Fool Errant

by Patricia Wentworth

  He heard Hélène say in her low mournful voice, “He is fast asleep. I touched him just now and he did not wake. The papers are in his pocket.”

  “How do you know?”

  This was Mr. Miller. Hugo wondered again if the accent was really Russian.

  “I saw him put them there. They are in a long envelope. He is very ingenuous of course—he showed them to me and told me what they were.”

  “Which pocket?”

  They were quite close to him now; Hélène’s dress brushed his knee; he felt her hand touch him lightly.

  “Here—this is it.”

  The envelope came out easily. If he had been really asleep, the light touch would never have waked him. There was the faint sound of paper being folded; Mr. Miller was putting the envelope away. Then he spoke:

  “You had better get away—as quick as possible. I congratulate you, madame.”

  “Don’t!” said Hélène. “I—poor boy—I could wake him—now.”

  “You’d better not,” said Mr. Miller. “You wouldn’t like what you’d get for doing that.” He laughed a little and said, very slowly and distinctly, “Two—thousand—pounds. That is much better—eh?”

  “Don’t!” said Hélène de Lara.

  She turned and went out of the room. Mr. Miller followed her. They left the door ajar. The ticking of the clock was much louder now.

  Hugo stayed just where he was for what seemed like a very long time. He heard a car go off in the direction from which he had come. That would be Mme. de Lara going down to Torring House to keep her dinner engagement. A minute later another car went off towards London. Mr. Miller was also on his way.

  He got up, stretched himself, and rang the bell.

  “Ask if my car’s ready,” he said.

  As soon as the man was gone, he allowed himself to laugh. The car would be ready now—unless Mr. Miller was afraid of being followed. It would be rather interesting to see whether the transfer of the plans had cured the odd something which Leonard found amiss with the lubrication.

  He picked up his overcoat and put it on. Just for one moment he had a sense of something wrong, something missing. And then he knew what the something was. He thrust a cold hand into an empty pocket.

  The flute was gone.

  CHAPTER XXXII

  He stood there with his hand in his pocket. He didn’t move it, because he couldn’t move it. For a moment he could only stand there. He couldn’t move; and, as certainly, he couldn’t think. The flute was gone. This presented itself, not as a thought, but as a horrible concrete fact which he had suddenly run up against, and which had knocked all the thinking out of him. He felt very much as if he had run into a brick wall and been stunned.

  The moment passed. He withdrew his hand slowly, and slowly he began to think again. The flute might have fallen out of his pocket.

  He looked on the sofa and on the floor; but even as he looked, he knew that he wouldn’t find it. It hadn’t fallen out; it had been taken out. The only question was, who had taken it? Miller had gone to London, and Mme. de Lara to Meade. One of them had taken the flute and the plans that were inside the flute—the real plans. There wasn’t any question that one of them had taken it. But which of them? Good heavens! Which—which—which?

  Hugo began to steady from the shock. It wasn’t Miller who had taken the flute—Miller couldn’t have taken it. For one thing, he didn’t know it was there—and Hélène de Lara did. For another, Hélène de Lara had had the opportunity of taking it whilst he was speaking to the porter, and Miller couldn’t have taken it without his knowledge, because the coat was behind him and half under him all the time he was pretending to be asleep. Hélène had taken it.

  Then, quick and sharp, “What a fool you are! If she took it, that’s not to say she kept it. She’d give the plans to Miller—wouldn’t she, you fool?”

  The fool hesitated, and wasn’t sure. It was of his folly that he had a doubt. She must have given them to Miller. She wouldn’t take them back to Meade. Why, that was the plot—to give Miller the plans and to let it seem that it was Hugo who had given them away. It would certainly seem like that now. It could be shown that he had met Miller by appointment, and that Miller had gone away with the plans in his pocket. Had he? The fool wasn’t sure—remained obstinate and immovable in not being sure. Suppose—Hugo opened the door and went into the hall.

  The porter told him what he knew already. The lady had gone, and the red-headed gentleman had gone. They had gone in different directions. Then a surprise—“The lady left a note for you, sir.”

