I picked it up. It had been slit open along the top and the letter tucked back inside. It was addressed to him and postmarked Cannes the previous day. I had to hand it to the Postes et Télégraphe boys. They had had five hours' start on me and beaten me to it.
I dropped into an armchair by the fireplace. It was so deep and wide I wondered for a moment if I was ever going to hit bottom. I did, bounced a bit, and then took the letter out of the envelope. It was to him from Zelia and read without benefit of any superscription, no glad 'Darling' or 'Dearest one'—
I had hoped that I would never have to communicate with you in any way. Circumstances now make it necessary. For some reason my father is highly concerned about the loss of the car and has employed a certain Mr Rex Carver of London to trace it. This man saw me today. Although he did not mention your name, he must know it, because he knows that you stayed in the next room to me at the Hotel and that I made my phone call to home from it. I denied everything. I shall continue to deny everything. I just want what happened to become a blank in my mind. If this man should trace you, you will do the same. You have never known me. You have betrayed me once. For this I do not hate you, or forgive you. I have simply made you nothing in my mind. Betray me to this man, or anyone else, and I swear that I will have you killed. You have destroyed something in me. Make this in any way public and I will destroy you.
Zelia.
I put the letter back in the envelope and slipped it into my pocket. Nothing she had said was news to me. She meant every word she said, and I was sorry for her. That was the hell of it. I was sorry for her, but I had a job to do. If I possibly could, I wanted to do it without hurting her more. She might want what had happened to be a blank in her mind, but I had to know what had happened. Once I knew, I could pass on to my real concern, the car, I would make it a blank in my mind. I sat there, wondering how Max Ansermoz had felt when he had read the letter. Not overmuch concerned, I imagined, or he would not just have chucked it across the table.
At this moment there was a yappy bark from the open door of the lounge behind me. Something white skittered around the side of the chair on the polished boards, leapt on to my knees and began to lick my face. It was a small white poodle. I'm not going to upset anyone by saying I'm no dog-lover, but I like my dogs big, discriminating, and with a certain secret contempt for mankind. I was just about to chuck this one into the empty fireplace as undersized when a breathless voice from the door called, 'Otto! Otto — tu es fou venir ici avec cette sacrée auto? Tu voudrais que tout le monde—'
He broke off as I stood up with the white poodle in my arms and he saw me for the first time.
I said, 'You're rushing it, Max. That's not the car Otto went off with. Same colour, different number.'
I dropped the poodle to the ground and it began to walk around on its hind legs like some circus number.
'Cute,' I said. 'How is it as a gun-dog?'
He had a shotgun under one arm and a couple of pigeons hanging from his right hand.
'Who are you and what are you doing here?' He said it in English, not much accent, and his voice under control.
'Carver,' I said. 'Rex Carver of London. I think Miss Zelia Yunge-Brown mentioned me to you in a letter.'
I had to hand it to him. He didn't faint or have palpitations or collapse into a chair. He just stood there and for the fraction of a moment his eyes glanced at the big circular table. He was taller than me, slim, not an ounce of fat on him, and he had one of those dark, unhealthy-looking tans which come from chromosomes more than the sun. He wore a loose shooting jacket with a fur collar, a black peaked cap and black breeches tucked into the top of gum-boots. He had an intelligent, good-looking face and sparkling teeth and eye-whites. I didn't like the look of him at all, but I could see how in a bad light, after a few glasses of champagne, some women might have called him a dreamboat. Not Zelia, I shouldn't have thought. But there you are — when a woman finally decides to drop the barriers you never know which way the water will flow.
Calmly, he said, 'I don't know what you're talking about. Kindly get out of my house.'
He dropped the brace of pigeons on to a chair and eased the gun into both of his hands, the muzzle low, pointing to the ground. He was over his surprise now, and had me sized up. What could I do while he had a gun in his hands? I decided to see how far he would go.
I shrugged my shoulders, and said, 'You can take that attitude if you like. But it won't get you far — and I'll be back.'
I moved up towards the door and he swung slightly round to keep me fully under observation. When I was abreast of him, he said, 'Before you go I'd like the letter which I left on the table.'
I stopped moving, eyed him as though I might be going to make an issue of it — which I certainly wasn't while he stood at the ready with a double-barrelled twelve-bore — and then with another shrug I slipped my hand into my pocket for the letter and handed it out to him.
He smiled, just the faintest edge of white teeth showing, and shook his head.
'Put it on the chair there,'
I moved to the chair, put the letter on one of its arms and then gave the chair a hard push towards him across the slippery pine floor. The far arm caught him on the thigh, knocked him off balance and before he could gather himself together, I jumped him. Miggs, I'm sure, would have said I was slow, but I was fast enough for Max Ansermoz. I chopped down at one of his wrists, broke his hold on the gun, grabbed the barrel in my other hand and twisted the weapon free from him. I could have stopped there, I suppose, but a nice warm feeling flooded through me and I didn't see why I shouldn't take the opportunity to put him in a cooperative mood. I jabbed him hard in the stomach with the butt of the shotgun and, as his head came forward, I slapped him sidehand across the neck and he went down with a crash that had the fool poodle dancing and yip-ping with excitement.
He was game. He came up twice at me and I put him down each time, not bothering about the Queensberry rules, remembering Miggs saying, 'Don't be nice, be nasty, but leave 'em so they can talk.'
I let him crawl off his knees and into a chair. He flopped back, murdering me with his eyes, blood trickling from one corner of his mouth. I sat on the edge of the table and faced him.
I said, 'Before I begin the questions, let's get one thing clear. Everything you say to me about Miss Zelia will be in the strictest confidence. Think of me as a confessional. It comes to me — and goes no farther. Okay.'
He spat something at me in a language I didn't know. To gentle him down I smacked the butt of the shotgun across the top of his kneecap, just not hard enough to break it. He gasped with pain, doubled forward and the poodle jumped up, trying to lick his face. He shoved it away roughly and dropped back into the chair.
'Bastard.'
'I don't expect you to like me. I'd take it as an insult if you did. Just answer me — or I'll break every bloody bone in your body. Ready?'
He said nothing and I took it for assent.
'Okay,' I said. 'Let's start at the end. Maybe that way we can skip some of the dirty middle. Who's Otto?'
He considered this, — and he was considering more. I knew the look and that slow pulling-together movement of the body as they decide to go along with you, hoping that their cooperation will make you so pleased that you'll drop your guard for a moment.