Works of Sax Rohmer

by Sax Rohmer

“Yes, of course. Little tit-bits for his articles and broadcasts. Women are so indiscreet at their hairdresser’s, and poor Sir Giles was such a student of life and sometimes so boring.”

  Rita’s heart was thumping with such violence that she was afraid to stand too near to Destrée in case Destrée should hear it.

  “I don’t remember that he did, madam.”

  “Oh, well, I only wondered. He had such an inquiring mind. How tragic that you should be with him on the very night of his death.”

  The long expected moment was here. This woman whose silky hair swept through Rita’s fingers was going to cross-examine her; perhaps to inform the police, secretly, so that her own association with the gambling parties should not be compromised. Hurriedly, Rita tried to prepare a line of defence, but could think of none. She replied, almost in a whisper:

  “It was terrible, madam.”

  “He had a large sum of money with him, I believe?”

  Good heavens! that was a line of attack which Rita had not anticipated. If it were true, and she didn’t know if it were true or otherwise, she might find herself arrested for the theft!

  “Is that so, madam?” was all that she could think of saying.

  Destrée closed her eyes again; she had seen all that she wanted to see. “So I believe. Sir Giles and I were old friends, and the idea that someone killed him for his money is terrible — too terrible! Perhaps you can throw some light upon what became of the case he was carrying?”

  “I, madam!” Rita dropped a brush, stooped and picked it up. “Pardon me. How clumsy I am. Really, I know nothing about it.”

  “But surely, you left together?”

  “Well, yes, madam, we did. And I think he was carrying a case, as you say.”

  “Yes, I think so,” murmured Destrée, “and the police seem to be sure. In fact, I think I read that they had a clue to the theft.”

  “Yes, madam, I believe I read something of the kind.”

  “A man so — democratic, in his acquaintances, might easily be made the victim of a plot. You see? Such dreadful things are happening all too often in the black-out in London, just now, don’t you think?”

  Rita stooped over the side table arranging bottles, brushes, combs, and other implements of her profession. “I believe it is so. Nothing happened, madam, while I was with him.”

  “For your sake, I am glad to hear it. In fact, I am so surprised that you have not been questioned already.”

  Rita thought rapidly. “I could tell them nothing that would help in any way,” she said, hesitantly, “or I should, of course, have come forward. And I suppose that no one who knew me saw me with Sir Giles during the evening. That is, except yourself, madam.”

  “And Lady Huskin? And Mr. Olivar, too. I know he sometimes went with Lady Huskin to Simone’s. Surely he knows you?”

  “Yes, madam, I spoke to Mr. Olivar.”

  Again those frightening, sleepy eyes opened widely. Destrée began to smile, which for a moment reassured poor Rita, so that she tried to smile back at the bewitching image in the mirror, and then forced herself to resume her duties.

  “All was well with my poor friend, then, when you saw him last — yes?”

  “Certainly, madam.” Rita experienced increasing difficulty in retaining her professional refinement of speech. “We simply walked away trying to find a taxi, and we had not gone far, not further than the next corner, in fact, before one came up. I said good-night to Sir Giles and was driven home.”

  “That is simple enough,” smiled Destrée. “He had his case with him, I suppose, when he left you?”

  “Certainly, madam, yes, I remember distinctly, now — he did.”

  “That, of course, is the point in which the police would be particularly interested. If they should get in touch with you, Miss Rita, what you have told me may help you, so that I should be glad if you would let me know if there is any development.”

  “Certainly, madam. Thank you.”

  Rita worked rapidly, trying to forget herself in her task, trying to overcome a sense of faintness which she ascribed to the atmosphere of the room, laden as it was with the perfume of lilies.

  Destrée, whose eyes appeared to be closed again, spoke suddenly.

  “I understand Sir Giles’s interest. You are quite pretty. Poor fellow! he was trying to console himself. In time he might have found someone.”

  “Console himself, madam?”

  “Yes, although he was so charming, he was not always fortunate in love. Some women are very capricious, very critical, you know. I have seen much of the world, and I have found that wealthy men who toy with any girl who happens to attract them for a time and then cast her aside, are almost always men who have been cheated of the woman they really desired.” She sighed voluptuously. “Poor Sir Giles.”

