by Sax Rohmer
He failed to see, or hear, her in the lobby, and accordingly bye-passed the waiting queue and looked into the restaurant, wondering if she had asked for, and gone to, the table. However, the second alcove remained unoccupied. He noted, idly, that a Cabinet Minister and a woman who might have been his secretary (she was making notes) sat in the alcove beyond. He couldn’t see who was in the one nearest to the door; but the third was occupied by a French Naval officer whom he knew by sight and a deeply tanned major wearing the romantic uniform of the Chasseurs d’Afrique.
O’Halloran, turning back, met a smile from the lady receptionist whose desk stood beside the door. “If you care to go to your table, Colonel O’Halloran,” she said, “I will direct your friend when she arrives.”
“Thanks,” he replied. “Obliged. But I think I’ll wait outside. Hullo! here she is!”
His sister, Catherine, by name Mrs. Mallory, came striding across the lobby glaring rather than glancing at its occupants. The family resemblance was unmistakable, except that Mrs. Mallory was conceived on a larger scale: larger eyes, larger frame, larger voice. To his relief, she did not wear uniform, but was dressed in what he called a “sensible way”; that is in a heather tweed suit and a plain felt hat. She greeted him with, “Hullo, Jimmy,” spoken as though it had been “Slope arms!” so that everybody in the lobby jumped nervously.
“Hullo, Kit! Let’s go in. Have a cocktail at the table. How’s Bill?”
“Terrific,” replied his sister; and an inexperienced waiter balancing a tray of sherry glasses nearly ruined his prospects.
Louis Marnier in person took charge as they entered, and piloted them to the vacant alcove. Colonel O’Halloran, following his sister, was surprised when the major of chasseurs raised his hand in salute. O’Halloran nodded brusquely and passed on. As he sat down:
“Who,” Mrs. Mallory inquired in trumpet tones, “is the singing juvenile from ‘The Desert Song’?”
“Don’t know,” snapped her brother. “But as duelling is out of date, kindly shut up, Kit.”
“Oh,” said Kit. “Then I will have a Scotch and soda — but I want to see the bottle.”
And so luncheon began. It was proceeding amicably when a waiter brought a folded note for Colonel O’Halloran. He apologised to Kit, unfolded the message, and read: “Forgive me, my dear friend, for bad artistry. I know you are so critical: my salute was an impulse. I am to-day an officer of chasseurs for most important reasons. Guard your conversation — even though you seem to be so private. This note will reach you by a route roundabout. Please do your best to make peace with your charming friend.
“Gaston Max”
“H’m!” muttered the colonel. “You don’t have to be mad to work at Scotland Yard — but it helps.”
24
The Wheel Rolls On
“Messieurs! Faites Vos Jeux!”
Roulette was in full swing; not in the lily haunted flat of Destrée, but in that almost equally luxurious apartment on the floor above, occupied by Mr. Francis, a suite which, also, contained a billiard room. Possibly Scotland Yard remained unaware of these matinée performances: the powers that be are prone to bracket gambling with strip dancing, cocaine sniffing, and other midnight vices; but in point of fact Mr. Francis had quite a “good house.”
In a room somewhat smaller than that used by Destrée, a typical private billiards room, its walls decorated with sporting prints, nearly a dozen players were assembled around the table, at which, however, only two croupiers functioned. It was one of those gay young autumn days dressed in the finery of summer, and since windows which commanded a distant view of a verdant square were opened, permitting sunshine to enter freely, it was altogether more pleasant in every way, and certainly more healthful, than the blacked-out stuffiness of the larger casino below.
Mr. Francis personally took care of his guests, his eyes twinkling ironically and his chin dimpling, as he moved with that cat-like stride from chair to chair, condoling here, congratulating there. Nobody ever heard his approach: he appeared. A difference one might have noted in the assembly; it was caused by the predominance of women players. Presumably, male habitués were otherwise engaged during the afternoon. Lady Keffington was there, her large handbag upon the table beside her, and so was Mrs. Delarusse, the stout lady who surveyed the gyrations of the wheel through lorgnettes. Her expression, one of keen disapproval, was traceable, no doubt, to the dwindling majesty of a once imposing mound of chips now disintegrating before her on the green baize.
