Читать книгу Devil's Laughter: A Tale of Paris - John Hunter A.A. - Страница 12

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Malou met Anton again and yet again, and the boy’s ardour increased with each meeting. It occurred to Malou that she might make some immediate capital from her friendship with him.

She debated her plan at length before venturing on its execution, and deciding to do so, made preparations accordingly.

For one night, she told the regular visitors to her gaming-room, she herself would be a visitor. She had met a man who would like to play. There was, they would understand, some romance in it. It would be better if he did not know the truth about her. A jest—nothing more—one of life’s little flirtations. They understood and approved. It would, indeed, be a jest.

Sitting with him over dinner one night, she said: “Can I make a confession?”

“What is it?” asked Anton swiftly, and his alarm showed in his eyes. He did not associate confessions with this beautiful woman who had enslaved him.

“I like playing cards. I don’t play high. At least I compliment myself on some common sense. There is a place in the Avenue Niel to which I go, an awfully nice place, discreet, and patronized by nice people. I had to tell you, you see. I couldn’t hide it any longer.”

Anton laughed. “That’s a dreadful admission.” He paused. “Would it be possible for me to come with you, sometimes? It would avoid my leaving you so early.”

Malou fenced prettily. She hadn’t intended that at all. She only wanted Anton to know what she did. And he might not wish to go alone with her to this place. After all, one had to be careful. It was rather foolish of her to go, really.

The fencing had an effect the importance of which Malou did not immediately foresee. Anton reflected a moment and said: “I know. We’ll make a party. It’ll be good fun. I’ve got a friend in Paris who knows hardly anybody, so that he’s perfectly safe. An awfully good fellow named Baring. Suppose I brought him along? Perhaps you could bring a friend with you.”

Malou, too reflected. This Englishman would, as Anton said, be “safe,” and, being a friend of Anton Laroche, he would undoubtedly be a well-to-do man. From clients introduced in such fashion the club gathered its revenues.

“All right,” she said, “bring him. I’ll arrange it for you.”

That night Gabrielle walked into the drawing-room of the flat and found Malou cleaning a pistol. The weapon was of fairly heavy calibre, delicately chased and with an ivory inlaid butt. There was a box of snub-nosed cartridges lying open at Malou’s elbow, and the magazine of the weapon was thrown out.

Malou lifted the gun and squinted through its muzzle at the electric light.

“Horrible thing, isn’t it?” she smiled. “I don’t know whether it is the suggestion born of actual knowledge, but a box of cartridges always seems to me to be eminently a box of death, if you understand me. Loathsome, aren’t they?”

She greased cartridges as she spoke.

“I didn’t know you kept a pistol on the premises,” said Gabrielle. “Why do you have it?”

“Oh!” Malou snapped the magazine into place. “I’ve had the thing for years. There’s a safe feeling about it, you know. It’s a more efficient protector than any man or any dog. And it costs nothing to maintain—no food and drink and expensive wines.” Malou laughed. “There it is, bless it. I shall probably hanker after publicity one day, find a lover, become jealous, and commit a crime passionel.”

She slid the gun across the table towards Gabrielle, who picked it up gingerly.

“Don’t be afraid of it,” laughed Malou. “The safety catch is on. I’ll show you.”

She came round and showed Gabrielle how to stub the safety catch with her thumb and pull the trigger. “Try again,” she urged. “That’s right. You’ll be a two-gun woman before you’re finished. Now I’m going to load it; and after that—no tricks, or somebody will die rapidly.”

Gabrielle watched her slip the greased cartridges into the magazine, and put the pistol in the drawer of a little writing-desk which stood against one of the walls.

“I always keep it there,” said Malou. “So if ever you find yourself in danger of being kidnapped, killed, or made love to, grab the gun, shoot first, and ask questions afterwards.” Gabrielle joined in her laughter.

The gun remained in the drawer, a mute actor added to the caste of the drama Laroche had staged for the trapping of Gabrielle.