  Rita’s brain, never capable of close reasoning, began to swim. A curious hush which characterised Destrée’s flat was having its effect upon her nerves. This perfumed tranquility for some reason suggested to her that soft-footed creatures who listened, hovered secretly just outside the room, watched, and waited. She believed that Destrée suspected her of being concerned in robbing Sir Giles. She believed that Destrée knew, as she, Rita, had often suspected, that Sir Giles had treated her as a mere convenience, as a concubine rather than a mistress. He had certainly made her recall the conversation of some of Simone’s clients, almost word for word. In fact, Destrée, without apparent intent, had thoroughly humiliated her, so that she doubted her good looks, doubted her cunning, and doubted her safety; she was whirling with doubts.

  When at last, hairdressing operations were completed to Destrée’s satisfaction (and Rita was forced to admit to herself that she was not exacting) Destrée stood up, closed her eyes and stretched her arms. She wore white shoes, lined and trimmed with fur.

  “I must rest awhile,” she murmured, “before I dress. Please be so good, Miss Rita, as to bring me the wrap hanging on the screen, there.”

  “Certainly, madam.”

  Rita crossed the thickly carpeted floor, and took down that remarkable robe displaying all those variegated tints of the Californian poppy, arrayed in which Destrée loved to take her ease. As she turned, having it draped over her arm, Destrée dropped the garment of swansdown, and the powdered satin beauty of her body was so perfect that Rita inhaled sharply and stood quite still for a moment. Recovering herself, as Destrée extended rounded arms Rita draped the silken robe over her shoulders.

  “Remember to let me know,” she murmured, “if anything should occur.”

  23

  Dossier Destrée

  When Sergeant Bluett entered the office of Chief Detective-Inspector Firth he found no one there. He looked about him and began to whistle “Up in the morning early,” beating time with a newspaper which he carried. Then a frown crossed his features, and he ceased whistling abruptly. He went over to the desk. Upon that monument of orderliness lay an official envelope bearing the address: Chief Detective-Inspector Firth. “Ah!” said Bluett, picked up the envelope and then laid it down again. He knew that it contained photographs.

  He crossed and stood staring out of the window. The day was bright and clear; he could see no barrage balloons, those floating fungi of a wartime heaven. The opposite bank of the Thames, or that part of it visible from this window, engrossed his attention: he studied it with the puzzled expression of one who contemplates a thing unfamiliar. The truth was that Bluett, who possessed an encyclopaedic knowledge of London, had never quite succeeded in re-arranging to his satisfaction the former layout of the Surrey bank. Where certain buildings had stood, there were blank spaces, and it had become his almost daily custom to endeavor mentally to complete the original outlines. He began to whistle again, checked himself, and turned as the door opened.

  Chief Inspector Firth came in carrying a bulky volume under his arm. “Ah! there you are, Bluett. I thought likely enough ye had resigned.”

  He crossed to his desk and placed the volume upon it. Blu
ett returned to his favorite leaning post, the mantelpiece, as Firth sat down.

  “Verra difficult these days,” said the Chief Inspector, “to establish contact wi’ sources of information overseas. It means a lot of putting two and two together.” He opened the big book, which had a thumbhole index. “There she is,” he muttered. “But although I would recognise her, the woman hersel’ is both better and worse.”

  Bluett, his ingenuous features displaying a shade of interest, came over and stood behind the Chief Inspector, looking down at a page upon which various items, some typed, and some in small, neat handwriting, were pasted. The page was headed:

  Destrée, Mrs. Ysolde.

  A paragraph in small manuscript which had been stuck on, read: “Place of birth, nationality of parents, unknown. Unable to trace prior to residence in Madagascar.” This paragraph was initialled illegibly, and the hieroglyphics were followed by several reference numbers.

