“I thought he meant you—I thought he was going to do something horrible to you—through me.”
“And that was why you broke our engagement?”
She nodded.
“If he didn’t mean you, who was the girl?”
“No one you know—someone Trevor was fond of. Trevor was Trevor Fothering. They thought that they could put the screw on him by threatening her.”
“You’re sure he wasn’t talking about you?”
“I’m not sure about anything. I don’t think he was.”
She looked at him in a puzzled, doubting way.
“I don’t understand—but I’d better tell you the rest.”
“Yes—go on.”
“They walked away again. I was at one end of the pergola, and they were walking up and down. When they came back again, they were talking about strikes.”
“What were they saying?”
“I couldn’t understand it. Why should he want there to be a strike in Uncle Robert’s works?”
Lindsay imagined that he knew.
“What did Mr Rayne say?”
“He said it was ruinous. And he said, ‘It’s all very well for you—you’ve made enough on the side to weather it.’ They went on a long time. Uncle Robert was angry.”
“Did he give in?”
“I think he did. They walked away again. This time they didn’t come back. They stood at the far end of the pergola talking. I was afraid to stay any longer. I went back to the house. I didn’t go to bed at all. I sat by the window and thought it all out. I didn’t see how I could marry you. I wasn’t Marian Rayne at all—I didn’t know who I was. I was afraid of knowing. If he was—my father—” Her voice faltered away.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” said Lindsay.
“I didn’t think I could because of Uncle Robert.”
“You ought to have told me.”
She shook her head.
“I couldn’t. I thought he was talking about you and me when he said he could get at Trevor through the girl. I—I can’t explain why I was so frightened, but there was something frightening—dangerous. … It’s no use, I can’t explain.”
“All right,” said Lindsay—“that’s why you broke our engagement. Now why did you go and see Drayton?”
He saw her take a pull on herself.
“After I’d seen you in the train I went to the Mersons for a few days. When I came back I told Aunt Louie that someone had told me I wasn’t really Uncle Robert’s niece. She wanted to know who told me. And then she cried a little and said they hadn’t ever meant me to know. And then I got it all out of her. I knew she’d be easier than Uncle Robert. She told me the whole thing.”
“Yes?”
“Uncle Robert’s brother John went out to Australia with his wife. They had a little girl who was born out there, and when she was about two and a half John Rayne died. I’ve always thought he was my father, but he wasn’t. His wife came home. The little girl died on the voyage. Aunt Louie said they’d never written much. She—my mother—no, she wasn’t my mother—I don’t know what to call her—Mary Rayne—it sounds so strange—she was nearly off her head. She landed, and went into rooms in London. She didn’t write to anyone. She hadn’t any relations of her own. The woman where she was lodging was in great trouble—her husband had gone away and left her. She had two children—a little girl of three, and another a year younger. She was trying to make enough to keep them by letting rooms. Mary Rayne took the elder child. She told Aunt Louie the child was the only thing that held her back from going mad. It had the same name as her child. She said the mother was willing for her to take it. She thought the husband was a bad man, and that the woman wanted to get the child away from him.”
“You said he had left her.”
“She was afraid he would come back. She was dreadfully afraid. Mary Rayne told Aunt Louie she’d never seen anyone so afraid. It made her afraid too. She got my mother—my real mother—to promise she would never tell anyone where the child was. Then she left the rooms, and a week afterwards she went down to stay with Uncle Robert and Aunt Louie, and no one had any idea that the child she brought with her wasn’t her own. She died when I was ten, and when she was ill she told Aunt Louie the whole story. She and Uncle Robert hadn’t any children. They took me. It was very kind of them.” She fell silent for a minute. Then, “They’ve been good to me,” she said. I “I ought to be fonder of them. I’ve never—been able to feel—they belong—”
It was difficult to imagine Robert and Louisa Rayne inspiring strong attachment. No—Marian hadn’t ever—belonged to them, or they to her. Did she “belong” to Drayton? It was a chilling thought.
