Читать книгу The Kidnapping of Madame Storey and Other Stories (Madame Storey) - Footner Hulbert - Страница 10

A week later Mme. Storey and I returned to Monte Carlo. It had been seven days filled with busy preparations, and our dearest friends would not have recognised us in our new characters. Philippe Grandet had been brought back to Paris because he was too old for the particular work in hand, but we had a new emissary who had been sent on five days in advance of us. It had come about in this way.

Mme. Storey and I had fled all the way to London. Satisfied, then, that we had left our spies in France, we returned to Paris on an unfashionable train and put up at a small hotel on the left bank. On our first day there we were walking through the Luxembourg gardens when we came upon a handsome young man seated on a bench in an attitude of complete dejection.

"There's our man!" said Mme. Storey instantly.

He was blonde and well built, and there was a special attractiveness about him, compounded of good humour with a spice of the devil. He was an American, God bless him! and he was out of luck. His long legs were stretched in front of him, his hands thrust in his pockets, his chin resting on his breast.

Mme. Storey stopped. "You seem to be in bad, George," she said with a cool and friendly smile.

"In bad!" he cried. Then he got a good look at her and sprang to his feet. "Lady," he said solemnly "I'm so deep in bad it would take a hundred foot ladder to fetch me above ground! ... My name is Charlie if it's just the same to you."

We took to him instantly.

"Well, Charlie," said Mme. Storey, "perhaps I can give you a job. Come along and have lunch with us at the Medici grill and we'll talk it over."

Charlie was the lad for us all right. His other name was Raines, and his story was a simple one. The son of a rich man, he had been sent on a tour of Europe to complete his education, and had liked Paris so well that he had refused to leave it. This had resulted in a break with the old man. Charlie thought that he could make his own way, but he had soon discovered that while Paris is Paradise for a young American with money, it is Hell for him who hath none. So here he was chucked out of his hotel, and too proud to cable home.

Mme. Storey's intuition had not deceived her. Charlie looked on the affair as a big lark. She told him about Raoul, and warned him that if he were found out it would cost him his life. He waved it aside.

"All my life I've longed to have a real adventure!" he said.

He left for Monte Carlo that same night with a replenished wardrobe and a pocket-book stuffed with notes. He travelled under his own name with his own passport. His instructions were:

To put up at the Hôtel de Paris and start playing at the Casino or the Sporting Club. To begin to plunge until he lost or appeared to lose all his money. To get into a row with the hotel over his bill, and to move into a cheap lodging. To continue to wager a few francs daily at the Casino as if the madness had got him. To sell off his belongings and eat at the cheapest estaminets. After that he was to let things take their course. If a crooked proposition was put up to him he was to receive it indulgently.

"The lady in Monte Carlo who picks out the young men for this game is a connoisseur of manly good looks," said Mme. Storey dryly. "I think I have gauged her taste correctly. Blondes are always in demand."

"Spare my blushes, lady," said Charlie grinning.

"When I get to Monte Carlo I shall be known as Lady Wedderminster," Mme. Storey went on. "My arrival will be announced, and you can get in touch with me at the Hôtel de Paris. But don't put anything compromising in a letter. We will arrange a safer means of communicating."

So Charlie had gone, and five days later Mme. Storey and I followed him. During every spare moment of that time and all the way down in the train we rehearsed our new parts. Mme. Storey is a past-mistress of the art of disguise, but she never loses sight of the fact that acting is more important than disguise.

Lady Wedderminster is a real person, and a friend of Mme. Storey's. It is one of the historic names of England, but the present bearer of it is a retiring person who goes very little into society. She had never been down to the French Riviera. English passports had been secured for us through influence in high places.

Mme. Storey was turned out as one of those incredibly dowdy Englishwomen of high position. I don't know where they have their clothes made; perhaps by the village dressmaker. Such women care nothing for the styles of the moment, and they are hung all over with the strangest trimmings. And such hats; such feather boas; such shoes, miles too big, and turning up at the toes; a handbag grasped in one hand and an umbrella in the other.

Her face was in character. She was too wise to make up old. It won't pass muster in the sunlight. But any woman can make herself look like a fright. Mme. Storey's hair was bleached to a sort of mousy colour and she had applied a wash to her complexion that made her look sallow and haggard. Her eyes were hollowed to give her a hungry and discontented look. I ought to say that this make-up was a cruel libel on the gracious lady who had given permission for her name to be used; but it was typical of hundreds of Englishwomen that you see on the Riviera.

Such a woman nearly always has an unfortunate "companion," just to have somebody to order around, and I was her. My red locks were dyed a nondescript brown; I wore a pair of owlish glasses, and my nose was reddened. As for my clothes and hats—Ye Gods! All I need say is that they were supposed to be Lady Wedderminster's cast-offs and they looked it.