  The most ardent lover could not have snatched a love-letter more eagerly. The note was on the hotel note-paper, and it was very short. It began:

  “MY DEAR,

  “If you want your flute, come and get it. And if you want help, well—perhaps—I’m going home.”

  The signature was, “Hélène.”

  Hugo ran out of the front door and round to the garage. He found the car, and he found Leonard; they were at opposite ends of the rather ramshackle place.

  Leonard didn’t turn a hair. He said respectfully, “I think she’s all right now, sir. I was just coming in to tell you.” And that was that. What was the good of giving him the lie? Nothing mattered except to get back to Meade and to get there quickly. But would Leonard take him back to Meade?

  He put this to the touch.

  “Look here, I’ve got to get back.”

  “Back, sir!”

  “Back to M-Meade. I’ve had my papers stolen.”

  “Stolen, sir!”

  Leonard wasn’t really a very good actor. He was too stolid.

  “Yes, I must get back as quick as p-possible.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  There seemed to be an interminable delay before they got off. This was, of course, to be expected—Miller was to get as good a start as possible. Well, Miller had got his start. But had he got the real plans? Or had Mme. de Lara got them? Hélène de Lara had the flute. But did she know that the plans were in the flute? Or had she just taken it to tease him and to bring him to Torring House again? For the life of him Hugo could not be sure; and for the life of him he could not help remembering that Hélène de Lara had kissed him. How could she have known that the papers were in the flute? Perhaps she didn’t know. Perhaps—

  They started. The long interminable road stretched between him and Torring House. His thoughts pursued Hélène de Lara with an ardent intensity which might, or might not, have pleased her. Even if she had not known that the papers were in the flute, she would find them in a moment if she began to fiddle with it. Women never could keep their fingers off things. She might be finding the plans at this very moment.

  They passed through the dark wood. But now it was most unromantically void of glamour; it was just another stage on the long, interminable road. If Hélène found the plans, what would she do with them? Would she try to catch Miller? Or would she take them back to Minstrel? Or would she try to drive with them some private bargain of her own? He stared into the darkness for the lights of any car that might hold Hélène de Lara and the plans.

  Leonard drove slowly; it was half-past seven before they passed Meade Station. In another five minutes they were turning in at the gates of Meade House. Hugo tapped on the glass.

  “You needn’t drive up to the house. I’ll get out here, and you can go straight to the garage.”

  Leonard nodded. He brought the car to a standstill, and Hugo got out. Then he drove slowly on, keeping straight ahead instead of turning to the right to take the gravel sweep. Huge saw the red light going away and, turning, rar back down the drive and out into the road.

  He had burnt his boats.

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  Loveday looked up from a book.

  “What ages you’ve been, Hélène!”

  “Have you been bored?” said Hélène de Lara.

  She stood in the doorway of her sitting-room and looked at Loveday curled up in a big chair with Pif-paf-pouf on he
r lap.

  “Oh no—it takes a lot to bore me. Did you do your shopping? What did you buy?”

  Hélène slipped out of her fur coat and let it fall on the arm of the sofa.

  “I did not buy anything,” she said. There was something elusive in her voice. She came slowly over to the fire and held out her hands towards it.

  “Oh, I am cold and tired!”

  “What a waste of time and petrol to go all that way and not buy anything!”

  Hélène gave a faint laugh.

  “One doesn’t always have to buy things—sometimes one has them given to one.”

  Loveday went back to her book. If Hélène wanted her to ask questions, she just wasn’t going to do it.

  Mme. de Lara went on speaking softly to the fire:

  “Yes, sometimes one has things given to one. That is better than buying—isn’t it? Anyone can buy; but a gift may mean—Ah, well, who can tell how much a gift may mean?”

  Loveday continued to read.

  Hélène sighed.

  “He’s so young, poor boy!” She hummed just above her breath:

  “‘Oh, there’s nothing half so sweet in life as

  Love’s young dream!’

  “You are too young, Chérie, to know what that means.”

