Читать книгу The Kidnapping of Madame Storey and Other Stories (Madame Storey) - Footner Hulbert - Страница 6

After Raoul had gone Mme. Storey looked over some mail that had arrived during the afternoon. Amongst it was a note which had been delivered by hand. It was signed Amos Rudd.

"Bless my fathers! Amos Rudd!" she exclaimed. "He used to be a great man in New York. President of the Madison National. Sold out when his bank was merged. I thought he had passed out years ago, and here he is risen like Lazarus in Monte Carlo. He must be about a hundred!"

Mr. Rudd had written to ask her to dinner at his villa. He apologised for the shortness of the notice, saying that he had just heard of her arrival, and as he was entertaining some of his friends that night, he hoped she would waive ceremony and join them. He would be very glad to have her travelling companion also, he said.

"Let's go, Bella," she said. "If he's a resident here we may pick up some valuable information."

I agreed, of course, but I had an uncomfortable feeling that she was about to be drawn into the ugly case of the gigolos in spite of herself.

So a telephone message was sent to Mr. Rudd that we were coming, and we proceeded to get dressed.

Our host lived in almost feudal fashion in a sort of castle on the Cap Martin side. We were welcomed in a salon big enough for kings with a loggia opening on the moonlit sea. Rudd was a tiny man like a fledgling bird, all beak and eyes with no feathers to speak of. Thus age returns to the semblance of youth. He had hardly a fledgling's innocence though. There was a fixed grin in his little withered face.

I disliked his wife at sight. Not the same wife he had left New York with, Mme. Storey remarked later. A tall, luscious blonde with drooping lips and weary eyes. A woman of the highest fashion strung with jewels, she looked, to put it bluntly, capable of any crime.

Mr. Rudd squeaked, "Rosika! You were only a little girl when I saw you last! You've grown older and I've grown younger. He! He! He!" His wife drawled with infinite fatigue, "Chawmed, Madame Storey. I hope you won't find Monte too boring."

The company was a small one. There was a Prince Grimaldi, a tottering old beau with his hair plastered down. Several American women hung around him simply because the taste of his title (which they pronounced "Prance") was like honey on their lips. There was a Count who was a little younger but worse favoured; and there was a bundle of wraps and veils enclosing an aged lady who was related to the late Sultan of Turkey. All we could see of her was a long and inquisitive nose.

Amongst the Americans there was a bloated couple who were always spoken of in hushed voices as the James Wentworth Hawkinses. What they had done to deserve it I couldn't find out. The male Hawkins resembled a bull-dog—but no dog could look so brutal. Something happens to Americans when they forsake their country for good. They hit the skies [Transcriber's note: skids?] morally.

Mme. Storey and I were much the youngest persons present. Amongst that crew my tall friend stood out like a lady in a museum. They all felt the contrast, I think. They all lavished compliments on her—and cordially disliked her.

Dinner was kept waiting by the non-arrival of somebody called Turner Moale. From the conversation I gathered that nothing in Monte Carlo was complete without Turner Moale. His name headed every subscription list. He gave the most delightful entertainments at his villa on the rock of Monaco.

Turner Moale; Turner Moale; the name rang through my head like some old rhyme. Suddenly it came to me that my mother used to talk about Turner Moale. When she was a girl he was the number one matinee idol of New York. Women used to mob the stage door in order to touch him as he passed.

Presumably he had been forced off the stage by age, and here he was established as the social arbiter of Monte Carlo. I wanted to change the ancient wheeze to run: When Americans die they rise up in Monte Carlo. I felt as if I were in a company of ghosts.

Presently he arrived, a very old man but marvellously preserved. I expect he had been in the hands of his valet for hours. Rosy and dignified, beautifully turned-out, he was certainly a personage. Everybody had to look when he came in. With his cool airs and his affability he was like a little Highness himself.

He made directly for my employer and kissed her hand as if he were conferring an order upon her. "Rosika Storey!" he exclaimed. "The desire of my life is granted!" He drew her hand under his arm. "I shall take you in to dinner. I don't care what anybody says. I shall fight for it!"

Everybody laughed. It appeared that Turner Moale must be allowed to do whatever he liked.

When we sat down at the table there was a burst of animation as if a large tap had been turned on. Everybody smirking, ogling, flirting, while they picked at the different courses which were whisked on and off. But while their lips smiled their eyes were ghastly. Mme. Storey has taught me something about eyes. Every one of those dapper men and bejewelled women was frantic with boredom. They hated each other; they hated themselves. People in that state are ripe for anything.

Excepting Turner Moale perhaps. He appeared to be serene. But perhaps it was only because he had a more perfect control over his eyes. He was no better than the others but he had a better style. He was like the popular ruler of some little country a long time ago who had nothing to fear. There are no rulers like that nowadays.

