Читать книгу Nighthawks! - John G. Brandon - Страница 8
ОглавлениеTHE WOMAN OF THE NIGHT-CLUB
AS a matter of fact had you called Diantuolos’ caravanserai a ‘night-club’ in the hearing of that ever-smiling, softly-spoken though somewhat oily Greek, he would, in all probability, have resented the term. Only inwardly, of course: Diantuolos never showed umbrage at anything—unless the offender were a person of small consequence, or known to be habitually tardy in the matter of spending.
In which case he might point out, with a shrug of his shoulders, that the rendezvous over which he had the felicity to preside was essentially a Dance Club, and as such was registered, and licensed by the proper authorities.
People—and people of consequence—paid their good guineas and became members primarily for the purpose of displaying their paces upon his perfectly-sprung floor, in conjunction with a band which experts in the modern Afro-American school of terpsichorean art declared to be one of the best in London.
The members dined and supped there quite a deal; though principally it was the latter meal most favoured at the brilliantly arrayed tables à deux set for the greater part in secluded little alcoves off the dance floor. And if his ‘cover’ and other charges were such as to appal any but the stoutest heart, that was an affair entirely between Diantuolos and the party concerned. The experience of many years had taught that wily Greek that the male, and usually paying animal, who in the home circle could question passionately as to the cost of the leg of mutton he ate in the company of his lawful spouse was not in the least likely to be captiously critical about the prices of the gastronomic delicacies he consumed with, quite possibly, the adventurous spouse of some other gentleman.
Again, as Diantuolos would have pointed out with particular pride, his membership embraced some of the social crème de la crème. Ladies and gentlemen of title graced his floor and tables; though generally not in the company of their peers, but of youthful lights of the stage and other kindred, and uncertain, arts.
Gentlemen also whose names were synonymous with High Finance were frequent patrons of his supper-table. Politicians, dignataries of the Law, Medicine and other learned professions were to be found there, recuperating after the labours of the day. The Services were, as a rule, fairly well represented; generally by young gentlemen of tremendous élan, flawless tailoring, and impeccable taste in the matter of female companionship.
Of the unescorted ladies who assisted considerably in lending colour and vivacity to the scene, the best—or worst—the Greek could remark of them was that they both looked well and, in all circumstances, behaved circumspectly. When cold necessity demanded, they spent their own money quietly; but were gifted, each and every one, with a heaven-sent faculty for inducing temporary hosts to act in directly opposite fashion.
For the rest, a curious conglomeration of male sojourners in the Great Metropolis. Men as much at home on the Shanghai Bund as Piccadilly, Broadway, or The Block in Melbourne as Bond Street. Men, for the greater part, of easy bearing, fluent and often cultured speech, and the imperturbable sang-froid of citizens of the world. Human mysteries, in so far as antecedents went, but all possessing in marked degree the two virtues deemed by Diantuolos as absolutely necessary for an entrée to his circle: a sufficiency of manners not to bring discredit—or unwelcome police attention—upon his establishment, and money to spend when once admitted to it.
But of all there, unquestionably the apple of Diantuolos’ glittering, agate-black eyes was his team of eight professional dancing-partners. When that transient glance of his—in which he could tell precisely what every soul in the room was up to—fell upon them, his soul knew perfect contentment.
They were not, as at present constituted, the original eight who had created such a stir upon the occasion of his opening night. Three of these had packed their vanity bags and stolen away into the outer night; but had done so in such fashion as to confer added distinction upon Diantuolos. For two had married younger members of the peerage, whilst the third had but three weeks before gone circumnavigating the globe on board the yacht of a gentleman whose power in the realms of Big Money was internationally acknowledged.
But in this last desertion, Diantuolos now accounted himself a fortunate man; for the one who had taken the place of the ash-blonde circumnavigatress, eclipsed by such lengths any of her companions that he had not yet recovered from his astonishment.
He had a vague, hustled sort of recollection of the girl, woman, whatever one was to call her, invading his office. Instantly he had appraised her to be one of very high degree; nor, singularly, did he revise that impression when she calmly informed him that she understood he had a vacancy for a professional dancing-partner and offered herself for the post. Nor, still more extraordinary, had he revised it since. There was some hurried adjustment of the financial side of matters—to which she seemed sublimely indifferent—and ... well, there she was. About this Jetta Marcein, as she chose to call herself (and whether Madame or M’selle, Mrs. or Miss, she had not enlightened him), there was, most indubitably, mystery.
