Читать книгу The Colossus of Arcadia - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 9

Table of Contents

Everybody was laudably punctual on the morning following the Princess’s party. They met Baron Domiloff as they passed through the lounge. He was looking a little weary and there were dark rings under his deepset grey eyes.

“Lucky people,” he sighed, glancing at their tennis kit. “Are you lunching down at the club?”

“We are going on to Beaulieu,” De Hochepierre told him.

“And you, my dear friend,” Lucille said, thrusting her arm through Domiloff’s, “are coming with us. You look as though you needed a rest. Do come,” she pleaded, looking up at him with her most bewitching smile. “You work all the time. Why are you such a slave?”

He hesitated. The others added their persuasions. Domiloff laughed suddenly.

“Why not?” he exclaimed. “I shall be free at one o’clock for two hours, anyway. Pick me up here if you will.”

Everyone was delighted. They had a very light drink of ginger ale and lemon peel skilfully iced and drove down to the tennis courts, the Prince and Princess in the former’s wonderful Isotto and the other two in Townleyes’ car, which had arrived overland the night before. The tennis was cheerful and pleasant. Townleyes, who was a famous performer at squash and very good indeed at lawn tennis, played with the Princess. Joan Haskell turned out to be the surprise of the party. She was the Prince’s partner and displayed almost tournament form. De Hochepierre, who very seldom won a set, was delighted, and having picked up Baron Domiloff in the bar of the Hôtel de Paris, they all started off to luncheon in the best of spirits.

At half-past one they drove through the gates into the picturesque garden of the Restaurant de la Réserve, the pleasant fatigue of their morning’s exercise already forgotten. The famous restaurant was looking its best when the Prince parked his very luxurious supercharged coupé in the shade of the trees and with his wife joined their companions. Joan Haskell was the only stranger and to her the place seemed like a little paradise—with its huge banks of flowers, the strange statuary, the clear pool with the swimming fish, the conservatory-like restaurant between them and the sea, through the glass windows of which they could catch sight of the hurrying waiters and from the wide-flung doors hear the low strains of a violin. They sent for their cocktails out in the gardens and a smoothly smiling and gentle-mannered maître d’hôtel brought out the wonderful menu.

“Les spécialités de la maison, Mesdames,” he replied to the Princess’s question. “Mais parfaitement. Les Petites Demoiselles de Beaulieu—small langoustes of most divine flavour! Les petites épaules d’agneau—très, très petite comme cela,” he went on, holding up his hands. “The new peas we have, the new potatoes, sauce de menthe à l’Anglaise—and fresh strawberries.”

“It sounds perfectly heavenly,” Joan murmured.

“And I am so hungry,” Lucille confided.

Monsieur le patron, with his broad shoulders and his huge flowing tie, came to pay his respects to the Princess. The maître d’hôtel stood respectfully on one side. There was a good deal of bowing and many compliments. Monsieur took the order from his head waiter and studied it.

“It is very good,” he approved. “With the Petites Demoiselles, Monsieur le Prince, one should drink a Vieux Chablis—le Montrachet 1911. With the lamb—Burgundy would perhaps be a little heavy for the ladies—a Château Mouton Rothschild. Afterwards, les asperges, of course, and with the strawberries just one bottle of Château Yquem.” He kissed the tips of his fingers. “Exquis!”

Townleyes murmured something about a whisky and soda. The patron half-closed his eyes and repressed a shiver. Domiloff threatened to duck the offender in the pond. Cocktails were brought to them whilst they were sitting happily there talking over the noteworthy tennis they had played that morning.

Suddenly Joan Haskell broke off in the middle of a chaffing speech. She clasped the Prince’s arm.

“What is that place?” she asked, pointing to the square, grey building, flower-wreathed, with a picturesque red roof, in the shadow of which they were seated.

“The Hôtel de la Réserve,” he told her. “Very interesting establishment, my dear Mademoiselle, but it is one concerning which you must not ask too many questions. It is where the haut monde commit their indiscretions. Perhaps sometimes it is not only the haut monde. People come here from all corners of the Riviera.”

“Un nid d’amour,” Domiloff observed. “A rendezvous which many have found a happy paradise.”

“Dear me,” the Princess sighed, “why have I never heard of it?”

“It is one of those places,” the Prince explained, “the existence of which a discreet husband does not reveal to a flighty wife.”

“Who dares to call me a flighty wife?” Lucille demanded. “But what is the matter with Miss Haskell? She looks frightened.”

