“You were valet to Prince Michael?”
“I was His Highness’s valet, yes.”
The man spoke good English, though with a markedly harsh foreign accent.
“You know that your master was murdered last night?”
A deep snarl, like the snarl of a wild beast, was the man’s only answer. It alarmed George, who withdrew prudently towards the window.
“When did you see your master last?”
“His Highness retired to bed at half-past ten. I slept, as always, in the ante-room next to him. He must have gone down to the room downstairs by the other door, the door that gave on to the corridor. I did not hear him go. It may be that I was drugged. I have been an unfaithful servant, I slept while my master woke. I am accursed.”
George gazed at him, fascinated.
“You loved your master, eh?” said Battle, watching the man closely.
Boris’s features contracted painfully. He swallowed twice. Then his voice came, harsh with emotion.
“I say this to you, English Policeman, I would have died for him! And since he is dead, and I still live, my eyes shall not know sleep, or my heart rest, until I have avenged him. Like a dog will I nose out his murderer and when I have discovered him Ah!” His eyes lit up. Suddenly he drew an immense knife from beneath his coat and brandished it aloft. “Not all at once will I kill him—oh, no!—first I will slit his nose, and cut off his ears and put out his eyes, and then—then, into his black heart I will thrust this knife.”
Swiftly he replaced the knife, and turning, left the room. George Lomax, his eyes always protuberant, but now goggling almost out of his head, stared at the closed door.
“Pure bred Herzoslovakian, of course,” he muttered. “Most uncivilized people. A race of brigands.”
Superintendent Battle rose alertly to his feet.
“Either that man’s sincere,” he remarked, “or he’s the best bluffer I’ve ever seen. And, if it’s the former, God help Prince Michael’s murderer when that human bloodhound gets hold of him.”
105