“Why did you go to see Drayton?” he said.
“He sent for me. I think Uncle Robert told him I knew. He—sent for me.”
“Yes?”
“I can’t tell you,” she said.
“Oh yes, you can, Marian.”
She shook her head.
“My dear,” said Lindsay, “this is going to be a very dangerous affair for both of us if you’re going to keep me in the dark.”
She looked up then, her face colourless, her eyes dark and frightened.
“Dangerous—for you?”
“Undoubtedly.”
She put her hand on his. It was very cold, and if it did not tremble, it was because she was holding it steady with a deliberate effort.
“There isn’t much—to tell. It’s just—I—hated him so—and he is—my father.” There was no colour even in her lips. Her eyes were despairingly frightened. “Lin—it’s like a—nightmare—only—I don’t wake up.”
Lindsay put an arm round her and shook her.
“Wake up now! People aren’t tied up to one another like that. The prophet Ezekiel has some good stout words to say on the subject of the fathers having eaten sour grapes and the children’s teeth being set on edge. The people of his day believed it almost as firmly as some people seem to to-day, and he said it was wicked nonsense—and so it is. You’re not any different from what you were before you knew all this. You’re Marian—you’re not just someone’s daughter. Now tell me what happened when you went to see Drayton.”
“He said I was his daughter.”
“If he said so, it’s probably not true.”
“He said my mother was American. Her name was Manning. He said he had changed his name for reasons of his own. He said she had died years ago. He said my sister was dead too.”
“Well, that’s a lie anyhow,” said Lindsay, and saw the colour rush into her face.
“Oh—Lin!”
Lindsay laughed. He was tingling with excitement.
“Lin, what do you mean? Isn’t she dead?”
He laughed again.
“When I watched you go in at the back door of No 1 Blenheim Square I’d just been having a very interesting talk with your sister Elsie,” he said.
CHAPTER XXVII
MARIAN SPRANG TO HER feet.
“My sister! Is her name Elsie? How do you know? Oh, Lin’, tell me quickly!”
“I know by putting two and two together. Perhaps I don’t know at all—I just guess.”
“Oh, Lin, tell me!”
“She’s the girl Trevor Fothering—my cousin Froth—is fond of. I found that out right at the start. Her name is Elsie Manning. Then I met her. Of course she knew at once that I wasn’t Froth.”
“Are you so awfully alike?”
“Elsie said I was good enough to pass—and as a matter of fact I have passed—or at least I hope so. Well, I don’t know what terms Elsie was on with Froth. I don’t think there’s much on her side, because she seems to have a perfectly good young man called Jimmy Thurloe—a nice lad. I know him a little, and when I walked into him in a fog he recognized me. Elsie seemed so sure she could keep him quiet that I imagin
e it’s a case.”
“Lin, you’re not telling me why you think she’s my sister.”
“Well—she’s Elsie Manning. She described a man who was either Drayton or Restow. I wasn’t sure then, but now I think it was Drayton. She’s a very plucky girl, but she fairly stiffened with fright when she talked about him. She told me two very interesting facts about him. He is a blackmailer, and—his name used to be Manning.”
“Oh—” said Marian faintly. She dropped back upon the bench beside him.
“So you see I put two and two together. Mrs Rayne told you you had a sister. Drayton corroborates that but says that your sister is dead. Drayton says he is your father. Drayton’s name used to be Manning. Elsie’s name is Manning. Well, I guess that Drayton wasn’t telling the truth when he said your sister was dead. I think that’s a pretty safe guess. He wouldn’t risk your meeting Elsie. Now go on and tell me what happened when you went to see him.”
There was not much more to tell. It was odd how much terror Drayton seemed to produce without anything very much to account for it. Marian, it is true, had gone to him shaken and unnerved from the shock of Lindsay’s death; but Elsie had been just as much afraid.
“Did he ask any questions about me?” said Lindsay.