The colour, which had left the girl’s cheeks as though from some sort of a shock, was slowly returning. Her eyes were fixed upon a window on the third storey of the hotel, a window hung with a sunblind and drooping sprigs of clematis. In front of it was a small balcony overlooking the restaurant to the sea.

“Silly of me,” the girl apologized. “A man stepped just outside on to the balcony, and directly he heard our voices he disappeared.”

“It was a man of repulsive appearance, perhaps,” the Prince asked, “or what was wrong with him? Why did he frighten you?”

“He only frightened me,” the girl explained, “because of the look of terror on his own face. He stepped half-way across the threshold, caught sight of us, or perhaps of those two men behind who have just driven up, and sprang back into the room. You see, he has closed the window now.”

Sir Julian grinned. Even the Prince smiled.

“It is probably,” he said, “a little adventure—a clandestine affair—and Monsieur does not fancy the interference of unexpected visitors. I should certainly imagine that somewhere within the compass of this gay region there is a missing wife from the luncheon table to-day.”

“How fortunate you are, my dear Léon,” Lucille exclaimed as she took his hand, “that you have no anxieties of that sort!”

“Whether I have or not,” he observed, “I keep them to myself.”

“I make no protestations,” she continued, “nor any promises—except one. If ever I am lured inside those enticing walls, I shall never be found out. That is the only crime in these pleasant lapses. What do you think, Miss Haskell?”

The girl smiled.

“I am not married and I am more than of an age to do as I choose in life,” she said. “It makes adventures, perhaps, a little dull when one reflects that there is no one who has the right to complain of what you do.”

“Is that the American point of view, Miss Haskell?” Domiloff asked.

“I cannot speak for my country,” she replied. “Only for myself.”

A chasseur in brilliant scarlet uniform, looking exactly like a pageboy from a revue, left the hotel and approached their party. He held in his hand a small silver salver and in the middle of it a twisted-up sheet of paper. He presented it to Townleyes with a bow.

“From a visitor in the hotel,” he announced in a low tone.

Townleyes, with a muttered word of excuse, untwisted the sheet of paper and read. The message consisted of a few words only, but it was obvious that they were of a disturbing nature. He rose to his feet.

“Mind excusing me for a few minutes?” he asked. “This note is from an acquaintance who seems to be in distress.”

“The chasseur looks truthful,” the Princess observed, fluttering her parasol a little. “Don’t stay away too long, though, Sir Julian. This morning when I awoke I thought I should never be hungry again. I was mistaken. The anticipation of those langoustes is becoming pleasant to me.”

“I won’t be long,” he promised, “but if I am not down when you are ready, do commence lunch without me.”

Townleyes turned away and disappeared in the hotel. They decided upon a second round of cocktails and before they had disposed of them he reappeared. By his side was a tall, slim young man, exceedingly good-looking, with dark blue flashing eyes and well-cut, almost fine features. He carried himself well, but he had the air of one who was recovering from an illness or was suffering from some sort of shock.

“Ma foi, mais c’est Sagastrada!” the Prince exclaimed.

“Monsieur le Prince,” the young man murmured, as they shook hands.

“Mais c’est incroyable ceci!” the Prince continued. “Where are you from, my friend, that you make so sudden an appearance?”

The Princess gave her fingers to the newcomer, who raised them gallantly to his lips.

“Princesse!”

“Let me also introduce you,” Townleyes went on, “to Miss Joan Haskell and the Baron Domiloff. My young friend here you know by name, I expect—Rudolph Sagastrada—famous polo player, owner of the most successful racing stable at Chantilly and what counts for so much these days, alas, a world renowned banker and a great industrialist.”

“But unfortunately at the present moment,” the young man put in with a rather attractive smile, “an outcast from my country. In fact, I seem to have made rather a mess of my affairs.”

Townleyes nodded sympathetically.

“Of course we have read the newspapers the last few days,” he remarked, “but I should never have thought that they would have dared to touch anyone of your house.”

The young man sighed.

“It may sound conceited,” he said, “but as a matter of fact I had the same idea. My uncle and one of my cousins left the country a fortnight ago. I remained. There were a great many financial interests to be considered and I did hope that as powerful supporters of the State and of many industrial enterprises we should have been left alone. On the contrary, as I discovered almost too late, my name and the name of a friend, Dr. Rothmann,—the editor of the Neue Presse,—were the most prominent on the black list.”

“Are things really as bad as the newspapers tell us?” Townleyes asked gravely.

