When he got to his hotel he went up in the lift and down the corridor to his room. It was innocent of all signs of occupation. “Hullo — wrong room,” he muttered, switching off the light again; “I must be on the next floor.” He looked at the number on the door: “218”. Surely that was right? What an extraordinary thing; perhaps they had shifted him because of the central heating. Still, they ought to have let him know.
He went down to the bureau in the hall. “What have you done with my things?” he said.
The night clerk looked surprised. “We sent them over on your instructions, sir.”
“My instructions? What do you mean?”
“The American gentleman, Mr. Van Ryn, who took the room for you, came here just before eight o’clock. He said you wished to transfer to the Regina, where your friends were staying. We were to pack for you and send over your things at once. He paid your bill. I hope we have done right, sir?”
Richard frowned. What in the world had bitten Rex? Still, there it was — he’d better go and find out. Absently he walked out into the street again.
At the Regina he was told that Mr. Van Ryn had booked a room for him, No. 447 — the night porter gave him the key.
What the devil had Rex been up to? thought Richard, as he walked over to the lift. If this was supposed to be a joke, it was in damned bad taste — 447 was next to Marie Lou. Richard walked angrily down the corridor. He supposed he’d better have his things moved again to another room.
He opened the door — yes, there were all his belongings, unpacked, too — what a fool Rex was. This sort of thing wasn’t like him, either.
The communicating-door to No. 448 stood a little open. Richard was tempted; here was an opportunity for a word with Marie Lou — he could explain that he was moving.
He looked into the bedroom. There she was, the darling, lying in bed. She made no movement; perhaps she was asleep? Only the light by the bed was still on. The orchids that he had given her that evening stood near it in a glass.
He tiptoed over to the side of the bed. Yes, she was asleep — how divinely pretty she looked with her long dark lashes lying on her cheeks. One lovely arm thrown back over her curly head; she lay quite still, breathing gently.
His heart began to thump as he looked at her — he simply must steal just one kiss — he bent over and very gently touched her forehead with his lips.
He turned reluctantly and began to tiptoe back to the other room.
“Richard,” said a soft voice from the bed.
He swung round, the picture of guilt. “Hullo,” he said, in a voice that he tried to make as casual as possible, “I thought you were asleep.”
She shook her head. “Do you like your new room?” she asked slyly.
“So you knew about that, eh?” He was quite at his ease and smiling at her now.
“Of course; I asked Rex to manage it — it is a wife’s duty to look after her husband,” she added, virtuously. “I couldn’t have you sleeping in that cold hotel.”
He sat down on the side of the bed. “Look here,” he said, with an effort, “if we do this sort of thing we shan’t be able to get the annulment, you know.”
She sat up quickly, clasping her hands round her knees, a tiny perfect figure, Dresden china flushed with rosy life.
“Richard,” she said gravely, “do you want that annulment very, very badly?”
He drew a sharp breath. “There’s nothing in the world I want less!”
She laughed. “And you won’t be sulky if we don’t go out tomorrow morning — or if we lunch in bed?”
“Marie Lou! you angel!” He leant over her. Her soft arms were round his neck; she whispered in his ear: “Richard, my darling, this is the perfect ending to the Fairy Story of the Princess Marie Lou.”
V
The Duke de Richleau put down his interesting book on murder and picked up the shrilling telephone at his side.
“Thank you,” he said, “I am much obliged.” He replaced the receiver and took up his book again, reading quietly till the end of the chapter. He carefully inserted a marker, and laid the book beside the bed. Then he examined the automatic which the waiter had brought him in the restaurant, also a small bottle, taken from among those on his washstand. He put the bottle and the weapon in his pocket, and lighting a fresh cigar, he left the room. As he came out into the corridor he glanced swiftly to right and left; it was in semi-darkness and no sound disturbed the silence. Outside the door to the left of his room a neat pair of black shoes reposed — Simon’s. Opposite lay a pair of large brogues, Rex’s. Outside Marie Lou’s door were a tiny pair of buckled court shoes, and beside them — “Strange,” thought the observant Duke — a pair of man’s patent evening shoes.
“Very strange,” the Duke thought again; then a gurgle of delighted laughter came faintly from beyond the door. De Richleau raised one slanting eyebrow meditatively. Sly dog, that Richard; what a thing it was to be young and in Vienna, city of dreams. How fond he was of them all, and how fortunate he was — that, at his age, all these young people seemed to take such pleasure in his company. Life was a pleasant thing indeed. He drew thoughtfully on his cigar, and quietly strolled down the corridor.
His walk had all the assurance that marked his every movement with distinction; nevertheless, his footsteps were almost noiseless. He came to a baize door, and passed through it to the service staircase beyond. He mounted slowly in the darkness, his bright eyes gleaming like those of some great cat. From a long acquaintance with continental hotels he knew that spare pass-keys were always to be found in the floor-waiter’s pantry. Two floors above his own he found the room he sought, with its nails and brushes. The light was on, a tired chamber-maid was sleeping in a chair, a paper-covered novel on her knees. With infinite precaution De Richleau took the key he needed from its hook above her head. He was easier in his mind now — the possession of that key was the one thing that troubled him. Soft-footed he walked down the passage, seeking Leshkin’s room. He found it and inserted the key in the lock. He turned it gently and the door opened without a sound. He slipped inside.
Kommissar Leshkin was late in going to bed. He stood in his stockinged feet and shirt-sleeves, removing his tie and collar. He had some little difficulty, as his fat fingers still bore the angry weals where Valeria Petrovra’s whip had caught them. He took a pot of ointment from the dressing-table and was just about to apply it to the cuts on his face; in the looking-glass he caught the reflection of a white shirt-front. He dropped the pot and spun round.
It was the Duke, grey-haired, immaculate in evening dress. In his right hand he held an automatic, in his left a long, evenly burning cigar. For a moment the Kommissar did not recognize him; he looked so different from the ragged prisoner of the Pecher-Lavra Prison.
“So we meet once more, and for the last time, Kommissar Leshkin,” the Duke said softly.
Leshkin backed quickly towards the bedside.
“Stay where you are,” De Richleau spoke sharply now; “put your hands above your head.”
For a moment it seemed as if the Kommissar was going to charge him; his great head was lowered and his bull neck swelled above the collar of his shirt — but he thought better of it and slowly raised his hands above his head.
De Richleau nodded. “That is better,” he said, evenly. “Now we will talk a little; but first I will relieve you of the temptation to secure the weapon by your bed.”