“I understand,” said Nayland Smith, “that your four guests were Count and Countess Boratov, Mr. van Dee and Miss Murano.”
“That’s correct.”
Wilton looked surprised.
“Who is Mr. van Dee?”
“A well-known Philadelphia businessman. We have been friends for years.”
“I see. And Miss Murano?”
“A schoolmate of Countess Boratov, very attractive and young. She has lived much in Africa where her family have met with serious misfortune. She has unusually beautiful titian hair.”
I grew hotly unhappy, for I knew that he was describing Ardatha!
“And where did you make this lady’s acquaintance?”
“In London four weeks back.”
“Through the Boratovs I suppose?”
“Surely. I asked her to join us here (she was with the countess in London) and she consented.”
“How long have you known the Boratovs, Mr. Wilton?”
Brownlow Wilton’s sallow face grew lined and stern. As he glanced at Colonel Correnti, that elfin memory peeped out, and then eluded me again. Silver Heels rolled uneasily. Dimly, I heard thunder.
“I appreciate the fact, gentlemen, that you are acting with full authority; but not knowing why I have been favored with your company, perhaps I may ask in what way my friends are of interest?”
“No doubt I have been over-brusque, Mr. Wilton,” said Smith. “But your own future is at stake. A crime which may change the history of Europe was committed at the Palazzo Brioni earlier tonight—”
“What’s that?”
Brownlow Wilton bent forward over the table.
“I have no time for details now. I merely ask for your cooperation. Where did you meet the Boratovs?”
“When they visited America, in the fall of last year.”
“Could you describe the countess?”
“A very lovely woman, sir.” A note of unmistakable admiration had entered the speaker’s high-pitched voice. “Tall, slender, with fascinating eyes: they are brilliantly green—”
Nayland Smith nodded grimly.
“And the count?”
“A distinguished Russian aristocrat, once in the Imperial Guard.”
“And they all left by the Paris express, you say?”
“All of them, yes.”
“You remained alone for some time then at the palace?”
“No sir. We dined here on board. News from England had come which meant I had to get back. Captain Farazan got busy. He secured the necessary clearance papers and we sailed immediately. My guests made the train and are now on their way to Paris.”
Nayland Smith stared hard at James Brownlow Wilton, and then:
“Excuse me,” came a discreet voice.
The steward (his name was Lopez), who had gone out, stood now at Wilton’s elbow, extending a message on a salver. Wilton took it, nodded his apologies, and read the message. The saturnine Lopez went out again.
“Ah!—a personal matter, gentlemen—of no importance.”
But his expression belied his words. Nayland Smith’s face offered me a perplexing study. As Wilton crumpled the scrap of paper in his hand:
“May I ask,” said Smith, “if you used the small study in Palazzo Brioni? I refer to the one distinguished by a very beautiful figure of the Virgin.”
Brownlow Wilton stared hard through his powerful spectacles. I thought he was striving for composure.
“I looked after all my correspondence there, sir. I have always been attracted to that room.”
“Were you aware, or did the agent who negotiated the deal inform you, that there is a disused wing which has been locked for years?”
“I never heard that. This is news to me.”
“I understand that you have a secretary who takes care of most of these details. I am told that he put Silver Heels into commission in Monaco and also came over to Venice to arrange a suitable household for your arrival. What is this gentleman’s name?”
“You mean Hemsley? He has been with me for years. I sent him ahead to London. I am due back there myself, but I want to put the yacht into dry dock before I go. There’s something radically wrong with her engines.”
“He engaged the present crew, I believe?”
“He did—and by and large, very efficient they are.”
“Have any of them worked for you before?”
“Not one. Hemsley believes in a clean slate. The same applies to the staff in Venice. Never saw one of them in my life before.”
Silver Heels (Continued)
Silver Heels rode the swell uneasily. The chief of police continued to look unhappy. He glanced at me from time to time. I could hear the tramping of feet on the deck above, and I knew that the police were going about their work inspecting the papers of the crew. Peering into the shadows at the darkened end of the saloon, I had a momentary impression that someone had been standing there . . . and had disappeared.
The creaking of the ship in a silence which had fallen became to my ears a sinister sound. Nayland Smith’s eyes were fixed intently upon the face of the American owner. For some reason I was glad when he spoke:
“You entertained Rudolf Adion to lunch on board?”
“I did. I had introductions to him from Pietro Monaghani with whom I am well acquainted.”
“I suggest that Rudolf Adion was much attracted by the countess?”
Brownlow Wilton smiled uneasily, then leaning forward selected a cigar from a box which lay upon the table. As he tore the labeclass="underline"
“Maybe you’re right,” he replied, “and I am not blaming him. But he is a man who makes no attempt to hide his feelings.”
“Herr Adion returned after luncheon to the Palazzo da Rosa?”
“Yes—and I won’t say I was sorry.”
“Did you go ashore to the palace during the afternoon?”
“No, I stayed on board, but most of the party went ashore. They had odd jobs to do, you understand, before leaving for Paris.”
“Did you see them off?”
“No sir. They said good-bye on the yacht and went ashore in the launch. You see, I’m not as active as I used to be. I had a conference with the chief engineer. I wanted to find out if she could make Villefranche under her own steam.”
“So that was the last you saw of your guests?”
“It was. But we are all meeting again in London in three days.”
Again that uncomfortable silence fell, and then:
“You are quite sure, Mr. Wilton, that your reason for breaking up the party was purely engine trouble? I mean you have not, by any chance, received a notice from the Si-Fan?”
At those words, Wilton’s face changed completely. He laid down the cigar which he had just lighted, and the effect was as though he had discarded a mask. His large, dark eyes, magnified by spectacles, gleamed almost feverishly as he glared at Nayland Smith.
“How can you know that?” he asked and clutched the edge of the table. “How can you know that?”
“It may be my business to know, Mr. Wilton.”
“I had two! I got a third while Adion was on board. Yes, I admit it. I was running away. Now you have the truth.”
Nayland Smith nodded.
“I thought as much. You control a great American newspaper, Mr. Wilton. Its sympathies are rather pointedly with Adion and Monaghani. Am I right?”
“Maybe you are.”
“Also, may I suggest that your armament works do a large trade with the governments represented by these gentlemen?”
“You seem to know a lot, sir. But, as you say, maybe it’s your business.”
“How long does the third notice give you?”
“Until noon tomorrow.”
“What are you to do?”
“I was ordered to come here to Venice.” His glance now as he looked about him was that of a hunted man. “And I was ordered to give that lunch on board to Adion. Now I am told to beat it as fast as I can get away. This whole journey has been in obedience to those orders. I will admit it: I am a badly frightened man. I once spent some years in the Orient, and I know enough about the Si-Fan to have done what I have done.”