“Worse,” was the firm reply. “The last fortnight has been hideous. I have lost many of my friends—hurried off to prisons. I never expect to see them again. What our offence is no one seems to know, but unless we are out-and-out supporters of the new régime, we are immediately under suspicion. I had to delay a few hours to get hold of Rothmann, who seemed to be in it worse than I was, and when we crossed the frontier it was with the knowledge that both of us might have been shot at sight if captured.”

“It seems incredible,” the Prince declared in genuine amazement.

“It is nevertheless true,” Rudolph Sagastrada assured him. “Even now,” he went on, “we are not safe. My planes—I have several at my own aerodrome—were all confiscated, also my cars. Fortunately I had a racing Bugatti which I was keeping a secret. I was just able to smuggle Rothmann into it at the last moment. We crossed the Alps, came down through Savoy by Aix-les-Bains, Sisteron and Nice. The road to Paris was too dangerous. We were expected to take that route. Even now, I believe we have been followed. From the window up there I thought I saw a suspicious-looking car with two occupants, a few minutes ago. It seems to have vanished, though.”

“They could not arrest you here, surely?” Domiloff asked.

The young man smiled bitterly.

“They would not stop to arrest either of us,” he said. “They would just shoot. Rothmann, I am afraid, is worse in it than I am. It is not arrest we have to fear just for the moment. It is murder.”

The Princess shivered as she rose to her feet.

“I suggest that we form ourselves into a bodyguard and take you into the restaurant,” she exclaimed. “Those little langoustes! The cooking here is so perfect and Henri, the maître d’hôtel, is looking at us reproachfully. We will send for your friend.”

“It is exceedingly kind of you,” Sagastrada acknowledged. “I accept with pleasure. As for my friend, he has ordered something in his apartment, where he is writing letters.”

They moved down to the restaurant and with many flourishes of the hand, with smiles and bows and pleasant words, were conducted by the patron to a round table in the window recess. The leader of the music came slowly up the room playing a violin solo. The atmosphere was one of laughter and gaiety and melody—even Sagastrada’s face lost its tense expression. With the first glass of wine he drank he drew a long breath and threw back his head with a little gesture of relief. It was perhaps a symbolical action. He was drinking in draughts of a new world.

“Soon,” he exclaimed, “I shall begin to realize that perhaps—one never knows—perhaps for a time I have escaped.”

The luncheon, long protracted, came to an end at last. The final glass of the famous Fine de la Maison had been drunk. The little party rose to their feet. Sagastrada was decidedly more cheerful.

“This brief space of time,” he told De Hochepierre, “has been an immense relief to me. You may not agree with my politics, in fact I am sure you do not, but then you have not lived in my country, you have not seen the suffering which I have seen. You are all so sympathetic, though, and you have given me the best luncheon I ever ate in my life. It is a paradise, this little oasis of rest and beauty. I am grateful.”

“What are your plans?” Townleyes asked. “Are you staying on here at the hotel?”

“I do not know,” was the tired answer. “There are those who would help me if they could but I doubt whether they have the power. I had thought of Italy but of course I may find the frontiers closed against me.”

“Come with us to Monaco,” the Prince suggested. “You will be all right there, anyway. Take a week or two’s rest. Domiloff will see to it that your name is kept out of the papers and, after all, Monaco is a Principality of its own. You might find refuge there, where in other places you would still be in danger. Am I not right, Baron?”

Domiloff assented thoughtfully.

“Your young friend,” he said, “visits us at the psychological moment. The legislature of the Principality is undergoing important changes. Even at the present moment, Sagastrada,” he went on, “I believe that you would be safer in Monaco than any place within easy reach of here, and it is possible, in a few days’ time, that we might be able to offer you absolute security, provided that your offence is only political.”

Sagastrada hesitated. He had the air of one sorely tempted.

“I have committed no crime whatever,” he declared, “but I doubt whether I am still a creditable acquaintance. You are aristocrats. I have not actually carried the red flag, but I found the money which financed Rothmann’s press and that is where I got into trouble. Although I will not say that I follow Rothmann entirely, I have subscribed to some of his doctrines.”

“Oh, let’s forget about it,” Townleyes suggested. “You have the brains of a Disraeli, Sagastrada. I remember hearing you talk at the Reform Club one night when you were staying with young Edward Massoon. Let’s forget politics and talk literature—not that I know much about it, but I do understand literature better than I do present-day world politics.”

“Townleyes is right,” De Hochepierre declared. “Come along with us, Sagastrada. We will look after you for a time.”

“For a few days,” the latter ventured, hesitating. “Well, I am tempted.”

