Читать книгу Torch for a Dark Journey - Lionel Shapiro - Страница 9

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The Spa Bonnar had been in operation three weeks when Channing’s Citroën climbed the circuitous driveway to the level of the terrace. It was late afternoon. The sun, suspended low on the far fields across the river, cast a rich sheen on the red sandstone of the hotel.

The terrace was deserted, an arrant waste of vista and inviting deck chairs; truly, Channing reflected, it bore the air of unemployed luxury which is the hallmark of the hotel distingué. Even a chasseur wearing a white duster, who materialized the moment the automobile appeared, seemed to have been concealing himself lest his visible presence offend the elegant emptiness.

The chasseur came forward, touching his cap, but he had not yet reached the automobile when a young woman darted across his path. She had come out of the hotel swiftly and approached the car with such immense expectation that Channing felt something of her embarrassment when she fell back disappointed.

He said, “I’m sorry I’m not the person you expected to see.”

Crimsoning, she echoed, “Yes, I am sorry——”

Even in her discomfiture she was possessed of striking grace. Tall and lithe, she held her head with a fine, almost regal pride. Her dark auburn hair swept back from her forehead in heavy, natural waves and was caught up at the nape in a chignon. She had deep brown eyes, wide-set and intensely alive in a lean, sun-browned face. There was an athletic trimness about her, about the way she wore a cardigan over a high-buttoned blouse, and the neat line of her hips which made it easy to imagine long, hard-fleshed legs beneath her tweed skirt. Yet she was feminine. She had high, Slavic cheekbones, and although she used only a trace of lip rouge, the way her mouth slashed downward at the ends invested her, at least to the onlooker, with interesting capacities.

All this Channing’s well-practiced eyes observed in a single glance as she stood framed in the car window. He smiled what he considered his most attractive smile.

He said, “Better luck next car.”

She smiled without humor, rejecting the charm he sought to convey. She said, “Again, I am sorry,” and turned away as abruptly as she came. The bulky frame of the chasseur took her place.

Channing said, “My baggage is in the back.”

The chasseur touched his cap. “Merci, m’sieu.”

Channing stepped out of his car and walked across the terrace to the low stone parapet which gave protection against a sheer drop to the road below. Across the narrow, swiftly flowing river, the town of Bonnar lay unwary as a man stretched out asleep in a public park. A single cobblestoned street curved through the town in blind obedience to the bend of the river. The buildings were old and small, mostly dwellings, but there were two which stood out. One was the parish church, a low frame structure which meekly shouldered a huge belfry; the other, directly facing the terrace across the river, was a modest auberge three stories high. Faded red lettering above its first row of windows identified it as the Lion d’Or. From the single street a series of dirt lanes ran off at right angles until they became wagon tracks and then were lost in the farmlands beyond. The intimate life of the town drifted easily across the view. It was the end of day and men were walking out of the distant fields toward the town, casting long shadows before them; through the open windows of the dwellings one could see their women bustling in the kitchens, or nursing their babies, or simply passing the time in rocking chairs.

Presently Channing was aware that the auburn-haired woman had reappeared. She stood at the parapet, at the corner of it which was nearest the frontier post, and was observing the road which ribboned out of Belgium. The road was empty, but she seemed not to tire of her vigil.

He watched her briefly, wondering about the man she awaited so eagerly. As with all men who have lived alone a long time, a woman’s show of loyalty for someone else played on him with an unhappy fascination. Then he walked across the terrace to the hotel.

Henri Gutzmann, already immaculately attired in dinner clothes, met him in the lobby.

“Good evening,” the director said. His right hand played nervously with the end of a silk handkerchief thrust in the breast pocket of his jacket. “Have you a reservation?”

“Why? Do I need one?” Channing glanced around the spacious lobby which was deserted except for a reception clerk and a concierge.

Gutzmann said, “We are quite full. We expect a number of guests.”

It came to Channing that his clothes were baggy and his face dusty; also that he didn’t like this little man who smelled of cologne and fingered his handkerchief.

