Читать книгу The Serpent In The Garden - Ethel M. Dell - Страница 7

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He took some pains when he reached the shore to render his return to the hotel unobtrusive but though he entered by a side door he was almost immediately pounced upon by the manager.

“Ah, monsieur is safe! Monsieur Ronceau was in despair and is gone to search in a boat among the rocks. The whole hotel is in a ferment. Monsieur, I am overjoyed to see you again. Le Point des Sirènes est très, très dangereux.”

“Oh, my good man,” said Peter, “let me go and get a bath!”

“Mais oui, monsieur! A bath! A bath! François, a bath for monsieur—vite—vite! But Monsieur has had a terrible adventure!”

“None at all,” said Peter tersely. “I swam out a little farther than usual and I swam back again. Now I’ll go and have a bath. Please tell M. Ronceau when he comes in!”

He escaped with disappointing abruptness and fled to his own apartment. To be the object of general attention was the very last thing he desired, and the idea that the hotel should be in a ferment on his account filled him with the strongest disgust.

Even as he lay soaking in a hot bath it seemed to him that the place was buzzing with excitement and he determined to keep out of sight until it had somewhat subsided. But within a quarter of an hour his seclusion was invaded. There came an imperative rap upon the door and his half brother’s voice, equally imperative, demanding admission.

“Oh, dash it, I can’t let you in now,” Peter protested. “Go and sit down in my room! I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

“I wish to enter,” announced Pierre on the other side of the door with great distinctness. “Will you open, please?”

Peter abandoned resistance with a groan. It was obvious that Pierre was not to be frustrated. He emerged from his bath and draped himself in a towel. Then reluctantly he unbolted the door.

Pierre slipped in and swiftly bolted it again. “Mon cher, I thought you were drowned,” he said.

“Well, as I’m not, why this fuss?” asked Peter.

Pierre looked at him with keen eyes that travelled at incredible speed from head to foot and back again. “I see you are cut and bruised,” he said. “You have been among the rocks. I took out a boat to search for you and am only now returned.” He laid a gentle hand upon Peter’s arm and shook his head in half-wistful admonition. “You should not do it,” he said. “You give me too much anxiety.”

Peter gripped the hand in a brawny clasp. “My dear old chap, don’t drivel! I’m none the worse. Thanks for trying to find me, but you shouldn’t have bothered. I always turn up again.”

The Frenchman’s eyes remained critical. “You need not try to hide it from me,” he said. “I know that you have been in great danger—how great I did not realize until the boatman took me round the Point. He would not go near, but I saw the whirlpool all foaming below the rocks. And you were caught in that!”

“Well, I got out of it again,” laughed Peter. “Nothing like being elusive! For heaven’s sake, man, go and tell everybody that there’s nothing on earth to make a fuss about! I didn’t even see any mermaids or sirens, so there’s no reason for excitement. I want my dinner badly, but if there’s going to be a cackle all round I won’t come down for it.”

Pierre released him, faintly smiling. “You are still very young,” he said. “But I see there is no need for a doctor. I shall tell them that you did not swim so far as the Point, after all. They will believe me, because it is said that no one has ever come out of the whirlpool alive.”

“Yes, you go and tell them!” grinned Peter. “Get them to simmer down so that I can get my dinner in peace! Afterwards——”

“Yes, afterwards?” Pierre paused for another quick survey. “Afterwards, perhaps you will tell me—strictly entre nous—what happened to you after you climbed up the rocks into the garden of the Villa des Sirènes.”

“Oh, don’t be so infernally astute!” said Peter. “There’s too much second sight about you, Pierre. I shouldn’t care to play mouse to your cat.”

Pierre’s brightest smile flashed across his face. “Eh bien, we must be partners,” he said. “Now I go to throw dust in the eyes of all our fellow guests. Then I shall commence dinner and you will come down and join me in your casual English way—comme ça”—he snapped his fingers—“as if nothing had happened.”

“Exactly comme ça!” agreed Peter with a smile that was almost a replica of Pierre’s own. “You can tell them that I’m not too young and inexperienced to avoid danger and that you got the wind up for nothing. Tell them what a silly old ass you are! Be sure to tell them that!”

Pierre’s hand was on the door. His look was enigmatical. “I will be sure to tell them that,” he said. “It will amuse them. And you shall add whatever you like. But do not be long, mon ami! Your own story will interest me much more.”

He opened the door and slipped out with the flickering motion of a lizard. Peter bolted it again and proceeded to get into some clothes.

“Yes, he’ll jolly well have to take me into partnership,” he told himself grimly as he did so. “I’m damned if I’m going to be a pawn in this game.”

He went down to dinner a little later in his casual English way to find that Pierre had so successfully contrived to reduce his adventure to the level of a mere boyish escapade that his appearance excited no more than a passing interest.

Pierre himself gave him the briefest nod and continued his meal with almost British stoicism, though once or twice Peter, who had immersed himself in the Continental edition of an English paper, caught a twinkling glance flung in his direction. There was something in Pierre’s attitude that made him feel rather small, and he somewhat exaggerated his own abstraction in consequence.