Mr. Michaelis was absent, but presently that white coated barman, who sometimes officiated for Destrée, opened the door to usher in Lady Huskin and Teddie Olivar. One might have surmised (correctly) that he was Mr. Francis’s man, and that he lent a hand to Mrs. Destrée only when play took place below. Mr. Francis, who had been talking in an undertone to one of the croupiers, immediately looked up, and then strode across to meet the new arrivals.
“My dear Lady Huskin, this is a real surprise and a real pleasure. Glad to see you, Olivar.”
“Dear Mr. Francis,” said Lady Huskin, “I have just come from Simone’s. Teddie picked me up and told me there was a game on here. I have left Dandini in charge of your man. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Certainly not. It’s a real pleasure.” The elusive dimple appeared and disappeared upon the speaker’s chin.
“Would it be asking too much in these days of points and rations, to make him a cup of tea and give him a few sweet biscuits? Something went wrong at Simone’s to-day, and he does so miss his tea, poor wee beastie.”
“Leave the matter in my hands, Lady Huskin. Would you like tea, yourself? — or a drink? Or do you want to begin play right now?”
“Oh, I think I am too excited to have tea until I have played a little while. What do you think, Teddie?”
“I am fully in favor of play,” declared Teddie. He performed an elegant sweeping movement with his left arm, and consulted a jewelled wrist-watch. “Besides, Poppy dear, you haven’t long to stay. You told me you had to meet your husband at six.”
“Ah!” sighed Lady Huskin, rolling her eyes beneath heavily blued lids, a trick that she may have acquired from Teddie.
“Duty calls, as you remind me, Teddie dear. Yes, let us play.”
As she advanced with her oddly mincing gait to a chair which Mr. Francis drew out for her, Teddie stayed behind for a word with Lady Keffington. “Oh, my dear, don’t tell me you are losing?”
“I have been here exactly sixty minutes, Teddie, and I have lost exactly sixty pounds.”
“Poor darling! Shall I change some more money for you?”
“The odd forty, if you will be so sweet. If I lose a hundred pounds this afternoon, I sha’n’t be able to play any more this week.”
“Hullo, Lady Keffington!” called Lady Huskin across the table. “Here we are again!” From her handbag she produced a leather wallet, supercharged with notes, and held it out helplessly in Teddie’s direction.
“My dear,” said he, in Lady Keffington’s ear, “when I have cashed this forty for you I must rejoin Poppy Huskin. But I will keep an eye on your play — and perhaps, as I am free this evening, you and I might have a bite somewhere later.”
“That would be sweet, Teddie,” Lady Keffington replied, with an upcast glance, “I am free, too.”
Teddie Olivar performed his duties as cashier, and took a chair beside Lady Huskin, grasping the extended wallet as he sat down. “How much shall we begin with, Poppy?”
“Say a hundred each, Teddie. We really mustn’t risk any more.”
“Messieurs! faites vos jeux!” The wheel rolled on ...
In that pleasant airy room, appreciable sums of money lightly changed hands, but as a rule in the end remained in the hands of the bank. Several other visitors arrived, amongst them Mr. Michaelis, who in his ambassadorial manner, gravely saluted the ladies known to him, but did not play. In fact, one familiar with the gambling parties carried on at Destrée’s, Mrs. Sankey’s, Mr. Fr
ancis’s and elsewhere, could not have failed to note that although Mr. Michaelis was a regular visitor he never did play. Impeccably groomed, straight as a rod, his geometrical bows could be accounted for only by the presence of a hinge, and suggested that at some time he had been folded in half.
Lady Huskin’s mink wrap Teddie Olivar had draped respectfully over the back of her chair (he had a deep respect for mink), so that a pearl necklace which surrounded her well-preserved throat became peculiarly noticeable. Lady Huskin began by winning, and her plump hands with their abnormally long nails and superfluous rings, twitched quite nervously as she fingered a growing mound of chips. Probably she had more money than that possessed by everyone else in the room added together; but she loved to win. Her eyes sparkled beneath those heavy lids; her gaiety was almost infectious. But it failed to disturb the graceful boredom of Teddie Olivar, her partner. Indeed, although discreetly, he yawned once or twice; when suddenly Lady Huskin stood up. She had begun to lose. Mr. Michaelis bent over her chair.