“This is a public hotel, isn’t it? If there’s a vacant room I’ll take it.”

“We do not usually accept overnight guests.”

“Very interesting.”

“There is an auberge in the town, the Lion d’Or. I would be glad to telephone to see——”

Channing cut in, “I intend to stay here.”

“You must understand, we have a rather specialized clientele.”

“Well, I’m special.” Channing pushed past the little man and asked the reception clerk, “Is Mr. Clayfield here?”

Mention of Clayfield’s name brought the manager trotting to the American’s side.

“Are you a friend of Mr. Clayfield?”

“I’m here to see him.”

“Then by all means, sir——” Gutzmann rapped sharply on the desk. “Attention for Mr. ——”

“Channing. Philip Channing.”

“Thank you, Mr. Channing. I am Henri Gutzmann, the director of the hotel. I welcome you.” He made a little bow, then clapped his hands under the clerk’s nose. “See that Mr. Channing is accommodated. I believe No. 23 would be suitable.”

He turned to the concierge and clapped his hands once more. “Oscar! The key to No. 23. And see to Mr. Channing’s baggage. Vite! Vite!”

The formalities at the desk were quickly completed. Gutzmann, swinging the key in his delicate fingers, conducted his guest to the great curving staircase, walking sideways with quick short steps as if fearful of turning so much as a shoulder to his guest.

“You understand, Mr. Channing, how careful we must be,” he said as they mounted the stairs. “When one caters to guests like Mr. Clayfield and General Perrault, the Duc de Mernot, who is coming next week with his family, when one tries to re-create the atmosphere of before the war, you understand how carefully we must inquire ...”

Channing did not listen to the rest. His eyes fixed on a woman who stood on the staircase above them, at the point where it made its most graceful curve. She posed there, decorative as an Algerian sunset, watching them come up toward her.

She appeared reasonably young, perhaps thirty, and her face was delicately featured and white, as if not a flicker of sun had ever been allowed to touch her. She had dark, flashing eyes and almost black lip rouge on her full mouth, and her hair was jet and seemed to be lacquered against her head. Her black gown fitted closely around the line of her hips; above the waist it broke daringly, revealing a bold expanse of her white skin and a full half of each of her high, firm breasts. A single diamond intricately mounted in a platinum setting was suspended by a thin black ribbon at the cleavage of her bosom.

She watched Channing come up the stairs, appraising him. Gutzmann bowed and said, “Good evening, madame.” She nodded without removing her eyes from the young American, and when they had passed her she took possession of the center of the staircase and moved down slowly as if this were the grand escalier of the Paris Opera.

Channing said, “Aren’t there any men in this hotel?”

“She is Giselle Notta,” Gutzmann whispered. “Surely you have heard of her.”

“Not me.”

Gutzmann said, “She is the companion of Simon Aleksandrow.”

This explained a good deal. Channing had heard fabulous legends about Simon Aleksandrow, a Hungarian who had lived in France throughout the war and had somehow come out of it rich.

“They say,” continued Gutzmann, “she is the most beautiful woman in Europe. Personally I think it is a little exaggerated.”

“You mean she is a little exaggerated.”

The director raised his eyebrows and walked silently with mincing little steps along the wide corridor.

No. 23 was a large single room made to look larger by cream-colored walls and cleverly placed mirrors. Gutzmann moved across the room and flung open a pair of french windows, revealing a private balcony which contained a wicker serving table and two matching chairs. He said, “You will find it pleasant to breakfast here. You have the terrace view—voilà! La belle France.”

The balcony was of no immediate interest to Channing. He examined the location of the writing desk, noted it drew a proper light from the windows and was of the correct height for his portable typewriter. Then he looked at the bed to see if it was long enough for his lanky frame. He glanced into the bathroom and nodded.

“This will do. What does it cost?”

Gutzmann’s eyebrows came up again. “About five thousand a day with service.”

“All right.” He didn’t mind the expense. After all, the assignment was Bendels’ idea.

“How long do you expect to remain with us, Mr. Channing?”

