To The Devil A Daughter mf-1

by Dennis Wheatley

  Molly Fountain knew that she had no right whatever to poke her nose into someone else's business, but she could bear it no longer. Her new neighbour, although unconscious of it, was playing the very devil with her work, and, worse, she would know no peace of mind until she had at least made an effort to find out if the girl were in trouble. That it was not the sort of trouble which sometimes causes young women to seek seclusion for a while in order to protect their reputations was evident, as the villa had been leased for only a month and the girl showed not the slightest sign of pregnancy. Yet there must be some cause for her abnormal conduct and obvious melancholy. Molly was far from being a motherly soul, but she had her fair share of maternal instinct and, quite apart from her desire to satisfy her curiosity, she now felt an urge that would not be denied to offer her help if it was needed, or at least endeavour to animate this woebegone young creature with something of her own cheerful vitality.

  There was only one thing for it. On the Riviera it was not customary to call upon temporary neighbours, but the fact that they were both English would be excuse enough for that. With Molly, to make up her mind was to act. Pushing back her chair from the typing table, she stood up. For once a real life mystery had been thrust beneath her nose. There and then she decided to go out and attempt to solve it.

  2

  Colonel Crackenthorp's Technique

  Going through into her bedroom, Molly Fountain pulled her linen working smock up over her head. Anyone seeing her at that moment would never have guessed that she was forty five. Her up stretched arms emphasized the lines of her good figure; her hips had broadened comparatively little since she had reached maturity and her legs were straight and shapely. Only as she jerked off the smock and threw it on a chair did the fact that her youth was past become apparent, from a slight thickening of the muscles in her neck and her grey hair.

  From her wardrobe she selected a white, hand embroidered blouse and a grey coat and skirt. The cut of these, together with her medium weight nylons and practical, lowish heeled shoes, did nothing to detract from her real age, since the one thought Molly could not bear was that anyone should have cause to regard her as `mutton dressed as lamb'. For that reason, too, except when going out at night to a party, she used very little make up. Yet, even so, the face that looked back at her from the mirror as she quickly tidied her hair would have been judged by most people to be that of a woman still under forty. There were laughter lines round the mouth and the beginnings of crow's feet round the eyes, but not a hint of sagging in the still firm flesh, and it was moulded on that fine bone formation that preserves the basis of youthful good looks right into old age.

  Reaching up on tip toe she pulled a battered hat box from off the top of the wardrobe and took from it a three year old straw hat bedecked with cornflowers. Molly hated hats and never wore one if she could possibly avoid it, but she felt that on this occasion a hat should be worn in support of her pretence that she was making a formal call. Securing it on her head at what she believed to be a chic angle, she collected a pair of gloves and her bag, then set off on her self appointed mission.

  It was a little before mid day and the sun was strong enough now to tan anyone who was not used to it. As she made her way down the garden path that zig zagged among spiky cactus and strange shaped succulents she saw a little green lizard run up the trunk of a tall palm tree, and on reaching the terrace at the bottom she made a mental note that enough roses were in bloom in the bed behind it to furnish her with another bowl. Out in the road she walked along under the tall retaining wall of rough hewn rock that supported both her garden and those of several medium sized villas situated on the same slope. At intervals along it hung festoons of large flowered yellow jasmine and purple bougainvillea. The scent of flowers, mingled with that of the primeval pine wood among which the villas had been built, was delicious. For the ten thousandth time the thought crossed her mind that never could she bring herself to leave it and face another English winter.

  By then she had reached the gate to the next garden. Opening it, she went up the steep stone steps set in a narrow cleft in the stonework. As her head emerged above ground level she turned it towards the terrace. The girl had heard her approach and was looking in her direction. Slowly she stood up, but she did not move forward and gave no sign of welcome. Her face had a guarded look and Molly thought she detected just a trace of fear in her dark eyes.