  Loveday’s shoulder jerked.

  “I do wish to goodness, Hélène, that you would call me by my proper name instead of that ridiculous French Chérie!”

  Mme. de Lara laughed.

  “Oh, la-la!” she said.

  Loveday fixed a bright angry gaze upon her. “Every time you do it I shall call you Ellen.”

  “Ssh!”

  “Well, it’s your own proper name. I can’t see why anyone wants to be French.”

  “Ah well,” said Hélène, “you are very young, Loveday. And I wish—oh, I wish I were as young as you, because, you see—he is young!”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Loveday.

  She turned a page and became, apparently, immersed in her book again.

  “I was talking about Hugo,” said Hélène sweetly. “Hugo Ross—poor boy!”

  Loveday looked up.

  “Why is he poor?”

  “Well, he hasn’t any money—has he?”

  “That’s not what you meant.”

  Hélène blew her a kiss.

  “Are you interested? He would be flattered. But take care, Chérie—he is mine.”

  “Is he—Ellen?”

  Hélène’s eyebrows went up; her mournful eyes looked angry for a moment. Then she decided to laugh again.

  “That was just a little rude. It is not attractive to be gauche—men do not like it. You will discover that, my dear, when you are no longer the schoolgirl.” She made a little malicious grimace and added, “You are—interested in Hugo Ross?”

  “Why shouldn’t I be?”

  “Why should you, when you have only seen him once?”

  “Perhaps I fell in love with him at first sight,” said Loveday with the grave stare of a child.

  “If you did, you are wasting your time.”

  “Because he is yours?” said Loveday.

  Hélène nodded. She walked across to the sofa, picked up her fur coat, and took out of the pocket the two halves of Hugo’s flute.

  “Is not this an original gage d’amour?” she said. Her eyes dwelt on Loveday. “You will not understand me when I say that it is more to me than diamonds. Any man without a soul can buy diamonds; but this”—she held out the two halves of the flute—“this is the boy’s treasure—the thing he pours his dreams into—his romance. And he gives it to me to keep for him—until he comes.” Her voice sank to a low murmur on the last words.

  Loveday’s heart thumped hard. She didn’t believe for an instant that Hugo had given the flute to Hélène—Hélène was just swanking—she had taken the flute. But why had she taken it? What had been happening? And what was going to happen?

  She got as far as this, and then—The hand that was holding her book closed hard on a sharp corner; the corner made a deep dint in her palm, but Loveday didn’t feel it. Hélène was holding out the two halves of the flute; the open ends were towards Loveday; and she could see in each the edges of a tight-rolled paper whirl.

  She gripped the book, and she didn’t cry out. Her heart gave another thump. She laughed and said,

  “I can’t think why on earth you didn’t go on the stage. You’ve got a simply lovely voice for it. You made me feel gruely all down my spine when you said that—‘until he comes.’ No—I can’t do it—but you’d have made a simply wonderful actress.”

  Hélène lifted the flute to her cheek for a moment and held it there, smiling wistfully. Then she laid it on a table sacred to flowers and one or two rare and cherished bits of china.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “perhaps I wanted the larger stage, and a part in the great unwritten play.”

  Loveday bent down and kissed Pif-paf-pouf on the top of his orange head. Then she gave a gurgle of laughter.

  “I suppose you know what you mean! Anyhow you made it sound lovely. I wish I could do things with my voice like that. Oh, by the way, Emily rang up.”

  “Emily?”

  “Yes, Emily. She’s back—and I can go home to-morrow. Aren’t you pleased?”

  “Ah now, I have loved having you—I think you know that, my dear.”

  Loveday didn’t know it at all; she didn’t think Hélène would love having anyone who poked fun at her and called her Ellen. But she admired the beautiful thrill in Hélène’s voice and the mournful affection in her eyes.

  “You seem to want me more than Emily does,” she said. “Emily was just having a sense of duty about me. She said I could come back to-night if I liked, but she’d much rather I stayed till to-morrow—if you can put up with me till then.”