  Another paragraph, typed, began with a date. It said:

  “Married at Diego-Suarrez, Madagascar, by special licence, to Commander François Louis Destrée of the French Navy.” Underneath, was added, again in manuscript, “For details see J.B. p-21.” According to other items it appeared that Commander Destrée had died in Algiers in 1928, having then been separated from his wife for some time. There was a further paragraph headed: “New York State Troopers.” This said: “Destrée, Mrs. Ysolde: French, formerly lived in Madagascar; filed naturalisation papers as United States citizen, May 3rd, 1931.”

  Underneath, and presumably from another source, appeared a brief note: “Party in question residing in Hollywood.” Below it, and bearing a date later in the same year, came the statement: “Left Hollywood February 15th of this year: present whereabouts unknown.”

  Under a date late in 1938, there was a manuscript entry: “Mrs. Ysolde Destrée occupies a suite at Claridge’s Hotel. Has accounts at Fifth Avenue Bank, New York; Hambro’s Bank, London. Funds apparently ample. United States passport. Social contacts good; credit good; moves in international circles.”

  “Ye note that?” said Firth, looking up over his shoulder at the ingenuous countenance of Bluett: “that big gap? There’s nothing here—” he rested a long sensitive forefinger on the page— “for close on seven years. Nothing between the time that she left Hollywood and turned up at Claridge’s.”

  “That’s right,” said Bluett. “And I should say from the look of her flat she’s still in funds. A beautiful woman — and a widow, too.”

  Firth, who had redirected his attention to the page, looked up again, and glared at his subordinate. “There are times,” he said, “forby, when ye’re sense o’ humor becomes almost funny.”

  His eyes half closed, he regarded the smooth, fresh face and upstanding hair with marked disapproval. He returned to his reading. There was a sort of summary:

  “Mrs. Ysolde Destrée for some years has spent every season in London, but has travelled extensively, formerly wintering abroad at Monte Carlo or elsewhere in the South. She appears to have plenty of money, but the source of this is unknown. She is believed to have shares, although not held in her own name, in the Green Spider night club, the restaurant Grand Marnier, and also, but this cannot be confirmed, in the Mayfair roulette group. No serious investigation of her affairs has so far been undertaken, since she has never openly transgressed the law. She almost certainly has black market contacts at present — associated with the above enterprises. Her mode of life is bohemian to a degree, but she is received in good social circles; undoubtedly has influential friends.”

  Firth glanced up again. “Ah!” said he. “Ye weren’t reading, I see. Ye were staring at the photograph on the opposite page.”

  “That’s right,” Bluett admitted. “Something funny about her eyes, isn’t there?”

  “That may be, but particularly what are ye thinking?”

  “Well, of course, she isn’t English, nor American. I was thinking, Inspector, that she’s probably a half-caste. What do you think?”

  Firth turned his gaze upon the left hand page, and studied a photograph which was pasted there, a head and shoulders of Destrée, depicting her wearing a tightly fitting suit and no hat; in fact, obviously an enlargement of a passport picture. “I wonder,” he murmured— “That’s a formidable woman, Bluett. I’m open to believe she knows more about the death o’ Sir Giles Loeder than anybody suspects.”

  Bluett meditatively returned to the mantelpiece, where he had left his newspaper. “It’s getting a bit beyond me,” he confessed. “You more or less wasted a whole night checking up on Mr. Michaelis, after you’d watched his rooms in St. James’s Street to make sure that he really went back there. I wasted my time following Gaston Max—”

  Chief Inspector Firth closed the large volume with a sigh, and looked up. “What’s that ye say?”

  “I say we’ve been wasting our time.”

  “Is tha’ so? What about the man who — according to your report — came upstairs and listened outside Mr. Bernstein’s door?”

  “Mr. Max had good reasons not to return, in propriâ personâ, but you went back and called up for instructions. As I was still here in the office, working on the Michaelis data, I came along to Windmill Street and brought Sergeant Hawkins wi’ me.”

  “I know you did.” Sergeant Bluett stared. “You told me to go home, but stayed behind yourself.”

  “Now,” continued Firth, fingering the envelope, “ye may recall that ye heard this man because he guided himself i’ the dark by holding on to the handrail. Later, ye both obsairved he had something wrong wi’ his foot when he ran. That was the point o’ interest. Weel — Hawkins and I had a good look at that handrail.”