  Stepping up on to the terrace, Molly said, `I'm Molly Fountain, your nearest neighbour. As we're both English I thought ...'

  The girl's eyes widened and her broad face suddenly became animated as she exclaimed, `Not the Molly Fountain?'

  Molly smiled. Her name was by no means universally

  known, but during the past two years it had become sufficiently so for a high proportion of English people to whom, for one reason or another, she had to give it to ask if she was the author; yet the question still never failed to arouse in her a slightly bashful pleasure, and she replied with becoming modesty

  `I don't know of any other, and if you are thinking of the writer of secret service yarns, that would be me.'

  `Of course!' said the girl. `I've read several of them, and they're awfully thrilling.'

  `That makes things easier, doesn't it?' Molly quickly took advantage of the bridge unexpectedly offered by her literary activities. `Having read some of my stories will, I hope, make you look on me as a little less like a total stranger. You must forgive me making my first call on you in the morning, but social customs are more elastic here than at home, and I thought you might prefer it to cards left formally on you in the afternoon.'

  It was the first time Molly had seen the girl face to face, and while she was speaking she was taking quiet stock of her. Tall above the average, so slim as to be almost gawky, and a slight awkwardness in the control of her long limbs gave her somewhat the appearance of an overgrown schoolgirl. Seen from the distance Molly had put her down as about twenty three, but now she revised her estimate and decided that nineteen would be nearer the mark. Her forehead was broad and surmounted by thick, wavy, dark brown hair parted in the middle; her mouth was wide, full and generous. A snub nose robbed her of all pretence to classical beauty, and her complexion was a trifle sallow; but she possessed two excellent features. When her teeth flashed in a smile they were dazzlingly white: more striking still, her brown eyes were huge and extraordinarily luminous.

  Molly's reference to formal calls caused her to remember the duties of hospitality, and with only a fraction of hesitation she said, `Won't you ... come up to the house?'

  `Thank you; I should love to,' Molly replied promptly. Then, as they turned towards it, she added, `But, you know, you haven't told me your name yet.'

  `Oh!' Again there was a slight hesitation before the answer. `It's Christina Mordant.'

  The path between the prickly pears and oleanders snaked from side to side round a succession of hairpin bends, yet despite that it was still steep enough to require all their breath as they mounted it; so they spoke no more until they reached a small lawn on the level of the villa.

  Molly had never been up there before and the lemon washed house was partly concealed both from her windows and the road by umbrella pines and palm trees. She saw now that it was somewhat smaller than her own and probably contained only six or seven rooms including the servants' quarters. As they crossed the lawn she asked

  `Is this your first visit to the Riviera?'

  `Yes,' Christina nodded, leading her guest through a pair of French windows into the sitting room. `But I've lived in France for a while. I was at a finishing school in Paris until just before Christmas.'

  `I first came to this part of the world in 1927, and have made my home here for the past five years; so you must let me show you something of this lovely coast,' Molly volunteered.

  Christina's hesitation was much more marked this time. Her under lip trembled slightly, then she stammered, `Thank you ... awfully; but ... but I don't care much for going out.'<
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  A moment's awkward pause ensued, then she pulled herself together and added in a rather breathless attempt to atone for what might be taken as rudeness, `Do please sit down. Let me get you a drink. I'm afraid we don't run to cocktails, but Maria could make some coffee, or we have delicious orange juice.'

  Molly did not really want a drink, but realised that acceptance would give her an excuse to prolong her call, and the longer they talked the better her chance of winning the girl's confidence; so she said, `I'd love some orange juice if it's not too much trouble.'

  `Oh, none at all,' Christina cried, hurrying to the window. `There are masses of oranges in the garden. I'll pick some. It won't take me a moment. We've lemons, grapefruit and tangerines, too. Would you like it straight, or prefer a mixture?'

  `I always think orange and grape fruit half and half is the nicest out here, where there's no shortage of sugar,' Molly replied; and as the girl left the room she began to take detailed stock of it.

