Читать книгу The Million Pound Deposit - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 8

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"I do wish," Dutley said peevishly, in the course of one of the dances at the Embassy an hour or so later, "that that fellow De Brest wouldn't keep on staring at you, Lucille. I call him jolly rude. He's only danced once with any one else of the party, does nothing but drink champagne and ogle you. Yet you tell me these foreigners have manners."

She drew a little back from his arms to laugh at him.

"You silly boy!" she scolded. "I'm very sorry for Sigismund de Brest. Can't you see that he's hopelessly in love with me, and that your return from the East, unmauled by any wild animal, is a terrible blow to him?"

Dutley brought the dance to an abrupt conclusion. Afterwards he realised that his behaviour had been childish, but the undernote of suspense with which he had started the evening every now and then asserted itself.

"Tired?" Lucille asked, a little mockingly.

"Perhaps I am," he confessed. "Anyway, there's an awful crowd, isn't there, and I'd rather talk."

They reached their table. The Baron de Brest was already on his feet, holding a chair on one side for them to pass. He bent down towards Lucille.

"May I finish this?" he begged, in a half-whisper.

She hesitated. The music was intriguing, the situation not without its appeal. There had been an undercurrent of resentment all the time in her mind against Dutley's prolonged absence, which was not yet fully dissipated, and De Brest, during the last few months, had been her very faithful and assiduous companion. It was scarcely playing the game to drop him too suddenly. She smiled assent, and turned back into the room again, eagerly followed by her new partner. Dutley watched them for a moment with a queer expression on his face. Then he resumed his seat.

"Who is that Dutchman, anyway?" he asked Ronnie.

"A new financial star," the young man replied. "For a fellow of his age, he's rather a marvel. He owns a bank in Amsterdam. He has offices in Berlin, Paris and here, and he's at the back of half a dozen companies who do your stunt. They say that he made a million before he was twenty-five."

"Give me some champagne," Dutley begged. "I don't like him. I shouldn't be surprised if I didn't tell him so before long."

"What's the fellow done? You couldn't mind his dancing with Lucille. It was you who gave up."

Dutley pulled himself together.

"You're right, Ronnie," he admitted. "I'm very nearly making an ass of myself. Still, that fellow annoyed me during dinner—couldn't keep his eyes off Lucille."

"Lucille," Ronnie remarked, lighting a cigarette, "although I say it who am her brother, is damned good-looking."

"So he's been hanging round, has he?"

The young man nodded.

"No use denying it, Charles. If it hadn't been for you, I expect he'd have had a shot with Lucille before now."

"What about her?"

"Oh, she's all right. Lucille flirts a bit, of course—all girls do nowadays—especially if they have a lover who goes off big game shooting half the year—but she's all right. She's never encouraged the fellow beyond making use of him for dances and that. A girl must have some one to take her round, you know. Here they come!"

Lucille and her partner made an unexpectedly early return.

"We can't move," Lucille explained. "The music's lovely, but it's like dancing on a tablecloth. A peer of the realm has trodden on my toe, and I have felt the moustache of a Guardsman against my cheek. I thought it was time to retire."

"Let us go where there is more room," De Brest suggested. "What about the Kentucky?"

Every one agreed. They moved towards the doorway.

"I have my car here," De Brest ventured, leaning hopefully towards Lucille.

"So have I, as it happens," Dutley observed quietly. "I'll take you, Lucille, if you don't mind. With De Brest's car, there'll be plenty of room for every one."

Lucille laughed as she leaned back in a corner of the limousine.

"I don't think you like the Baron de Brest, Charles."

"I loathe the brute," was the frank reply. "If he'd behave like an ordinary human being, or an ordinary Anglo-Saxon, when he's asked out to a party, I wouldn't mind. As it is, he never takes his eyes off you, and hasn't the common decency to dance with either of the other two girls. He knows that we are engaged, I suppose?"

"Of course he does."

"Then if he goes on behaving like this, he's asking for trouble."

He drew her towards him. She yielded unresistingly, but without fervour.

"You've neglected me for a long time, Charles," she reminded him.

"For too long?" he asked tersely.

Her lips met his then with a little more feeling. A moment later, however, she pushed him back.

"No, I don't say that," she replied, "but you must have some patience. You can't come home after nine months of amusement and sweep every one else off the board."

"I see," he murmured. "What you mean is that you've been amusing yourself too."

She shrugged her shoulders.

"Not with Sigismund de Brest particularly. You didn't expect me to go through the season without attention, I suppose?"