  Firth, his tawny eyes narrowed, his chin resting in his palm, fixed a meaningful glance upon his subordinate.

  “Oh, did you?” said Bluett. “Funny I didn’t think of that.”

  “The rail was verra dusty, as you might expect, and the fingerprints, although a lot o’ them were smeared, could be seen as plain as a pikestaff. Weel—” he picked up the envelope. “We got some promising impressions — and here are the photographs.”

  “I saw they were photographs when I came in.”

  Sergeant Bluett returned to the desk. They both bent over a number of prints which the envelope contained. “Look here,” said Bluett; “a beauty of his palm.”

  “And here are all four fingers,” exclaimed Firth, “verra clear. Another o’ the thumb. That’s plenty to go upon.”

  He took up the telephone. “We’ll have them sent in right away,” he said, an unfamiliar note of excitement in his strident voice. “If they belong to the limping man, it is possible we have his record in the files.” He paused, and replaced the instrument without making a call. “What’s on ye’re mind, Bluett? Is something puzzling the intellect?”

  “Yes,” Bluett confessed; “there is something I wanted to ask you.”

  “What would it be?”

  “I wanted to ask you why you stood by waiting for Michaelis to leave Destrée’s flat. You said yourself he was easy to check up on. That’s what I don’t understand.”

  Chief Inspector Firth showed his lower teeth in a grim smile. “Then I’ll tell ye. I wanted to find out if he limped!”

  Restaurant Grand Marnier, a reference to which appeared in the dossier Destrée at Scotland Yard, had become, under the guidance of Louis Marnier, internationally famous maître-d’hôtel from whom it derived its name, dernier cri absolument. Situated in the heart of Mayfair, it was possibly the most fashionable luncheon establishment in the West End, and quite the most expensive. Admittedly, the food was good (what there was of it); Colbert, the chef, had come from the Meurice in Paris; its cellar was excellent. To say that it became thronged daily with elegance would be untrue; it is a wartime axiom that the best people are the worst dressed. But it was smart to lunch at the Grand Marnier looking like a tramp.

  Colonel J.N.G. O’Halloran pushed open revolving doors and entered its crowded lobb
y. He was lunching with his sister, who loved the place, and praying that she wouldn’t turn up in uniform: the colonel disliked women in uniform.

  “Makes me feel a damn fool,” was the only explanation he had been heard to offer of this.

  He saw that every one of many small tables was already in service; the wall seats were crowded; a queue blocked the entrance to the restaurant. He peered around, blinking rapidly, nodded to one or two acquaintances and then went to leave his hat in the cloakroom.

  Coming out again, he elbowed a way into the bar, and, dodging through uniforms of many colors (most of the customers were officers) he ordered a pink gin. If he remained near the door, he knew that he could watch arrivals. Jules, the head waiter, approached with a ten shilling smile.

  “Your table is ready, sir. The second alcove.”

  “Good. Hang on to it. Lady not turned up.”

  “Why do we suffer this infernal lack of punctuality, sir?” inquired a breezy, white haired sailor who stood wedged beside O’Halloran. He wore mufti, but as he was an admiral he never hesitated to express his views to anybody. “Wouldn’t do at sea.”

  “Quite agree,” said the colonel. “Miracle to me women done so well. Sense of discipline — nil.”

  “Damn nuisance; all of ’em; God bless ’em,” the admiral summed up.

  It was a notable fact that the Grand Marnier had attracted a clientèle representative of all the services. As many distinguished officers were to be seen there almost any day wrestling for victuals as one would meet at a Royal levée. The wise ones booked tables, and there were four tables especially popular with parties intimes. These occupied alcoves in the wall facing the windows, and whilst they afforded a view of the room, they insured also a certain privacy. One of these his secretary had booked that morning for the Commissioner, whose sister rather overpowered him. She was addicted to bawling embarrassing domestic matters in tones better suited to addressing a Boy Scout rally; in her brother’s words, she had a voice like a fairy fog-horn.

  Carrying his cocktail, the colonel went out to look for her. Failing interception, he knew that she would yell at the first waiter whom she sighted, “Has Colonel O’Halloran arrived?”