  The villa belonged to a cafe proprietor in Cannes who had never occupied it himself, but bought it as an investment and made a good thing out of it by letting it furnished for short periods to a succession of holiday makers. In consequence it contained only the barest necessities, and its furniture was of that positively hideous variety favoured by the French bourgeoisie. In vain Molly's glance roved over the monstrosities in cheap wood and chromium for some indication of Christina's personality, until her eye lit on a manicure set which lay open on a rickety spindle legged table half concealed by the chair in which she was sitting. Picking it up she saw that it was comparatively new, bore the mark of a Paris manufacturer, and that its morocco leather cover was stamped with the initials E. B.

  When Christina returned she came in by the door from the hallway carrying a tray with a jug of fruit juice, two glasses and sugar. As she poured out, she asked, `Do you live here all the year, Mrs. Fountain?'

  Most of it. I usually spend June in London and have a fortnight in Paris in the autumn; but the cost of living has become so high both in France and England that I can't afford to live for more than about six weeks in hotels.'

  Christina raised her dark eyebrows. Really! I should have thought you were terribly rich. Your books must bring you in thousands.'

  `That's a popular illusion that the public have about all authors,' Molly smiled. `Except for a handful of best sellers, writing is one of the worst paid jobs in the world; and even in France, these days, a big part of one's earnings is taken away by taxation.'

  For ten minutes or so she went on talking about books and authors, as Christina was obviously interested, and it seemed a good line for tuning in on the girl's mind without arousing her suspicions. Then, having learnt that she had a liking for historical novels, Molly said

  `In that case it surprises me all the more that you don't make some excursions. This coast is full of history right back to Phoenician times. Frejus was a Roman town. The streets of the old quarter in Nice are absolutely fascinating, and both Marshal Massena and Garibaldi were born there. Napoleon landed from Elba at Cap d'Antibes and at Haute Cagnes there is a fine old castle that belonged to the Counts Grimaldi. When I was your age I would have given anything for the chance to visit all these places.'

  Christina gave her an uncomfortable look, then averted her eyes and muttered, `I'm quite happy lazing in the garden.'

  `How long are you here for?'

  `About another three weeks. The villa is taken for a month.'

  `Are you quite on your own?'

  `Yes.'

  `Surely you find it very lonely? Have you no friends you could go to visit, or who could come to see you?'

  `No. I don't know anyone at all down here. But ... but I like being on my own.'

  `In that you are lucky,' Molly commented quietly. `It is a great blessing to be content with one's own company and not be driven constantly to seek some new distraction from one's own thoughts. But all the same I should have thought you would have sometimes liked a change of scene. Don't you ever go out at all?'

  Christina shook her head.

  `An exciting book kept me reading very late last night, and when I got out of bed to get one of my sleeping pills I thought I saw you coming in through the garden.'

  For a moment the girl's face remained closed and secretive, then she replied, `Yes. I had been for a walk. I sleep most of the afternoon and go out for a walk every night. I don't know why, but I've always felt listless after midday; then, as darkness falls, I seem to wake up and want to do things.'

  `Some people are like that. The astrologers say that we are influenced all our lives by the hour of our birth, and that people born in the evening are always at their best at night.'

  `Really! That seems to fit my case. I was born at nine forty five in the evening.' After a second Christina volunteered the additional information, `My birthday is March the sixth and I'll be twenty one next month.'

  `You will be here for it, then. It seems an awful shame that you should be deprived of the chance to celebrate. But perhaps you have relatives or friends who will be joining you before that?'

  `No; I expect still to be quite alone.'

  There fell a pause while Molly considered this new evidence of the girl's complete isolation. A twenty first birthday is such a landmark in any young person's life that it seemed quite extraordinary that she had not a single person in the world who wished to make it a happy day for her. Then, after a moment, Molly realised that she had got nowhere; she had not succeeded in getting the faintest clue to this mystery.