She was, he appraised shrewdly, a woman of somewhere about six or seven and twenty; tallish, willowy-figured, with a grace of movement a professional mannequin would have given her soul to attain. She had straight, finely-moulded features and large, wide-set luminous eyes in which he had caught, at times, many and elusive expressions. Sometimes frank amusement, sometimes open mockery, and at others a glint he could not define. Her hair was, in these days, unique—a veritable crowning glory; in colour a rich, dark copper-red worn uncut. Plaited, and coiled about her small head, it might have been a coronet of burnished metal. And there was something about the poise of her not unsuggestive of coronets and the like; a dignity also, the observant Greek noted, which was perfectly natural, never assumed, but part and parcel of her most unusual self. Occasionally Diantuolos observing her covertly, found himself wondering just what was at the bottom of her being there at all. But being both by nature and business instinct a man who habitually minded his own business and left other people to do the same for themselves, he merely thanked his lucky stars that there she was. Still there were things about her upon which his acute mind could, and did, revolve.
As, for instance: that her gowns were perfection. Diantuolos knew far more of women’s clothes and their cost than the ordinary male, and he was quite well aware that those she had appeared in so far were Paris models, the work of great designers. And every detail of her equipment was in keeping. And he paid her the sum of four pounds ten shillings a week! Additionally, of course, she could earn most liberal commissions; but these, so far, she had not troubled to pick up. Chits he would have cashed as readily as Treasury notes she gave to the waiters.
And again, the cloak in which, the last dance concluded, she left the building, was of Russian sables and never purchased for a penny under two or three thousand pounds. And always did this mysterious, this compelling Jetta Marcein leave the club alone. The commissionaire always called her a taxi, for which service she invariably tipped him handsomely and departed—alone. In which unusual fact lay, perhaps, the greater part of the mystery—for Diantuolos. Had it been otherwise, a man might comprehend. As it was ...
And upon this particular early autumn night when, his floor and tables full and his band discoursing the very latest in syncopation, his eye fell upon her seated, most astonishingly, alone at a small table, he marvelled more than ever. For his first glance showed him a new, and arresting, side of her.
Her dark eyes were fixed upon space, betraying a woman lost in thought, momentarily totally oblivious to her surroundings. In her fingers the cigarette in the long, jade holder burned away to ashes unnoticed. By the expression upon her face, the thoughts of this beautiful Jetta Marcein were sombre ones; those of a woman downcast, discouraged.
And it also seemed to Diantuolos—not without sympathy, for he too had wandered far and endured his share of the slings and arrows of fortune—that he was looking upon one who had travelled further down the road of Life than her years would suggest, and had found most of it barren. A woman turned impassive by disillusion; yet, somehow, still warm, alive, vital.
Some moments the Greek studied the beautiful face reflectively; but, lost in her triste reverie, she remained quite unconscious of his scrutiny. As unconscious of him as she was of the three other pairs of male eyes, each watching her intently from separate angles of the crowded room. Three men as different in type as it was possible to find, but each carrying upon his features the indelible signs of a distinct and aggressive personality.
A long, all-embracing roll of his glittering black eyes brought all three and their profound interest in his dance-partner under the notice of the watcher. Leaning against that mysterious apartment he designated an ‘office,’ he watched all for a few moments. There was something in the situation that interested, more, intrigued him. The interest lay in the personalities of the three men, the intrigue, as to his former knowledge of one of them.
That particular person, the tall, aristocratic man whose card bore the name of Count Eugene Ferrondo. There was something about him that the Greek, withal a really marvellous memory for names and faces, could not grasp. The man was an utter stranger to him; certainly in so far as London was concerned. Yet he had but that very night presented himself with a card of membership duly signed—not a doubt of it—with Diantuolos’ own sprawling signature. Had even complimented M. le proprieteur upon certain improvements made in the place within the last few weeks. But Diantuolos would have wagered a very large sum of money that this most commanding, albeit sinister-looking patron had never been inside his doors until to-night, for all his glib apparent familiarity with things.
His features were familiar ... ye-es. But not in London ... no ... o. Where then? Diantuolos went carefully through the huge mental album of faces that had marked his peripatetic geographical road from erstwhile kitchen-boy of Athens, via half the world, to London, West End proprietorship. Rome, Trieste, Vienna, Budapest? No. New York, Boston? Perhaps even farther south—New Orleans? Somehow that struck Diantuolos as coming nearer. And he was of the type of the elegant French creole planters—yet, not altogether. Well, he was a mystery; and at that the Greek let him go for a moment.