  “Oh,” said Hélène, “but if she wants you—”

  “She doesn’t.”

  A fleeting gleam of annoyance just showed in Mme. de Lara’s eyes.

  “Ah now, Loveday, you must not be so cynical! At your age—” She sketched a little gesture of recoil. “Dear Emily! She has no children—you fill the empty place in her home. I think perhaps I am selfish to keep you here to-night. She will miss your welcome.”

  Loveday giggled.

  “She didn’t say she would.”

  “She is reserved and sensitive. I don’t think you understand Emily, my dear.” Hélène’s tone was grave and reproachful.

  “Perhaps I don’t.”

  Loveday gazed at Hélène because she was so dreadfully afraid of looking at the flute. If only Hélène would go out of the room. She had an inspiration.

  “Why don’t you ring Emily up? Then you could give her the welcome and find out whether she’s really raging and craving to have me back to-night. Because if she is, I know you’d be beautifully unselfish about it—wouldn’t you? I mean you’d give me up—wouldn’t you?”

  “Of course,” said Hélène. She went to the door, opened it, and turned on the threshold. “I don’t think you really appreciate Emily,” she said, and went out.

  “She’s simply dying to get rid of me,” said Loveday to herself. “She’s dying to get rid of me because she’s expecting Hugo.”

  She jumped up with a little angry thrill running all through her. Pif-paf-pouf said “Grr!” and stretched a sleepy curled-up paw as she put him down in the seat of the chair with a pat. Next moment she was at the table and one of the halves of the flute was in her hand.

  The plans had been rolled up very tight. She couldn’t move them. How long would it take Hélène to make Emily have her back to-night? She undid her brooch, and with the help of the pin she got the tight roll to move. The paper tore, and a shred or two fell. A little more, and she could catch hold of it and pull. Out it came, and went down inside her jumper. Now the second roll. It came out more easily.

  She got back into her chair, gathered up Pif-paf-pouf, and balanced the book she had been reading on top of him. Pi
f-paf-pouf stretched and sank into lazy slumber.

  Loveday could hear Hélène at the telephone. Her voice was a great deal higher than usual. Emily was probably being firm. What on earth was she to do with the plans?

  She rolled them the wrong way to straighten them. But they were awful things to hide—they crackled. If she pushed them down inside her jumper, they would crackle every time she moved. Horrible things! What on earth was she to do with them?

  Hélène’s voice stopped.

  In a panic Loveday folded the papers across and shut them between the pages of her book. She pushed the book down between her and the chair.

  Hélène found her kissing the top of Pif-paf-pouf’s head. She smiled indulgently.

  “Emily does want you, my dear. What did I tell you? I knew that she must be longing to have you back. Poor Emily! I have ordered the car for you at once. I knew she would want you to be there for dinner. And you must come back and see me another time.”

  Loveday kissed Pif-paf-pouf again, slid him gently on to the hearth-rug, and got up clasping her book. She was now as anxious to get away as Hélène could possibly be to see her go.

  “I shall just have to throw my things in,” she said. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to stop and keep you company?”

  Hélène smiled wistfully.

  “Ah now, that’s sweet of you! But—well, perhaps you guess. Do you?”

  “That you want to get rid of me?”

  Hélène exclaimed laughingly, “How terrible that sounds! And yet perhaps it is just a little true. And you must not be angry, Loveday, because one day you will understand and—and be very happy yourself when someone whom you care for comes to tell you that he cares too.”

  Loveday could have slapped her. She stood in the doorway with her hands behind her holding the book.

  “I suppose you mean Mr. Ross is coming.”

  “Perhaps,” said Hélène. “Ah, Chérie, love is a very wonderful thing. And some day it will come to you—some day a man will put his heart into your hands and—”

  “Good gracious!” said Loveday. “You really ought to have been on the stage, Hélène. Well, I must pack. You can do the rest of that lovely piece another time—you do it most awfully well. But if I’ve got to dine with Emily, I can’t stop and hear any more of it now. Emily’s cook turns puce with rage if anyone’s late for dinner.” She ran upstairs.