“At Patrica’s villa, Les Charmettes?”
“Yes. And I killed him! Jealous! It’s well known that I’ve got a temper. Then I cooled off, went back and retraced my route, had that breakdown, and came on again. What will the police think of that?”
Burton squashed out his cigarette, his features a blank, and said, “I’m afraid you won’t be telling the police any news about that breakdown only taking a short while. But the rest.” He lit a new cigarette, leaned forward. “Frankly, and it shouldn’t surprise you, that story is likely to be believed. Even, I might add, it’s true. Anyway, one part of it is true and so the rest might well be. I do believe you were there earlier. And if you’d tell me the story of that it might help a lot.”
Kitterley was staring at him out of a white face. Burton helped him with, “The idea of you as a skulking killer isn’t logical, of course. But the idea of you in a jealous rage at what you might have seen — well, that’s believable.”
“Does that mean you’d believe it?”
Burton did not answer. He wanted to steady the quivering nerves opposite him. He beckoned a passing waiter, ordered their glasses refilled, smoked quietly. Waited. When the drinks came and the waiter had gone, lowering his eyes, Kitterley said:
“You’re half on to the right idea, Burton. As I said, I was here earlier.”
Nodding, Burton prodded: “Surprise for Patricia?”
With a flash the youth looked up. “Not the way that sounds, no!” he exclaimed. “Surprise, yes. But I wasn’t trying to spy on her. I arrived, went straight to Les Charmettes. There was a low-burning light in the living-room but the place looked empty. I started for the porch. Then... then it happened.”
“What?”
“The murder! I... I saw it done!”
Burton’s eyes were narrowed. “You saw the murder?”
Kitterley shook his head impatiently. “I saw two men. I saw this gigolo chap plainly as he came up there. He went to the door, knocked. I’d stopped by then, wondering what was up. No answer. He half turned away. Then out of the bushes a figure came and I saw moonlight on a gun barrel. Someone cursed, said something in French that I couldn’t get, and this fellow turned around; he began to rush toward whoever it was, and crying out something. They spoke, but not like friends. Then there was a shot — two shots — and that was all.”
After a space of silence, “You saw him killed, then,” Burton murmured. “And what did you do?”
“Gave chase. I didn’t stop to think of what it was all about but I knew I’d just seen murder done, in all probability. I knew Pat’d be in for it. I ran after the beggar but I lost him.”
“Wouldn’t recognize him again?”
“No. His description would fit any one of a dozen men I know. In the dark, that way, you understand...” Kitterley toyed with the stem of his cocktail glass. “It’s altogether screwy, Burton, believe it or not. But I saw that man killed at the bottom of the porch steps. And the body was found inside Pat’s house!”
Burton waited a long time. At length he squashed out his cigarette and looked up to find the eyes of the younger man, haggard and haunted, fixed desperately on his face.
“You believe me, Burton?”
“I’m inclined to, just at this moment. But what good it’s going to do, I can’t tell. You don’t surprise me,” the gambler added, “with verification of the fact that the body had been moved. Ouchy didn’t spot it last night, but Rene Descamps — if that was his name — had not been killed where he was found. I knew that and I was keeping it as an ace up my sleeve. There was no blood on the floor where we found him. And he’d bled a lot from those wounds. Therefore, since bleeding stops shortly after death, he must have been moved after he died!”
Kitterley was staring. “But for what reason?”
Burton was looking slightly more pleased. When he spoke at last it was to say: “The answer to that is going to solve our case. Can’t you see what it means?”
“Not quite yet.”
“It means,” Burton propounded, “that your fiancée was being framed. And a frame means either blackmail, or something even more sinister.” He nodded. “This afternoon,” he said, “I think we should stop in and see our friend the owner of the Tabarin. Monsieur Lavergne, did I understand was his name?”
“Monsieur Alexandre Lavergne,” Kitterley agreed. “One of the small operators here. But—”
“Yes, Lavergne,” Burton repeated. “We mustn’t forget, Kitterley, that all this merry-go-round began at Cercle Tabarin.”
Alexandre Lavergne was an imposing individual. It was said that, in spite of his name he was an Anatolian Greek and it was believable. He looked well fed and well satisfied; his manner was that of a perennial, if somewhat suspicious, host to all the cosmopolitan world. The Cercle Tabarin was one of the smaller of the licensed houses for gambling in Monte Carlo; but Lavergne possessed all the pomposity and manner of a really big operator.
It was Peret who met Burton and his companion in the entrance foyer. Burton was angling toward the cage where the cartes du jour were to be bought when Lavergne intercepted him.
“But non, monsieur,” he expostulated. “Merely the matter of the stamp, if you insist. While the famous Monsieur Burton is our guest it is not permitted that he pay for a carte.”
Burton thanked him. Kitterley was at his elbow when they entered the gambling rooms. A long, glistening bar ran alongside and down the length of the main room. The other rooms were small, fairly well furnished, but looking faintly drab and unromantic in the daylight.
There was little play going on at that hour. The voices of the croupiers sounded listless and even the clatter of the small balls at the roulette wheels sounded dispirited.
Burton bought a chemin-de-fer “shoe,” dealt for almost an hour until a Greek who appeared to be well known in the place came in and bid for the bank. Burton sold it with relief and went out. He had not wanted so much to play as to look the place over. He found Rowdy Kitterley at his side as he struck the open air once more.
“Lavergne had nothing to say about the death of his gigolo,” Kitterley summed up, outdoors.
Burton frowned. “I noticed that. I wonder why,” he murmured.
Black Burton left Rowdy and returned to his suite at his hotel. A telegram was waiting for him; he tore it open, smiled with a pleased look, and tossed it aside. It was quite late in the afternoon when Vivian Burton and Patricia Blaine came upstairs.
The debutante had recovered a lot. In her eyes shone a defiant courage.
“You’ve seen Rowdy?” she demanded.
He nodded, went to the sideboard and busied himself with cocktails. Vivian smiled when she accepted her glass.
“You must miss Han Soy,” she said.
A smile flitted across his dark face. His Chinese servant and he had been almost inseparable for many years. But he gestured to the telegram he had tossed on the table.
“I left Soy in London,” he said. “I was surprised, even though I shouldn’t have been, but he had relatives there. But just now he’s wired me he’s due this evening on the next Golden Arrow Express.” Then he turned gravely to Patricia. “Yes, I’ve seen Kitterley. He told me what I might almost have guessed. He could have done that murder last night.”
Patricia started. “You mean he—”
“I mean he was in Monte Carlo earlier. But that news was no particular surprise to me. I think you should know, though, that he advanced the information gratuitously. Advanced it with the idea that it might help your status with the authorities.”