Читать книгу The Strangers' Gate - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 9

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It was towards the pleasant hour of seven o’clock that Nigel Beverley, having dealt with a considerable amount of telephoning and having made all his arrangements for the impending banquet, was enjoying a little well-earned repose stretched out upon his divan in the salon of his suite at the Ritz. From the adjoining room, where the valet was preparing his bath, came the pleasant sound of running water. On a small table by his side was a gleaming cocktail shaker, a half-filled glass and a box of cigarettes. He had just lit one of the latter and opened the evening paper when a slight sound at the door disturbed him. The handle was quietly turned. There was no knock but the door itself was opened and closed stealthily. It was Madame Katarina who had crossed the threshold, Madame in an exquisitely fashioned but daring négligé of black crêpe georgette. Beverley sprang to his feet.

“Madame!” he exclaimed, and there was distinct alarm in his voice.

She laughed at his embarrassment.

“My dear Mr. Englishman,” she remonstrated. “Why do you look so terrified? My suite is in the next corridor. I prepare myself soon for your wonderful dinner. I pass your door. I open it and come in. Why not? A leetle moment’s conversation.”

“But Nicolas—” Beverley began.

“Oh, la la!” she interrupted. “Am I a fool? Nicolas has gone to the Turf Club. Every afternoon he takes his first apéritif there. You do not wish to have a word with me—no? And perhaps a cocktail,” she added, glancing at the tray.

Beverley was swift to make up his mind. He accepted the situation, although without enthusiasm, and rang the bell.

“Ah, but you must not do that,” she cried.

“It is for another glass,” he pointed out.

“Stop the waiter,” she insisted. “I drink out of yours.”

Beverley made his way to the next room and dispatched the valet to intercept the waiter.

“It is arranged,” he reported when he returned.

She looked up at him, her left hand at her hip, a flavour of mockery upon her lips, invitation flowing from her eyes.

“Good,” she said.

She threw herself upon the divan. He filled his glass and passed it to her. She drank half its contents and handed it back.

“Mr. Beverley, this is a business visit. You wish that?”

“At your discretion, Madame,” he replied.

“My discretion? Well, there is something I must say to you. Come a little nearer to me.”

He was seated on the head of the divan and he glanced towards the bathroom, from which the sound of running water had ceased. He ignored her request.

“Let us proceed with the business,” he suggested with an easy smile.

“You like me here, yes?”

“I am more flattered than I can tell you, dear Madame,” he assured her. “My apartment has never been more honoured and the rose pink lining of your négligé is the most amazing flash of colour I ever saw.”

“That is more human,” she declared with a gratified smile. “An hour or so ago you were so stiff and hard. Almost I made up my mind not to come, but it was necessary. You and I, my dear friend, should have an understanding. Why not? You want something from Nicolas. Nicolas—well,” she went on with a little gesture, “he is my man, my slave. What you want you can have. But there is me,” she concluded, tapping herself with her long fingernails.

“I am puzzled,” he admitted.

“So simple. Listen. The twenty-five thousand pounds for Nicolas, that is good. But what for me? He will consent if I say so. He will say ‘no’ if I bid him.”

“Madame,” Beverley said, “I admire very much your plain-spokenness. To tell you the truth, that twenty-five thousand pounds is something of an offer, considering I honestly do not believe that there is any more bauxite in Orlac. Still, if Madame would accept—”

“A further twenty-five thousand,” she murmured. “In notes—quietly and secretly.”

“You take my breath away,” he confessed.

“I might do that,” she meditated. “It would be pleasant—yes? At any rate, the twenty-five thousand pounds would be the seal of our friendship.”

“Madame Katarina,” he regretted, “I could not give you twenty-five thousand pounds.”

Her eyes seemed to dilate as she looked at him. Her expression changed into one of pained surprise.

“You do not wish—” she hesitated, “you do not wish to give me twenty-five thousand pounds?”

“I will not insult Madame by saying it is too large a sum,” he rejoined, “but I cannot pay it.”

She beckoned him to her.

“For one moment,” she invited.

He shook his head.

“Alas,” he replied, “I dare not. If the door should open, all chances of my concession from Nicolas would disappear.”

“Idiot!” she laughed. “I have told you that Nicolas is safely away.”

“No man is safe from turning up at any time when he has so wonderful a jewel to guard,” he sighed.

“Oh, how much better!” she exclaimed. “I could almost let you off—a leetle—only a very leetle—of the twenty-five thousand pounds for such a sweet speech. Would you be happier if I had twenty?”

“Madame,” he said, and he spoke with mock seriousness into which he contrived to impart a certain amount of intensity, “there is a certain sum which in notes could be placed secretly in your handbag at any place or any time to-morrow. That sum could be no more than a compliment. It is inadequate—I know it—it does not deserve even a smile from your lips, a kind glance from your eyes. I know that, too. But alas, bankers are hard people.”

“The sum is—how much?”

“Five thousand pounds.”

She knotted the little handkerchief with which she had been toying and threw it at him. He caught it and placed it in his breast pocket.

“You are the rudest man I did ever meet!” she exclaimed.

“It is not my will,” he assured her.

“You offer me—what did you say?—ten thousand pounds?”

“Five thousand,” he corrected her gravely. “It is nothing—I know that full well, but remember it is only to purchase just a shadow of good will, just that your fingers guide the fingers of Nicolas at the foot of the deed which my notary will present to-night. Sorrowfully I repeat that it is a compliment only. You will owe me nothing when the deed is signed.”

She drew a long sigh. He was a hard one, this Englishman.

“I am humiliated,” she declared. “I am very, very sad. I am perhaps getting old. Am I losing my looks, Monsieur Beverley? Is it my charm perhaps that has gone? I have not what you Westerners call glamour? It is that, perhaps. I do not please you.”

“Am I the only one,” he asked, “who would hesitate at the idea of following in the footsteps of the King?”

“It does not flatter you?”

“At such a time, at this particular moment when I am asking—well—a favour of Nicolas, I would not admit even to myself that I had ventured to raise my eyes to his most precious possession.”

She sat upright on the divan. The smile with which she was regarding him had in it something of admiration.

“Mr. Beverley,” she pronounced, “you are a very clever man. You are not at all what I thought you—stupid. The five thousand pounds, if you please, must be in English Bank of England notes. Later this evening I will tell you how to deal with them. A packet perhaps addressed to my woman, Madame Bonfils.”

“Exactly according to your desires,” he promised.

“And I am to be sent away?” she went on, rising unwillingly to her feet.

“If you could only guess,” he sighed as he led the way to the door, “how unwillingly.”

She stopped short. Her arms were making a dangerous movement towards his neck. He listened.

“It is the valet,” he confided as he turned the handle of the door. “He is back again in the bathroom.”

She drew her négligé closely round her and walked on tiptoe with exaggerated caution. As she passed him she looked up into his face. The gesture, full of good nature, diabolically provocative, was the gesture of a gamine of the street. She smacked his cheek lightly and disappeared.

Beverley, with a sigh of relief, rang for a messenger, scribbled a few lines upon a card, handed the boy who presently appeared five hundred francs and a note addressed to a florist.

“Red roses, stems at least two feet long,” he ordered. “To Madame Katarina, Suite Seventy-seven. Immediate. Ten francs for yourself—and hurry.”

The chasseur smiled and took his leave. Beverley finished up the remains of his cocktail, glanced at his watch, and put a further telephone call through to Orlac.