madame veno—alias mrs. sam piggott—had a key to the door of the janitor's flat. she, her husband, and their associates could come and go as they chose when the janitor was away or upstairs.
"you won't get anything out of your husband," she said to juliet as the three went down, she leading with mingled defiance and reluctance. "he hasn't come back to his senses yet. it wasn't so much the blow—mind you, my husband was within his rights, defending his brother-in-law from assault!—it wasn't the blow so much as the fall. the duke fell on the back of his head. it was concussion. we had a doctor in—a friend of ours we could trust. and we weren't going to let you know till we were sure he was out of danger—ready to be moved. if he has to stand his trial for killing markoff, why——"
"how does a man with concussion of the brain commit murder?" juliet's question stabbed like a stiletto. by this time they were at the door of the basement flat, and madame veno was fumbling with a bunch of keys, nickson's eyes upon her hands.
"naturally the killing was done before the concussion," madame sneered. "the duke hated markoff because of pavoya. perhaps he had reason. but that won't help him with a jury!"
juliet could have struck the woman and trampled her under foot. she turned upon her in the dimly lit passage so fiercely that the nervous fingers jumped and let fall the key. "you fool!" the duchess said. "you told me i should see a dead man here. yet according to your own story my husband was struck down the night after i saw him last. one doesn't keep a dead man in a flat for weeks!"
madame veno drew in a sharp breath, and mumbled something which juliet could not hear. it was easy to deduce that the story of markoff's death by claremanagh's hand was an impromptu effort—an inspiration which didn't quite "come off!" the woman had suddenly caught at a desperate chance. the duke, having lost all memory of events, could be made to believe what they chose about himself. and if the duchess and her friends could be got to credit the tale, the markoff affair would be simplified.
he had been known to madame's husband and stepbrother for years, even before the war, when he had fed modern ways in london and the inner circle in new york with rich titbits of scandal concerning the russian court. he had told piggott that russia had a grievance against the claremanagh family in connection with the tsarina pearls; that this treasure ought to be returned to the crown; and piggott had suspected that markoff was "out" to get it if he could. this visit of his to new york was for some reason sub rosa. his passport was made out for a merchant of skins named halbin; but he had called upon his two old acquaintances and offered for sale the most intimate personal secrets of trotsky and lenin. the brothers-in-law had guessed that he wanted the tsarina pearls for himself, if they could be got, as he had once pretended to want them for the russian crown. so, when by amazing luck they found themselves in possession of the famous rope, their first thought was to bargain with markoff-halbin. he had risen to the bait, and had made an offer. it sounded satisfactory, but the money was not forthcoming. a "friend" was to produce it. meanwhile, when it was learned through the "leak" at the duchess's that sanders sought markoff, shelter was given him; also the "benefit of the doubt." but little doubt remained when he tried to steal the pearls! as for the consequences of this attempt, they were upon the man's own head! and at worst, the doctor would certify that death had not been the direct result of a blow, but of heart failure.
the end had come the day before the duchess was invited to madame veno's; and had it not come, madame de saintville might have been left in peace till her help was wanted in some other direction. with markoff dead, and his problematic "offer" wiped from the slate, the best remaining hope was the duchess. claremanagh would not be able to testify against the man who had struck him down—would not even know that sam pigott had revenged himself at last for the caning episode in london. he and the pearls could be handed over to the duchess; price, a million dollars; and no one would ever know where and how he had spent those weeks missing from his calendar.
the scheme had been in fine working order up to the moment when that middle door had suddenly opened! madame veno thought bitterly of the mistake they had all made in sending for the duchess. the thing might surely have been managed in another way! but it was useless to cry over spilt milk—a million dollars' worth of spilt milk! they must be grateful if the enemy held his tongue, and they kept out of jail.
she laughed when the duchess called aloud, "pat! where are you? it's juliet, who loves you." she was so sure that the cry would be answered by silence, for there was a dead man in one room, an unconscious man in another. but there was no laugh left in her when claremanagh's voice rang out, clear and sane, "hullo, my darling! here i am!"
he had been shamming, then! how much had he heard? how much could he tell? how much did he remember?
juliet flew in the direction of the beloved voice. it was heaven to hear it after the hell she had suffered! there were two doors opposite each other. she tried the first. locked! but the key was there. it turned, and she threw the door open only to slam it shut with a stifled gasp—for on the bed was a long shape covered with a sheet. it was the body of markoff, of whom she had heard so much of late from jack and sanders, though till now—when he had ceased to live—she'd hardly believed in his existence.
again pat called. she realized that he was in the room opposite, and in less than a minute she was with him—in a grey room where a pale pat lay in a squalid bed. he sat up, a strange, unkempt figure: the immaculate claremanagh unshaven, his smooth hair rumpled; a torn shirt open at the throat, instead of those smart silk pyjamas in "futurist" colours which she'd often smiled at and admired!
she rushed into his arms. he was strong enough to clasp her tight. "oh, my pat, my dearest one!" she sobbed. "i have you again! say you're not going to die. say you still love me!"