The American stood at the balcony doors. A slice of sun winked on the rim of the distant farmlands and threw a red glow over the terrace. It caught up the tawny, auburn-haired woman, still standing vigil at the parapet, and seemed to cast her in bronze.

“I don’t know,” he said absently. “A day or two. By the way, who is that woman?”

Gutzmann glanced over the balcony. “She is Moussia Karlene. From Prague. A gazelle, no? Slav women are cows or gazelles. It’s remarkable.”

“Karlene. Mademoiselle?”

“Ah yes.”

Channing observed her with new interest. “Then Gregor Karlene is her father.”

“Exactly.”

“What’s his room number? I’ve got to see him.”

“But, Mr. Channing, he is not here.”

“Well, when he comes back——”

“Professor Karlene has not yet arrived in the hotel.”

“Oh. When do you expect him?”

Gutzmann lifted his hands in that empty French gesture which denotes a great deal, nothing at all, and every point between. “I’m not quite sure. I believe it was yesterday he was due.”

Standing at the window, the newspaperman instinctively reviewed the salient facts of his assignment. Bendels’ cable had clearly indicated that Karlene had already been smuggled out of Czechoslovakia and should have been at the hotel. He stepped back into the room and looked inquiringly at Gutzmann. The director retreated toward the door, fearful that he had spoken too freely.

“Just a minute. You say Clayfield is here.”

“But of course.”

“And who else? I mean in Clayfield’s party.”

Now Gutzmann was sure he had said too much. “I must not be indiscreet——” he stumbled.

“Never mind.” Channing turned back to the window and watched the girl on the parapet. A hazy picture of a troublesome situation was forming in his mind.

Gutzmann spoke up. “Of course it would not be indiscreet to tell you the names of all our guests. You see, there are only a few. It is so early in the season—the casino does not open until July——”

“All right. Who are they?”

The little man counted them off on his fingers. “There are Mr. Clayfield and his secretary, Mr. Nason. Then Mr. Aleksandrow and Madame Notta. That is four. Miss Karlene. Ah yes, and General Perrault and his wife—a very fine old gentleman, the general. And yourself.” He held up his middle finger. “Eight in all. Nine when Professor Karlene arrives.”

“Thank you.”

“Shall I tell Mr. Clayfield you are here?”

“Don’t bother. I’ll tell him myself.”

When Gutzmann left him he undressed and bathed quickly. The story had begun to excite him. He couldn’t wait to put on his clothes. He struggled into his trousers, lifted the phone, and asked for Clayfield’s apartment. The voice that answered said, “Who is it wishes to speak to Mr. Clayfield? This is his secretary.”

“Tell him Channing of World News Service.”

“Is this a long-distance call?”

“No, I’m in the hotel.”

There was a pause. Then: “I’ll see if he’s available.”

Channing laced his shoes while he kept the phone pinned between his ear and his shoulder.

Finally a deep, cheerful voice came on the line: “This is Justin Clayfield.” There was a practiced vanity in the way the words were spoken, like a schoolboy chalking his name on stray fences.

“I’m Channing of World News Service.”

“So I understand. How are you?”

“Me, I’m fine. I understand you have a story.”

“Story?”

“About Gregor Karlene.”

A chuckle sounded on the line. “Amazing how you fellows get to find out about these things.”

“Nothing amazing about it, Mr. Clayfield. It was all in a cable I got from New York this morning.”

The chuckling stopped. Clayfield said, “Well, you’re premature.”

“When do you expect Karlene to show up?”

The reply was delayed. “I can’t rightly say. I’d tell you if I knew.”

Channing said, “Let me ask you this. Is he missing?”

Again a silence, longer than before. “I wouldn’t say that, Channing. It’s—it’s a complicated thing. Perhaps you’d better wait until we know more.”

This time Channing paused, groping for an opening. “I’d like to get some background, Mr. Clayfield. Can I see you for a few minutes?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Now?”

“If you like.”

“Where?”

“Come into No. 34.”

“I’ll be right there.”