"I haven't been to America for years," he said. "I can't endure their barbarous customs. In America I am told that men wear dinner jackets when there are ladies present. I shall never go there."

Mme. Storey led up to what she had in mind by telling of our encounter with the good-looking young man on the terrace; just the beginning of it. They listened with smiles, but one could see that they disliked the subject. Mme. Storey said with an innocent air:

"I suppose terrible things may happen to a woman who falls for those handsome rascals."

Silence around the table.

She went on. "In fact I have seen various references to women being robbed and blackmailed at Monte Carlo."

Not a word. Mrs. Hawkins tried to create a diversion by asking the Prince if he liked Beàrnaise sauce with his entrecôte. Mme. Storey kept on:

"Mr. Rudd, have you ever heard of these things?"

"Not I!" he said. "I'm the wrong sex."

His feeble joke produced a great laugh. Mme. Storey, undiscouraged, blandly addressed Turner Moale at her side.

"What do you think, Mr. Moale? Are these pleasant young fellows that one sees on the terrace dangerous criminals?"

"I hope so," he said maliciously.

There were loud cries of protest from his admirers.

"It adds a zest to life," he said. "We are too far sunk in our creature comforts. Nothing like a good crime or two to rouse us."

"I like to read about crimes in Chicago," drawled Mrs. Rudd, "but not at my own front door."

"The nearer, the more exciting," said Turner Moale.

"No young man by himself is especially dangerous," said Mme. Storey. "But suppose they combined to stand or fall together. Suppose they are only tools in the hands of a master who uses them for his own ends. That would be a dangerous racket. The boys, you see, would be comparatively innocent. All they would have to do would be to allow the women to make fools of themselves. Then the master would apply the screws."

"Superb!" cried Turner Moale with his noiseless old man's laugh. "You are wasted as an upholder of the law, Rosika. If you were a criminal you would go down in history!"

"Of course it's only the women in hotels who are victimised," said Mrs. Rudd languidly. "It doesn't affect us who live here."

The old Turkish woman shook with laughter inside her wrappings as if she knew some devilish joke of her own.

"Blackmail will soon become a lost art," lisped the old prince. "Because people are proud of being bad nowadays."

"Then you can blackmail them for being found in church!" retorted Turner Moale.

"If you've got a good balance at the bank you don't need to care what anybody says about you," put in Amos Rudd, grinning like a death's head.

His wife flashed a spontaneous look of hatred down the table.

"About those women who are blackmailed," said Hawkins brutally, "if they make fools of themselves I say they deserve no better than they get."

Mme. Storey took no further part in the discussion. She let them thrash it out amongst themselves as if she had learned what she wished to know.

After dinner we all drove in to town to take a whirl at the tables of the Sporting Club. A super gambling house; quiet, elegant, spacious. They don't allow it to become crowded. After all, plenty of room is the greatest luxury of all.

All the members of our party put up large sums at roulette with mask-like faces. The Turkish lady stretched forth a claw from her wrappings that trembled violently. I saw old Amos Rudd staking the dilapidated Prince on the sly. I wonder if they paid him for coming to dinner. Turner Moale played at another table and kept his back to us.

Later we descended to the night club for more dancing. It was not exactly exhilarating to be pushed around by tottering noblemen or resuscitated Americans. I thought of the handsome Raoul longingly.

When the party broke up we were besieged with invitations. These people did nothing in the world but give each other dinners every night. My heart sunk. However, Mme. Storey evaded them politely.

"I may be obliged to leave Monte Carlo to-morrow," she said. "I dare not accept anything."

How thankful I was to get back to our own quiet rooms! "Pretty awful, wasn't it?" said Mme. Storey, smiling. "However, the evening was not entirely wasted."

I looked at her inquiringly.

"Mrs. Rudd possesses a photograph of Raoul," she said, lighting a cigarette. "Along with many other handsome young men."

"What does that mean?" I said.

"I don't know. It's only a beginning."

"Then you are going to take this case!" I exclaimed with a long face.

"I may be forced to," she said enigmatically.

I opened the casements and we stepped out on the balcony, and looked down at the sea, powdered with the shadowy radiance of the moon. The moon itself was over our shoulders. It was very late and the town had fallen quiet. The fantastic Casino over the way was dark. Silence and moonlight, the unchanging things, held the frivolous city in a spell.

Out of the silence we heard a far-off cry. It was very faint, but it vibrated with a peculiar anguish, sharp as a stab.

"What was that?" I said startled.

"Some poor soul in trouble," murmured Mme. Storey.

It had nothing to do with us, so far as we knew, but I found myself trembling all over. "Let's go in," I said. "It's uncanny."