These extraordinary looking women are very often wealthy. We telegraphed from Paris for a suite at the Hôtel de Paris and went down on the Blue Train. In the hotel Mme. Storey was superb; complaining about everything, sending the servants scurrying in a dozen directions. The English are not loved in foreign hotels, but they get service.

As for myself, I am not a very good actress, but my part was a simple one. All I had to do was to look frightened, something I could very well get away with on returning to Monte Carlo.

We played a waiting game at first while Mme. Storey's agent fed items to the Paris Herald concerning the arrival of Lady Wedderminster on the Riviera; the great wealth of the family; the part it had played in history, etc. As the Herald is the newspaper of the English-speaking contingent we knew that this stuff would be read in the right quarters. Meanwhile Lady Wedderminster was playing heavily at the Casino, and winning for the most part. She was invited to join the Sporting Club.

There had not been a word in the newspapers about the murder of Raoul d'Aymara or the activities of the police. As a matter of fact after Mme. Storey's disappearance, the case gradually petered out. There was never any inquiry for the poor lad. Like a trim yacht at sea he had appeared for a brief space out of the fog, and had been swallowed up in it again.

We were bothered about Charlie Raines. No communication was received from him. If he failed us, our whole elaborate plank collapsed. Moreover, we felt a very human anxiety as to the fate of that engaging young man.

Finally we saw him on the terrace all decked out in his new clothes. He was one of a quartet which included a dark, wicked-looking young man, an admirable foil for the gay Charlie, and two handsome, fashionably-dressed women. All eyes followed them as they strolled along laughing. A charming picture—if you didn't know the dark undercurrents of Monte Carlo!

This suggested that he had got a toe-hold in the gigolo ring, and relieved us of a part of our anxiety.

During the afternoon of that day as Mme. Storey and I were sitting on the terrace listening to the band, the same dark young man dropped in a chair alongside us. There was something vaguely familiar about him. My intuition told me that he was one of those who had entered our room that night, and the skin on the back of my neck crawled. But of course I could not have identified him.

He was a different type from the others; older, harder; with a wicked roll to his dark eyes. Well, many women are thrilled by that sort of thing. He said to Mme. Storey in French:

"What trashy music they play!"

She did not answer him, but at the same time she contrived to look as if she wanted to. A nice piece of acting. The timid woman who is longing for an adventure.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "I spoke without thinking."

"That's all right," stammered Mme. Storey. "I ... I don't mind."

He allowed a little more warmth to come into his voice. "If they would only play good music! One gets so tired of the glitter and frivolity here. It doesn't satisfy you!"

"You must excuse me," she murmured. "My French is not very good."

"So! then I will talk English! ... I felt at once that you were musical. One cannot be mistaken. The women one meets are so soulless! It is only once or twice in one's lifetime that one sees a woman with soul. You feel the mysterious currents of sympathy passing back and forth and then, Voila! you forget the conventions. Again, I must ask you to forgive me!"

So that was the line they took with a plain woman!

I realised that my presence was only obstructing the free development of the comedy, so I got up and strolled away along the terrace. When I got back half an hour later he had progressed from sympathy to the subject of dancing.

"I do not dance," Mme. Storey was saying in the awkward, wistful manner she had assumed.

"You could dance," he murmured; "a woman full of music like you!"

"I never had a chance," she said, looking down at her hands.

"I understand," he said sympathetically; "and of course you do not like to begin on a public floor.... But you could dance with me," he went on, lowering his voice, "without any of the trouble of learning. Because we are in sympathy!"

Mme. Storey said nothing.

"I have a friend who has a little studio of the dance on Avenue de Joffre," he went on. "Such a charming place! Would you like to come and see it?"

She shook her head.

"I am not a dancing teacher," he said as if his feelings were wounded. "My father allows me a sufficient income. I ask it for my own pleasure."

She was obdurate in her refusal. "I would like to dance," she said, "but I am not at my ease with foreigners. If I could find an English teacher ... or an American...."

The young man appeared to be crushed with disappointment. "I am sorry," he murmured. "Very very sorry that I have not had the happiness to please you."

Mme. Storey was giving an imitation of a woman who had never been made love to before. "I ... I like you," she murmured, "but you are strange to me."

Soon after that he rose to go. "If we meet on the terrace may I have the pleasure of talking with you again?" he asked.

"If you wish," she said looking away. She would have blushed if she could, but that was impossible.

"I shall watch for you every afternoon!" he said eagerly. He placed his heels together and bowed. "Permit me to introduce myself. Marcel Durocher." He handed her his card.

"I am Mrs. Bradford," said Mme. Storey in confusion. "I'm sorry I haven't a card with me."

"And this lady?" he said turning to me.

"Oh, Miss Toller, my companion!" she answered carelessly.

He left us.

When he was out of hearing Mme. Storey murmured: "Well, I planted a seed in his mind. Let us pray that it will sprout."