"i adore you. and i'm not going to die. perhaps i came near it. i don't know. but this is new life. and, juliet—i've got back the pearls far you!"
"oh—the pearls! i'd forgotten them."
"i hadn't. you see, it meant a lot to me to prove to you that it wasn't i who walked off with them. darling, i suppose you wouldn't be here now if you didn't know how i got to this place?"
"i know partly. i know you went at night to the inner circle office to punish that beast. and the horrible london man, piggott—his brother-in-law—struck you from behind——"
"was it like that? i wasn't sure what happened, and i don't know yet where i am. but since i woke up to things, i've lain still, and listened when they thought i was nothing but a log. i wasn't strong enough to do much. i had to lie low! but there was a row about the pearls. markoff was here—hiding, i think. how these people got the pearls i haven't made out. they had them, though—and markoff tried to steal them instead of buying as he'd promised. he fell in a fit or something, and died. i heard a doctor talking—a pal of the people here. the night markoff died they were squabbling over the pearls, a woman and two men in the next room. i heard them say where they were kept—in the room where they'd put markoff's body till they could get rid of it. they'd no idea i'd come alive. at last, to-day when they were all out, and the coast clear—it can't have been two hours ago—i struggled up and got the pearls—beneath a loose board in the floor under the carpet. they're inside this mattress now. i was planning how to make my 'getaway' when i heard your voice. jove! this has been a bad dream. but thank god it's over for us both. you'll have to believe in me when i give you the pearls."
"give me your love—your forgiveness," begged juliet. "i want nothing else."
"you'll have to take the lot!" pat almost laughed. "but as to forgiveness—why, darling one, there's nothing to forgive!"
leon defasquelle's look, when he saw sanders instead of the frenchwoman alone, was in itself a confession. he knew he was trapped. his dark, southern face faded to the yellow green of seasickness. speechless, anxious-eyed as a kicked dog, he would have backed to the door, but sanders was ready for that. he stepped between him and the hope of escape. "it's all up, my friend," the detective said, in his quiet voice. then, remembering that defasquelle had little english, he went on in half-forgotten school french, a little slang thrown in from novels he'd read.
"your chère amie has split on you. no good getting out the pistol from your pocket. nothing doing in that line!" (he showed his browning.) "we can settle this business without blood if you've got common sense."
"that woman—that devil has told her side of the story!" defasquelle raged, with a look that longed to kill. "now you shall have mine. she was the temptress. she has ruined me."
"liar!" shrilled simone. "coward and deceiver! you have a fiancée in marseilles. you let me think you'd marry me!"
"you threatened to betray! i had to defend myself. you made me a thief!"
"ah, accuse me!"
"because you are guilty!"
it was thus that sanders heard the story, bit by bit. and patching together these torn rags of recrimination he got the pattern of the whole cloth.
simone had scraped acquaintance with her countryman. he had complained of the duke's carelessness and lack of consideration in refusing to break the seals of the packet. then a dazzling idea had come to simone. the packet, defasquelle said, had been flung into a wall-safe. simone knew all about that safe! she knew also where the duchess (as careless in some ways as the duke) kept the combination jotted down on a bit of paper. defasquelle could not be suspected (she pointed out), as he had earnestly implored the duke to open the package in his presence. nor was there the least danger for herself. she was completely trusted. it would be tempting providence not to seize such an opportunity of fortune! as for "stealing," that was not the word. these pearls didn't properly belong to the claremanaghs. they should have been returned to the russian crown. now, there was no russian crown. the pearls belonged to no one—unless to those with pluck enough to take them.
according to defasquelle, those were simone's arguments. and he saw too late that she'd drawn him into the intrigue instead of managing it alone, drawn him in so as to hold him in her power—and get a husband at the sword's point! he, in his heart, had thought of the girl at marseilles. the one objection to him there was his lack of money. the girl's father accused him of presenting his prospects in too rosy colours. if the pearls could be disposed of as mademoiselle vowed they could even known as they were, over the world, the future would be ideal.
simone had opened the safe with the aid of her mistress's memorandum, defasquelle having gone away and come back again. to their surprise they had found, on the same shelf with the packet, a rope of great blue pearls. at first defasquelle had taken them for the genuine ones, though the seals on the packet appeared intact. but simone was an expert in pearls, like the duchess. a simple test had shown that the rope was a copy. as for the clasp, neither thought of the difference in the watching eye; and it seemed to both that the "find" was almost a miracle in their favour.