"Of course I didn't. It's only that Dutch fellow I object to. Anyhow, we're going to wipe him out."

"Are we?" Lucille murmured.

"You can't mean to tell me that you like the fellow?" he demanded.

She deliberated for a moment.

"I am not sure whether I like or dislike him. In a way he is attractive, and he's certainly good-looking. Then, he must be awfully clever."

"Must he?"

"To be a successful banker at his age needs brains, doesn't it?"

"Of a certain type," he conceded. "Oh, let's forget the fellow!"

He drew her closer to him once more. Outside the Kentucky, she sat for a moment in the car, looking into her mirror, and touching up her lips.

"You're terribly rough, Charles," she complained.

"You're so wickedly intriguing," he apologised.

They danced almost as they entered the room. The others found a table and occupied themselves with the usual tiresome deliberation as to what one could eat. When the music stopped, Dutley drew his companion on one side, and led her to the little bar. She climbed willingly on to a stool.

"Lucille dear," he confided, "I'm afraid I haven't got the party spirit to-night. That fellow has got on my nerves. Let's sit here for a few minutes."

"I should love to," she rejoined. "We'll drink champagne cocktails from a real bottle of champagne, and you can hold my hand. You will soon feel better."

"The cure," he assured her, "has commenced already."

They sat together for twenty minutes, and by degrees the little barriers of nervous irritation which had crept up between the two disappeared. They were seated arm in arm when presently, just as the strains of a peculiarly seductive waltz crept into the room, De Brest appeared.

"We are all deserted," he complained, bowing. "May I have the pleasure, Miss Bessiter?"

"Miss Bessiter is not dancing for the present," Dutley interposed quickly.

She nodded confirmation, smiling at her would-be partner, however, very graciously. He bowed.

"I will wait, then."

"Yes, and you'll wait a long time," Dutley muttered, as he watched the tall, retreating form. "What does he think I've come back for—to look on whilst he dances with you?"

"Don't be an idiot!" she laughed. "You can't really wonder at his not taking our engagement too seriously. I don't suppose he's ever seen me alone with you in his life."

"I'll teach him to take it seriously," Dutley observed, making signs to the barman. "I don't think one more champagne cocktail would hurt us."

"Oh, dear," she sighed, "I hope I'm not doing much to-morrow!"

"I am," he groaned. "I am seeing old Sir Matthew at eight o'clock."

"I can't see why they bother you," she reflected, tapping a cigarette end upon the counter. "It isn't as though you knew anything about the business."

"I don't," he admitted, "but I'm still supposed to be the head of the concern. I wish I weren't. I think I shall resign after we're married. I couldn't stand the sight of another table heaped up with letters as mine is at the present moment."

"Even an idle millionaire has his responsibilities," she warned him.

"Well, I may not be a millionaire before long. Should you care much? I don't think I should."

"I like money," she confessed frankly, "and I don't see how you're ever going to help being a millionaire. When one mentions the name of Boothroyd, every one shivers with excitement. You've got such a marvellous man there, too, at the head of things—old Sir Matthew Parkinson. I never saw such a wonderful representation of Crœsus as his portrait in this year's Academy."

"Sir Matthew is a shrewd fellow," Dutley agreed.... "Oh, damn!"

De Brest, his hair smoother than ever, his smile more intense, his bow the studious effort of a courtier, presented himself for the second time. Dutley scowled at him, unmoved.

"I make once more my request," he announced. "Miss Bessiter will not remain unkind all the evening."

Afterwards Dutley marvelled at himself. He was a long-suffering man, and the occasions upon which he had lost his temper during his life had been few. He had had large numbers of natives under his control and a great many white men, who were trying enough at times to look after, he had kept cool in critical moments, and put up with all sorts of disappointments and hardships without grumbling. He had a reputation amongst his friends for imperturbability, and yet, on what was really very slight provocation, there is no doubt that during the next few seconds he completely lost command of himself.

"Oh, do leave us alone," he begged angrily. "Why do you keep on butting in?"

There was a moment's silence. Lucille was astonished. The young man went paler than ever.

"Do you hear what I say?" Dutley demanded, sliding from his stool. "Go back to the others and leave us alone. Can't you understand that you're a nuisance?"

"You are very rude," De Brest said, with rising truculence.

"If I am, what are you going to do about it?" was the prompt retort.

