinkling in his eyes nevertheless, “It has been done! But it would be better if we discovered it to have been that way, apres tout, m’sieu,” and stopped. “For if Monsieur Kitterley did not do the murder, then who did?”
“You’re thinking of the girl?”
Ouchy shrugged. “What must one think? You know the police must take what the evidence offers. And there is so much evidence here. I understand that mademoiselle’s father is in Paris?”
“I think so.”
“He is very rich?”
“Quite. He’ll be along soon; you can count on that.”
Ouchy sighed. “I trust so. I think the lady may need much help,” he said. Then he brightened. “She is very beautiful. And perhaps, after all, the help is already here — if she is innocent. And if this fiancé is innocent, too.”
“The help?”
Ouchy smiled, at the door. “Quit Black Burton is here; n’est-ce pas?” he said. “Au revoir, monsieur.”
Burton stood looking fixedly at the closed portal for a moment. Then he glanced at his watch. He telephoned the villa, spoke reassuringly to Vivian, shrugged himself into his clothes and went out.
He walked up the Promenade des Anglais until he came to a small rendezvous he knew of old — the rather remote little Casino Bleu, overlooking the blue sea. Here he ordered a cocktail and food.
He was draining his cocktail when Rowland Kitterley came in. Kitterley looked back over his shoulder as he entered. There was worry in his young face, care in the depths of his eyes.
When he caught Burton’s signal across the room he gave a distinct start. He began to turn away, then, rejecting a first impulse came back and threw himself into a vacant chair at Burton’s small table. He lit a cigarette nervously, sat staring.
The waiter came with another cocktail and Burton observed, “You probably need one, too,” and ordered a second.
Kitterley puffed silently until the second glass came. Then he drained three-quarters of its contents at one gulp, leaned across the table and said:
“We might as well come clean, eh, Burton?”
“As for instance?”
“I’ve just seen the noon-time copies of L’Intransigent. ‘An arrest at any moment. A woman!’ ” He made a gesture with his strong hands. “We both know what that means, eh?”
Burton nodded gravely. “Fairly obvious. Can you help?”
Kitterley’s clenched fist came down on the small table. “Yes, by the Lord, I can help!” he exclaimed. “I can tell ’em the truth!”
“And what would that be?”
“That I killed that gigolo!”
Through cigarette smoke Barton looked across the table. “For what they’ll call a crime passionel, Kitterley?”
“I don’t give a damn what they call it! If they check my record back far enough they’ll see my breakdown last night didn’t amount to much. I could’ve been here.” The boy took a deep breath. “I was here!”