the duchess—argued simone—was unlikely to suspect a substitution. she would not test the pearls, and might wear them for months or years without guessing that they weren't genuine. meanwhile, simone would leave her service, and never need to take a place again. she would go home to france and live on her share from the sale of the pearls.
the duke being absent, and the duchess, too, she and defasquelle could work safely in the study. simone had some red sealing wax; and the duke's famous ring lay on the desk where he'd left it after displaying the design to mayen's messenger. simone had thought of everything—even to a pair of rubber gloves which she used when cleaning her mistress's gold toilet things. these gloves she had put on before touching the safe, the packet, or the seal ring. and having opened the packet she had made defasquelle smoke one of the duke's special brand of cigarettes to scent the handkerchief wrapped round the jewel case. if worst came to worst, and suspicion were excited, let it fall upon the duke himself, and lyda pavoya.
then, that very night, suspicion had fallen!
the duchess had discovered that the pearls were false. simone had overheard snatches of talk between her and the duke, and it had seemed well to mention pavoya's visit in order that lyda might be suspected from the beginning. also, simone had felt it safe to give the whole story to the inner circle. the duke and duchess had quarrelled, so why not? she would get extra pay. and soon she would be leaving the claremanaghs forever.
one of her first thoughts in connection with the pearls was to hint in the office at having secured a great treasure, to sell for a comparatively low price. if the invisible editor rose to the bait, as simone hoped he might, she would be saved much trouble and danger: also she would have protection in case of trouble.
she had been right about the bait; but once she was in his power the man put on the screw, and too late simone regretted applying to him. defasquelle reproached her bitterly, and they quarrelled, yet he could not break free. simone held him in chains, as both were held by the inner circle. the fortune she had visioned dwindled to a few thousand dollars which were all the inner circle men would pay for "stolen property." this was maddening, because the fortune would go to them. there was nothing to do, however, save consent.
it was by defasquelle's suggestion, simone vowed, that she'd sent an anonymous letter to the duke, mentioning an hour when the illusive editor could be found, and at the same time warning the editor himself that violence might be expected. if the duke were "smashed up" there would be just half the danger to face in future; and defasquelle owed him a grudge for laughing at his first request which, if granted, would have saved him from temptation.
so there, in its patched design, the great pearl secret lay exposed! fitted in with the forced confessions from the side of the inner circle, and from what claremanagh had overheard, it was complete.
what to do with the guilty ones was the next question.
sanders being a private detective, not a member of the police, considered that his obligation was to his employers, not to the public. he was going to leave the decision to captain manners and the duchess—who were paying for his services. if they and the duke wanted to pack the lot to prison, at the price of a big scandal, well and good. if, on the contrary, the culprits were to be let off and silence kept, it was the same to him.
later, when he learned by telephone from manners what had happened in the inner circle building, he did not change his mind. he obeyed instructions and ordered the duchess's car to go there at once. fortunately night had fallen and the duke, in any sort of toilet, could easily be smuggled home.
"claremanagh has the pearls," 'phoned jack. "and he'll soon be fit again—the two principal things. these blighters have got a dead man here—markoff—but they've a doctor's certificate testifying that he died of heart failure. arrangements have been made to bury him to-morrow. we think, on the whole, that the dead past had best bury its dead, too! no great crime has actually been done, as it turns out. but the scandal would be great, for a number of innocent ones who don't deserve it. what?"
sanders grinned quietly. he guessed which innocent one was most in manners' thoughts!
"right!" he said. "though it seems a pity that d—d inner circle should get off scot free."
"oh, i forgot to tell you. it won't. pat not only found the pearls, but overheard such a lot he's in a position to turn blackmailer. he's held up the rotters. they've had to sign a paper swearing to mend their ways. lowndes is one of them; there's an irishman—compatriot of pat's—from a london rag, who slugged him. and the editor—gee! you'd never guess who he's turned out to be."
"but i know!" said the detective.
"well, anyhow, he's going to transform the inner circle into a sort of inner shrine, if he keeps his promise. lord! won't the next number be a sensation?"
"yes—make up to the public a bit for losing the truth about the great pearl secret."
jack laughed joyfully—his first happy laugh for weeks. and then, even from that unblest place, the flat of madame veno, he could not omit calling up lyda, at her house.
she was at home, and answered: "oh, i'm thankful to hear your voice. is all well with the duchess?"
"yes, also with the duke."
"he's found?"
"yes. and the pearls. so all's well with everyone except me."
"why not with you?"
"how can it be till you give me that promise?"
"but—since these things have happened, it's yours already. and—so am i. you are the man. i am the woman!"
"my goddess!" cried jack through the uncongenial telephone. "i'm coming to you the instant i'm free. juliet and pat send you their love. you've got all mine already."