“Go and fetch your bag,” the Prince insisted. “We have two huge cars here—plenty of room for everybody. We will take you in to the Sporting Club and show you how the game of Baccarat should be played.”

Sagastrada’s eyes were aglow. He had the look of an overgrown, engagingly eager boy.

“I have very few clothes—only the barest necessities,” he admitted, “but if you will take me to Monaco I will come. You should understand, though, all of you, what you are doing. I am not a person in favour with the world just now. I should not be seen in your company. I helped Rothmann to escape, I financed his papers, and for that alone they will kill me if they get a chance.”

“No more of it, my dear fellow,” Sir Julian insisted. “We will not talk politics or think about them. I can promise you that. We are going to talk about Heine, and Shelley, and Shakespeare. Better worth the trouble—better even than the Byronic enthusiasm you used to indulge in. If you ask me, things are getting so mixed up that politics on rational lines will be an impossible subject for many years to come.”

The glow faded for a moment from the young man’s face as they lingered outside the hotel.

“You speak like a prophet, Sir Julian,” he declared. “Sanity and common sense are what are needed. . . . I fetch then my bag.”

He hurried into the building and they watched him spring lightly up the stairs.

The Princess and Joan amused themselves strolling about the garden. The Prince started up his long silver-grey car and brought it silently round to the front. A huge weather-beaten racing car stood at the angle of the building, covered with dust, and with a single man all muffled up occupying the driving seat. The Prince stared at it distastefully.

“Whose is that awful-looking caravan?” he asked the concierge.

The man shook his head doubtfully.

“I do not know, Monsieur le Prince,” he answered. “It passed here just before you went in to lunch, going at a terrific speed on the way to Monte Carlo. It must have come back again while I was away. I have been off duty for a time. There were two men in it when it arrived. I ask myself what has become of the other.”

The concierge moved towards the stationary automobile and addressed the driver. The latter made no reply. He did not even turn his head. The concierge repeated his question. Suddenly a man, who came round the side of the hotel as though he had issued from the back quarters, also muffled up and wearing a long motor coat, pushed him rudely to one side and sprang in. His companion at the wheel leaned forward. The automobile gave a convulsive jump into the air and went off, leaping and bounding, up the drive, swung into the main road and disappeared in a cloud of dust.

“Of all the filthy-looking rig-outs I ever saw in my life,” Sir Julian remarked in disgust, “I should think that one takes the cake.”

“Twelve cylinders,” the Prince observed. “A big bore, too. You would think she had been built for racing in a mountainous country. She looks as though she had just come a few thousand miles, too, and those registration figures are indecipherable. Who on earth does she belong to?”

“I have no idea, sir,” the angry concierge replied. “The man who got in must have come from the back quarters somewhere. I ask myself what queer game they can have been playing round here.”

The sun was disappearing in a vaporous cloud over towards Nice. There was a sudden chill in the breeze.

“This is the most dangerous hour of the day,” the Prince grumbled. “I think we ought to be getting along.”

Domiloff suddenly issued from the restaurant and, hurrying past the two women, joined the little group at the entrance to the hotel.

“Where is your friend Sagastrada?” he asked quickly.

“Can’t imagine,” Townleyes replied. “He’s been gone nearly ten minutes.”

Domiloff, who never seemed to be in a hurry, was already in the small square hall of the hotel.

“What number?” he demanded.

“Twenty-nine,” the man replied. “Shall I tell Monsieur you are waiting, sir?”

“I will go myself,” Domiloff answered.

He climbed the stairs swiftly, but without apparent exertion, to the first floor. On the second, his feet scarcely touched the thick, velvety carpet. The third étage was like a deserted wilderness. The air of pleasant mystery at which they had laughed an hour or so ago had gone. Number twenty-nine . . . There it was at the end of the passage. The door stood wide open. As he reached the threshold there was sufficient light for him to see everything clearly, even down to the small horrible details. A tall, bulky man, clad in shirt and trousers only, was lying face downwards upon the floor, a knife protruding from the centre of his back, a knife which had been driven right through to his chest with prodigious power. There was very little blood and the features of the man were hidden, but the long fingers were still gripping at the rug, in the thick folds of which they were almost hidden. Standing looking down at him with a ghastly look of horror upon his face was Rudolph Sagastrada.

“Rothmann?” Domiloff demanded, pointing downwards.

“Paul Rothmann,” Sagastrada answered, speaking like a man in a trance. “Stabbed from behind—brutally murdered.”