“Mr. Francis has asked me, dear Lady Huskin, if you would join him for tea.”
Lady Huskin, flattered, indeed, fluttered, by being singled out in this manner, almost immediately turned, drawing her wrap about her shoulders. “Stay where you are, Teddie, and go on staking for both of us, until you recover what I have lost; there’s a darling. I sha’n’t be many minutes.”
In a cosy room which Lady Huskin found pleasantly mannish, she took tea with Mr. Michaelis and Mr. Francis. The walls presented a mosaic of valuable old prints; heavy oak bookcases were laden with works on all sorts of sporting subjects, ranging from African game to ice hockey. A thick blue carpet covered the floor, and leather upholstered furniture, although well worn, had substantial dignity and character.
Mr. Francis presently wheeled in a three-deck wagon containing an assortment of sandwiches and pastries which transported Lady Huskin to the Hôtel de Paris at Monte Carlo. Porcelain teacups, fragile as shells, were used, and the tea was not the sort of tea to which one becomes accustomed in wartime. To complete this soft illusion, a hidden gramophone, discreetly pianissimo, imposed insidiously the magic of Kreisler’s playing.
“How divinely restful,” murmured Lady Huskin, manipulating a meringue liberally charged with real, rich cream. “Is this delightful room your study, Mr. Francis?”
“It is. I have changed its character somewhat since I came to live here. This apartment formerly belonged to Horace Bagshott, the sporting writer.”
“It is too, too charming!” She regarded him coyly. “I am simply thrilled. Shall I tell you why? Teddie has revealed to me that you are Francis Batt, my favorite radio comedian!”
“Really!”
Mr. Francis exchanged glances with Mr. Michaelis. “Well — that’s a sort of state secret, Lady Huskin. I don’t mean that I’m ashamed of it—”
“Ashamed! I should think not!”
“But as London correspondent of the Transcontinent News Service of New York, it’s what might be called a side-line. Do you get me? I was on the stage at one time, and I thought, maybe, I could liven up some of the boys if I returned to my old tricks. Thanks a lot. I appreciate your approval very much.”
“Oh, I simply adore your performances.”
Mr. Francis bowed as an actor takes a curtain, and busied himself with teacups.
“I was at luncheon at the Mansion House to-day, Lady Huskin,” said Mr. Michaelis, standing at her elbow and balancing three biscuits in his saucer with the ease of a professional juggler. “Your husband’s speech was remarkably sound.”
“Oh!” said Lady Huskin, with her girlish laugh, “John can put it across: I grant you that.”
“He is indeed a man of varied talents, and fortunate in possessing a charming and tactful wife. We had a chat, later. He is terribly worried about the big convoy, is he not?”
“Worried!” echoed Lady Huskin, setting down plate and teacup upon an Arab coffee table which Mr. Francis had placed for her convenience, “worried isn’t the word. I really have to be very patient with him.”
“And I am sure you are,” murmured Mr. Francis.
“It is really most trying. Of course, it is the biggest convoy they have ever tried to get through to Malta, and it is simply essential that it should safely arrive there.”
“So he was telling me,” murmured Mr. Michaelis, bending solicitously over her.
“Some of the things they are sending, we are terribly short of here, you know. That’s what bothers John. But the poor dear brave people of Malta are even shorter. So what can we do? They quite expect to lose a lot of the ships, you know. All those brave, wonderful mercantile sailors!”
“Yes,” sighed Mr. Michaelis, his monocle focussed apparently on space. “Twenty-five ships, he told me, and a veritable fleet to convoy them.”
“Twenty-five, Mr. Michaelis!” exclaimed Lady Huskin. “Thirty, if you will excuse me.” She attacked her meringue with renewed vigor. “And practically two fleets to escort them. Both in charge of admirals!”
“Yes, he explained that. The second fleet takes over at Gibraltar, of course, convoying them through the Sicilian narrows. Birkenhead is chock-a-block with stuff, he was saying.”
“Chock-a-block!” Lady Huskin’s mouth was full of cream. “There’s such a jam there they can’t get the convoy to sea.” She disposed of her cream. “I’ll let you into a secret. Poor John is so worried that he has begun to talk in his sleep!”