“He asked why I had broken off my engagement.”
“What did you say?”
“I wouldn’t tell him.”
“Did he ask any more?”
“He went on asking. I wouldn’t say.”
“And then?”
He felt her wince away from the recollection.
“He— I hate it. Must I—Lin?”
“I’m afraid you must. You’ll feel better really when you’ve got it off your chest. What did he say?”
“He said—” Her voice went away to a whisper.
“He said, ‘The damfool has just got himself killed, hasn’t he?’”
In a flash Lindsay could see Drayton, designedly brutal, thrusting his question at a sore place. Perhaps he wanted to see if the place was really sore.
He put a comforting arm about her and asked,
“What did you do?”
Marian leaned against him, shaking a little.
“Lin, I made a fool of myself.”
“What did you do?”
“I fainted.”
“You poor child!”
“He made me feel—absolutely defenceless—as if I couldn’t do anything—against him. I felt as if he was battering at me. And when he said that—about you—something seemed to give way.”
“Poor darling! What happened next?”
“I came round again. It seemed like a long time afterwards. He was looking at me. He said, ‘You really fainted. Do you often do that?’ I said ‘No.’ I wasn’t so frightened, but I was crying—I couldn’t stop myself. He gave me some water to drink and told me to go home.” Her voice stopped.
Lindsay held her. He was thinking. He didn’t like his thoughts very much.
“My dear,” he said, “has it occurred to you that our meeting last night in the lounge strains the laws of probability rather heavily?”
“What do you mean?” Her colour came and went.
“How do you come to be in Paris with the Mersons? How do the Mersons come to be at the Luxe?”
“I don’t know. Uncle Robert arranged for me to come with them.”
“Exactly—Uncle Robert arranged with them. And I wonder whether Drayton arranged with Uncle Robert.”
“But why?”
“I think someone was interested to see what would happen when we met.” He wondered whether Restow had been an interested spectator.
“Oh, Lin—and I fainted!”
“You mustn’t make a habit of it, darling—it’s rather compromising. Now look here—this is what you’ve got to do. You must have a nice confidential heart-to-heart talk with Mrs Merson. Recur to the faint. Say you’re so sorry, but the likeness upset you. Say you’ve been making inquiries. Better really make some first—never neglect your local colour—and then say you find that there’s a Mr Trevor Fothering in the hotel, and that he’s a cousin of poor Lindsay’s.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘poor Lindsay’!”
“Say anything you like, darling. But this is the important part—say you’ve seen Mr Fothering again and convey to Mrs Merson that the likeness isn’t nearly so strong as you thought it was at first—it struck you painfully at first, but when you saw him again it sort of evaporated. It’s a way likenesses have, so you’ll be on good firm ground. Do you think you can do that?”
“I’ll try.”
He kissed her. Then:
“We ought to be going.”
He went to the inner door and knocked. Madame Marnier opened it, and as she did so, Lindsay was aware of something—
There was no outward change. She smiled all over her broad face, twinkled at him, and rolled into the room with a genial air of banter.
“Aha! You have amused yourselves? One is only young once!” she said, and twinkled again.
That was on the surface, and on the surface Lindsay gave back her banter with a laugh. But under the surface there was something—a change—a withdrawal a watchfulness. He became aware that she desired them to go; and yet her welcome had been perfectly spontaneous. Something had happened whilst she was in the other room. He remembered that it had its own door on to the landing. He wondered if it was Gogo who had happened. He thought so. He sprang his guess at Marie Marnier. “Isn’t Gogo going to come out and speak to me?”
The shot hit some mark. The twinkling eyes blinked at the shock of it.
“Gogo?” Shoulders and eyebrows went up together.
Lindsay flung open the door with a laugh and called,
“Gogo, you ruffian, come out and let’s have a look at you!”
There was a moment’s silence, a moment’s tension, perhaps a moment’s indecision; and then, with a crowing laugh and a quite amazing swagger, Gogo Marnier stood on the threshold.