Dutley was standing now clear of the counter, facing the intruder, than whom he was several inches shorter. Perhaps it was not De Brest's intention really to strike a blow, but he certainly moved a little forward, his head lowered, his fists clenched, and a very ugly expression upon his face. Dutley, who was nothing if not quick, and who had just come back from an expedition where a scrap was nearly a daily occurrence, lunged forward, his fist landing squarely upon De Brest's jaw. The floor was slippery, and De Brest went over, clutching wildly at the air. He half saved himself, but finally lost his balance completely. Dutley stood over him and held out his hand to assist him to arise.

"I'm damned sorry," he apologised.

There was a tense silence. Half a dozen people collected in the doorway, and the barman rushed out from behind the counter. De Brest suffered himself to be helped to his feet by the latter. There was a livid mark on the side of his chin, and a few drops of blood.

"I'm damned sorry," Dutley repeated, "but you really shouldn't have come worrying us."

De Brest showed no signs of fight. He held the brass rail of the counter with one hand, and dabbed at his chin with his handkerchief. He looked intently at his adversary.

"You will be very sorry for this, Dutley," he threatened. "You will be very sorry indeed."

Dutley shrugged his shoulders.

"I'm at your service," he declared. "Whatever you wish to do about it, I am ready."

De Brest's lips quivered a little. The under one seemed to slip sideways. If it was a smile, it contained the very incarnation of malice.

"You will have nothing to do with what is coming to you for this," he rejoined. "It will just arrive. You will have no power to avert it. You will get from me what you deserve."

Dutley looked at him curiously. He was not by any means a psychologist, but it always interested him to watch human beings in any critical phase of their lives. Here was a man who had been knocked down on perhaps insufficient provocation—a strong man, and more powerfully built than his opponent. That he was angry was obvious. He was coldly and whitely furious, yet there did not appear to be a single impulse in his body urging him to strike back. He was consumed with a sort of passion, but it was not a passion which demanded any physical retaliation. Dutley did not understand. He rather despised it.

"If I have been in any way to blame, Miss Bessiter," De Brest said, "I apologise."

"I think that Lord Dutley was very wrong indeed," Lucille told him gravely.

The young man bowed.

"I thank you," he murmured.

He left the place, and turned towards the cloakroom.

"Will you take me back, Charles, please," Lucille begged, slipping from her stool.

"Don't be angry with me," he pleaded. "It isn't often I lose my temper."

"Do you think that you should have done it before me?" she asked coldly.

"Of course I shouldn't," he admitted. "The only thing is, the fellow looked as though he were coming for me. He has the longer reach, and I suddenly had the feeling that I must get in first."

"You started by being rude to him," she reminded him.

"I couldn't help it," he apologised. "The fellow had been annoying me ever since I entered your drawing-room. He was staring at you all dinner time. He tried to drive in the same car with you, tried to dance with you continually. Why? He must know we're engaged."

Ronnie Bessiter came hurrying in.

"Hullo!" he exclaimed. "Some one was saying there'd been a bit of a row. Where's Siggie?"

"Siggie's gone home," Dutley answered. "I'm afraid I've behaved badly, Ronnie. Come and help me make things right with your sister."

"Ronnie needn't worry," Lucille announced. "I sha'n't be silly about it. I think you were very wrong, Charles, but I'm not going to quarrel with you."

"Dear girl!" Dutley murmured.

"What happened?" Ronnie wanted to know.

"Why, your Baron friend has been ogling Lucille the whole of the evening," Dutley explained—"trying to drive in the car with her, trying to shove himself in between us all the time. We came out here so that I could have Lucille to myself for a few minutes. He followed her, and asked her to dance, although you're even numbers without us. She refused, and in less than a quarter of an hour out he came again. I told him he wasn't wanted. After that, something else was said—I don't quite know what—he looked a little ugly himself, and I knocked him down. The barman helped him up, and he's gone away."

"Didn't he show fight?" Ronnie asked.

"Not a bit of it! He's got some other hideous form of torture preparing for me. He didn't specify what it was, but he departed in an atmosphere of mysterious threats. Never mind—Lucille's forgiven me. That bottle just holds three more cocktails, barman. Let's have them, and we'll go back to the others."

"We'll do nothing of the sort," Lucille decided. "You shall dance with me once, to show that we're alive, and you shall take me home. I don't feel like any further festivities this evening."

Young Bessiter clambered on to a stool, and sat for a moment in meditative silence.

"I can't get over Siggie not showing fight," he remarked presently. "He doesn't look soft, and he's twice your size, Charles."

Dutley shrugged his shoulders.

"If I were a nervous person, I should remember what the natives say," he reflected. "'The most dangerous enemy is the man who takes a blow away with him.'"