“Oh, gee!” said Mr. Francis, “that must be real trying for you!”
“Trying! I had to insist that he slept in his dressing-room. Even there, I can hear him.” She glanced coquettishly at Mr. Michaelis. “Don’t you think I’m very wicked to run the risk of being arrested at such a time? Oh, I’m sure I must be! Think of the scandal! Yet, do you know, I never had such a thrill in my life as on the night the police came to dear Mrs. Destrée’s flat!”
“A gay and adventurous spirit, Lady Huskin,” smiled Mr. Michaelis. “Your husband gave me to understand ...” And the conversation was tactfully steered back into its former channel.
Some time after Lady Huskin had returned to the roulette table, Mr. Bernstein arrived. He was admitted to the lobby by Mr. Francis in person, and proved to be laden with two heavy suitcases. His brow was dewy.
“There you are,” said he, dumping the cases on the floor. “Hennessy Three Star. The real thing, pre-war, as arranged. Put your shirt on, Barney.”
“That’s fine,” said Mr. Francis, chin dimpling. “Did you manage the three dozen?”
“Three dozen was the order — three dozen is here. I don’t let it out of me hands; so where shall we dump it?”
“Temporarily, I think in the kitchen.”
“Lead on, old cock. Your obedient follows with the booze.”
So presently, laden with his suitcases, Mr. Bernstein entered that faultlessly appointed kitchen which once had attracted favorable attention from Mr. Wake. It was at the moment in use as a service room for the gambling party, and Markham, white coated, hovered about with trays, cups and pots of tea. A pair of highly polished black shoes standing in a corner struck a discordant note, having, presumably, been newly cleaned. Mr. Bernstein dumped his suitcases down beside them, opened the first, and began to cast out crumpled sheets of newspaper used as packing.
Then, from amid this rustling débris he extracted bottles of brandy, and ranged them in orderly rows upon the table behind him. “None of your bootleg muck, old cock. Real French. Smells of the grape. Goes down very well. In fact, we’ll sample a spot with your kind permish, when I’ve finished unpacking.”
“That’s O.K. by me,” smiled Mr. Francis. “Lady Huskin is here this afternoon. I’m sure her husband would be glad to meet you.”
“I wouldn’t mind meeting Lord Woolton himself. He’d get nothing over me. Old John Huskin is a white man, a man I respect; but I’m an honest tradesman, same as you are. You supply the sport; I supply the booze. People ain’t Egyptian mummies. They’ve got t
o live! See what I mean? Not half they ain’t. We help ’em.”
During the sampling of the brandy (which Mr. Bernstein interrupted to return heaps of newspaper to the suitcases) Mr. Francis might have been observed watching the stooping figure with a fixity of expression which wholly changed the character of his face; nor was a dimple present in his heavy chin. Mr. Bernstein closed the last case and stood up.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, confidentially grasping the lapel of Mr. Francis’s coat, “Lady H. has become one of my best customers. The old man runs his establishment on the same lines as the King. See what I mean? If you want to live like the poor live, go and live in Buckingham Palace — or down at Huskin Court. I’m telling you, they get nothing to eat. And Lady H. don’t like it. She’s a good customer of mine. Do quite a nice little business together.”
“That’s fine,” smiled Mr. Francis. “She certainly looks well nourished. You will stay for an hour, of course?”
“Not to-day, old sport. Business is business. I got me car outside, and another customer to oblige. To-night, perhaps. Is there a game to-night?”
“No ...” Mr. Francis drawled the word reflectively. “We are being extra careful. Mrs. Sankey’s flat, as you are aware, is closed.”
“What about Ysolde? I had lunch with her a few days ago. Boy, oh boy! What a star turn!”
“She, also, is going easy. But to-morrow, maybe, I can let you know.”
“Always find the old firm at the same address. Bernard Bernstein & Co. Make your own price. Terms, cash. Distance no object ...”
Some little time after Mr. Bernstein’s departure, in fact not long before Lady Huskin also was called upon to leave, Markham sought out Mr. Francis in the gambling room, waiting discreetly until he could catch his eye.
“I am very sorry, sir,” he said, “but I think Mr. Bernstein must have made a mistake.”
“Made a mistake?” Mr. Francis’s light blue eyes grew hard. “What kind of a mistake?”