Madame Marnier joined in the laughter.
“A good surprise—kein? He wouldn’t let me tell you. He must have his joke, my little Gogo. Always such a one for a joke, my Gogo.”
Lindsay admired her presence of mind, but he didn’t believe in Gogo’s joke. It suggested to him so many thoughts that he found it impossible to deal with them all. In the foreground was the fact that Madame Marnier had been overjoyed to see him until Gogo turned up, after which she was passionately anxious to see him go. It had been in his mind to fish in the muddy waters of Gogo’s experience. Well—he could still do that.
He began to talk of their last meeting, of a foolish comical adventure in which a gendarme, a goat and a too zealous journalist had all played spritely parts. As he talked, he was aware of Gogo relaxing. Lindsay possessed a very useful faculty of being able to talk of one thing whilst thinking of another.
Gogo hadn’t changed for the better in the last few years. He looked the gutter rat. He had been rather a good-looking boy of the sharp-featured, dark-eyed type. The sharpness had become accentuated; the black eyes had a restless ferocity; and the effects of army drill had worn off, leaving him a crouched, wizened creature with a swagger that sat ill enough on his almost misshapen figure.
Lindsay went on talking. It had been in his mind when he came here that if Drayton was in touch with the criminal underworld, Gogo might be useful. In that underworld news circulated with astonishing rapidity. A successful coup is commented on and discussed. Star performers have their admirers, their imitators, their jackals, their receivers, and their places of refuge, in more than one great city. They are known by hearsay to almost as large a public as a popular movie star. Gogo might know quite a lot of useful gossip.
From the back of Lindsay’s mind emerged his recollections of the Vulture. He had never seen the Vulture. No one had ever seen t
he Vulture—no one, that is to say, in the Secret Services of the five countries whose concentrated efforts to lay hold of him during and after the war had been frustrated. Perhaps one should not say that no one had seen him. It is believed that Hugo Leroy met him face to face. Hans Gottfried Müller certainly did. It is possible that Hiram J. Lee did so too. But they did not, unfortunately, survive to describe him. A profiteer of the underworld, he sold both sides in the war with impartial cupidity. Garratt had hunted him in vain. Lindsay, Garratt, and Gogo had shared a very dangerous adventure in the course of this hunt. It had been in Lindsay’s mind that if the Vulture still lived, it might be expected that he would have a finger in any international movement against law and order.
As he talked, he was aware of a sort of quivering sensitiveness towards the impressions coming to him from Gogo and from Madame Marnier. His consciousness resembled a photographic plate deliberately exposed. He finished his story, and whilst Madame Marnier still shook with laughter, he said,
“And the Vulture? Going strong?”
He was watching Gogo’s eyes as he spoke. Nothing in Gogo’s face changed—nothing except the pupils of his eyes. Lindsay saw them wince as if a flash of light had passed before them. It was the slightest, most uncontrollable of movements. If it had been less slight, it would have been less damaging. He might have sworn at the Vulture—his face might have become convulsed with rage or with fear—he might have grimaced a reluctant appreciation—or he might frankly have admired. Instead, that slight uncontrollable wince, where everything else was under rigid control. It told Lindsay more than he had bargained for. The sensitive plate recorded what it told him. It recorded also the sudden nervous movement of Madame Marnier’s hand. It hung down upon her blue checked apron. At the Vulture’s name it closed upon a fold of the stuff and stayed there, rigid.
Gogo laughed—oh, quite naturally and with not more than a breath of delay.
“That one?” He made an unpleasant sound indicative of contempt. “Pah! He is dead.”
“And you take orders from a dead man?”
Gogo’s hand flew to his right side and checked there. Lindsay guessed at a knife in his belt. The hand remained clenched above an unseen hilt. It occurred to Lindsay that if he had been anyone else, the blade might have been in his heart.
Danger Calling Page 18