Pierre waited courteously, smoking a thin black cigar, while he finished his dinner, but when Peter finally drained his coffee cup he made a slight movement as of suppressed activity. Most of their fellow guests had left the room, and a dance band had begun to blare hideous discords in the ballroom.

“Shall we go?” murmured Pierre across the table.

Peter looked up languidly. “As you like.”

Pierre rose like a coiled spring suddenly released. “Come up to my room and we will talk!”

“Why not dance if you’re feeling energetic?” said Peter.

Pierre stretched out an impetuous hand and grasped his arm. “Later—later, if you wish. But come with me first, petit frère! I want a word with you.”

Peter smiled. It amused him to tantalize this French brother of his now and then. “Don’t be so fiery, Pierre! You remind me of that snapdragon stuff we used to play with as kids, ready to burn anyone’s fingers unless they’re quick. But I don’t see why I should be either quick or burnt.”

Pierre’s grasp tightened and held. “You play with me!” he said in a low voice. “I don’t advise it—not even you! There are times when it is not wise. Come, mon ami—to please me——”

Peter’s good nature asserted itself. “Right ho!” he said lightly. “Anything to oblige! I’m just going to fetch my pipe. Come up and wait for me!”

Pierre’s face lighted up. There was magic in his smile. “Yes, yes! Let us go!” he said, and linked his hand in the younger man’s arm. “Afterwards, we will go and look at the full moon on the water—if you do not wish to dance.”

“Oh, I expect I shall dance all right,” returned Peter with a grin, “but you will pipe the tune.”

They went up in the lift together and along the spacious corridors, Pierre talking volubly about nothing in particular with a facility which Peter always described as a gift. No passing observer could have noted anything unusual in the deportment of the two brothers. They were obviously intimate friends, and there was nothing more to be discovered.

But the moment they were alone in Peter’s room, Pierre dropped all subterfuge like the casting aside of a garment. With a searching glance up and down the passage they had just quitted he closed the door and locked it.

“Now!” he said in a whisper. “Speak low and tell me all!”

“Who said there was anything to tell?” fenced Peter, rummaging in a coat that lay over the back of a chair for his pipe.

Pierre came quickly to him. There was something staccato and very urgent in all his movements.

“Ah, do not waste time!” he said. “It may be valuable. You have a secret. I saw it in your eyes. Tell me what has happened to you—what you have seen!”

Peter found his pipe and pulled out a pouch. “Now look here, Pierre!” he said. “I’m going to be in this show if it’s going to be exciting. It’s my find, not yours; so you’ve got to give me a square deal. Understand?”

“I understand that you are trying to be very exasperating,” said Pierre with a touch of heat. “But I will tell you this for your information. Gaspare di Voltano, who owns the Villa des Sirènes, is a dangerous man and a revolutionary, and anything concerning him is of the utmost importance to me—and to the state. I am here on his account, to run him and the rest of his gang to earth, and they must not slip through my fingers. Now will you tell me what you know?”

He spoke with such vital earnestness that Peter was impressed. “I seem to have stumbled into something really interesting,” he said. “All right, old chap. You shall have the whole story. But tell me first—who’s the lady?”

“Ah! You saw her!” Pierre’s eyes gleamed with eagerness. “You spoke to her?”

“No—no! I didn’t speak to anyone. I was lying low. After I got clear of that infernal millrace, I climbed up the rocks and heard them talking. He had a revolver,” explained Peter, “so naturally I was not in a hurry to expose myself in case of any misunderstanding. But the woman, Pierre, who is she? She is English, as I suppose you know.”

“Yes, she is English,” said Pierre. “No one outside the villa ever sees her except the doctor. She is ill—some disease of the heart, I believe. The count brought her here years ago. But tell me what you heard! I must know everything.”

“Well, it was all a bit vague,” said Peter. “But she was persuading him to let her go and see her daughter who is in England, and he finally agreed that they might meet in Paris if she would deliver a message for him to someone whom he didn’t mention. She didn’t take to the scheme at all, but I rather fancy he meant her to go through with it.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Pierre with shining eyes. “That is what I want to know. Now will you please cast your mind back and remember every detail for me? Then—if you are very good—we will go to Paris together and follow up the scent.”

“Oh, I’ll be very good,” promised Peter. “But I don’t know that I have very much to tell you. He sounded a desperate sort of devil and as if he could push the unfortunate woman into doing anything he liked. He knows you’re after him all right though and he is taking all precautions.”

Pierre’s teeth gleamed. “We are ancient enemies,” he said. “Now tell me all, Peter, as far as you can remember exactly as it happened! It may be of the utmost service to me. But speak low, mon ami! We do not want to tell all the world.”

He took out a pocketbook and sat down. Peter lit his pipe and stood over him. Briefly and accurately he gave his narrative, watching the hieroglyphic jottings of Pierre’s pencil the while. They were quite incomprehensible to him, but he concluded that the writer would find them legible. The whole affair had begun to excite his deepest interest. Pierre’s attitude of earnest concentration infected him, and he forgot to be cynical.

Pierre wrote rapidly, now and then flinging out a swift question without raising his head, but—since Peter’s statement was concise and simple—speaking for the most part very little.

Finally he looked up, and his tense face flashed into an approving smile. “Excellent, my friend, excellent! Your nice British directness is very helpful to me. Have you ever heard of a journal called La Chasse? I am a member of the staff and I shall appoint you my assistant.”

“Good!” said Peter. “Then when do we start for Paris?”

Pierre shook his head with humorously raised brows. “You do not start, after all. You will stay here and watch at this end.”

“Not so good!” said Peter without the faintest change of tone or countenance. “In other words, nothing doing! I am not interested in this end.”

Pierre’s smile vanished. “What? You will not take your orders from me?”

Peter laid a very steady hand on his shoulder. “Pierre,” he said, “I may be a fool but I’m not that sort of fool. I’m coming with you. I’ll take my orders all right if you’ll trust me like a reasonable being and not a child that’s to be kept out of mischief.”

“I see,” said Pierre. His keen eyes studied Peter’s face with swift consideration. “Well, perhaps it was not quite fair to suggest that you should remain here. I will give you another task that you will like better. You shall go to Calais and watch for the young lady.”

“What on earth for?” said Peter.

Pierre pursed his lips. “My friend, you ought to have served in the army. They would have taught you to obey without asking questions.”

Peter coloured a little. “I say, that’s a shrewd one! But all the same, I don’t see why I shouldn’t be a bit in the know. You can trust me, I suppose? And after all, I’ve brought you some useful information.”

Pierre smiled indulgently. “Yes, that is true. And I am going to trust you, Peter, perhaps further than you realize. Remember, then, you are a journalist on the staff of the paper called La Chasse! The young lady is coming from England within the next few days to meet her mother. That mother is known to everyone—and probably to her own daughter also—as the secretary of the Count Gaspare di Voltano. In actual fact, she has been his mistress for many years. The child’s name is Gabrielle Dermot, and she is the daughter of Quentin Dermot, the well-known astronomer, who died several years ago, not long after his wife left him.”

“Quentin Dermot!” said Peter sharply. “He was a sort of relation of mine. I met him once when I was a kid. He was always called the Stargazer. Yes, and I met her too. She was a very lovely woman—like an angel, I remember thinking. I suppose I was about ten then. It was before I knew much of you. Did you ever meet him? He was some kind of cousin of my father’s.”

“No,” Pierre said. “I never met him. But I believe he loved her, loved her so much that he would not divorce her, swore that he would take her back if she would only return to him. But she never did. She was a brilliant woman and, as you say, very lovely. It was sad that he could not keep her. But—he lived too much in the clouds.”

“So she eloped with this Italian scoundrel?” questioned Peter. “No accounting for taste! And the daughter was left. Who looked after her?”

Pierre shrugged his shoulders. “Who indeed? Dermot died practically penniless. He had spent all his money on his work. I imagine the daughter was provided for by the mother’s lover but I have never interested myself in that. It is only now that the daughter comes on the scene. A timely introduction to her might be of great assistance. Cherchez la fille et trouvez la mère!”

“It sounds rather a dirty game,” observed Peter. “The mother wasn’t at all keen on the job. She may manage to back out.”

“And she may not,” rejoined Pierre with a certain grim humour. “In either event, your task will be to find the daughter, and if possible make her acquaintance. If you can claim her as any species of relation that should make it all the easier. Through the daughter we shall trace the mother’s movements, and if our friend the count is rash enough to entrust her with any message for his band of desperadoes in Paris, it should soon be in our hands.”

“Oh, that’s the idea, is it?” said Peter.

Pierre nodded, his eyes upon his notes. “That is how we work, yes. I do not say that there are no other means. But that for the present is enough.” He looked up sharply at his half brother. “If you really wish to help me, Peter,” he said, “I will give you your definite instructions in the morning.”

There was a hint of challenge in his eyes, and Peter, meeting it, realized something which till that moment he had not fully grasped. Pierre was master of the situation and he had every intention of maintaining his supremacy and none whatever of imparting any unnecessary information before the psychological moment. There was to be no question of partnership between them. If Peter desired any share in the game it must be as a pawn and nothing else. But curiously he felt no resentment. Pierre had made his position clear without being offensive, and Peter was even conscious of a sense of admiration for the way in which he had expressed himself.

He stuck his pipe into his mouth with a grin. “Oh, have it your own way!” he said. “You always have had and I suppose you always will.”

Pierre put forth an impulsive hand and grasped his arm. “That is very nice of you, Peter,” he said with his charming smile. “I did not wish to insist. We understand one another, do we not?”

“I understand that you mean to be top dog,” said Peter. “And I daresay you may be right. Anyway, I’m only a beginner, so I’ll come for my instructions in the morning.”

Pierre jumped to his feet, snapping his notebook shut with a deft movement. “A la bonne heure!” he said lightly. “I congratulate myself, Peter, on the good sense and courage of my new recruit. Let us go now and join the dancers! And perhaps—a little later—we will visit the tables. We must be gay and débonnaire—comme tous les autres. We must not let the world suspect.”

“It’s lucky, isn’t it,” grinned Peter, “that the world is such a green place?”