  Swiftly she began to consider what line. the favourite hero of her own creation, Colonel Crackenthorp’s, would take on having reached such an impasse. She knew this fiction character of hers as well as she knew herself; so the answer came automatically. The debonair and resourceful `Crack' would employ shock tactics. Shock tactics it should be then. Looking the girl straight in the eye, she said suddenly

  `Christina Mordant is not your real name, is it?'

  Caught off her guard, the girl winced as if she had been struck, and gasped, `How . . . how did you know?'

  Then she recovered herself. Her face had gone white, but she slowly rose to her feet. As she did so her big brown eyes narrowed and filled with an angry light. Her whole body was trembling as she burst out

  `What has it to do with you? I didn't ask you to come here! What right have you to pry into my affairs? How dare you spy on me and come here to catechise me? Get out! D'you hear me? Get out at once!'

  This was not at all the sort of response that the shock tactics of the gallant `Crack' would have met with in one of Molly's books. The girl would have broken down, wept upon his broad shoulder and confessed all. But then `Crack' was a handsome fellow who had the devil of a way with women, whereas his creator was only a middle aged lady novelist. No doubt, thought Molly that explained why his technique had failed so lamentably in this real life try out. Anyhow, it was clear that she had botched the whole business beyond repair; so she stood up and said

  `I do apologise. My inquisitiveness was quite unjustified and I'm afraid I was very rude. I'm not either usually, and in the ordinary way I'd never dream of forcing myself on anyone. My work keeps me far too busy to waste time calling on strangers. But I couldn't help being worried by seeing you sitting on your terrace hour after hour doing absolutely nothing. And you looked so terribly unhappy that I felt sure you must be in some sort of trouble. Had other people come to see you I would never have come here; but you're very young and seemed to have no one to turn to. I'm old enough to be your mother, and I was hoping that you might care to confide in me, because I would willingly have helped you if I could. As it is I can only ask you to forgive my unwarranted intrusion.'

  Mustering the remnants of her shattered dignity, Molly squared her shoulders then, with a brief inclination of her head, walked past the tall, now stone faced, girl, through the French windows and out on to the lawn. She was only half way across it when she was halted by a despairing cry behind her. />
  `Oh, Mrs. Fountain ! Come back! Come back! I didn't mean what I said. You're nice! You're kind: I'm sure I can trust you. I can't tell you why I'm here because I don't know myself. But I'm worried out of my wits. Oh, please let me talk to you.'

  Molly turned, and next moment the slim girlish figure was weeping in her arms. Without elation, but in faint surprise, she was conscious of the thought that good old `Crack's' technique had worked after all.

  3

  The Mysterious Recluse

  A good ten minutes elapsed before Christina as she called herself became fully coherent. During that time the only concrete fact that Molly had got out of her was that the purposeful looking middle aged man who had arrived in the taxi with her four days before was her father.

  They were now back in the house and sitting together on the cheap, velvet covered settee. Molly had one arm round the girl's shoulders and was gently wiping the tears from her cheeks with a totally inadequate handkerchief. When her sobbing at last began to ease, Molly said

  `My dear, do you really mean to tell me that your father brought you here and left you without giving any reason at all for doing so?'

  `The... the only reason he gave was that I ... I have enemies who are hunting for me.'

  `What sort of enemies?'

  The girl gave a loud sniff, then fished out her own handkerchief and blew her snub nose. When she had done, she said in a firmer voice, `I don't know. I haven't an idea. That's just what makes the whole thing so puzzling.'

  Molly poured some more of the fruit juice into a glass and handed it to her. She drank a little, said `Thanks,' and went on, `He simply said that I was threatened by a very great danger, but that I had nothing at all to worry about providing I obeyed his instructions implicitly. When I pressed him to tell me what the danger was, he said it was far better that I should know nothing about it, because if I knew I might start imagining things and do something silly. All I had to do was to lie low here for a few weeks and I should be quite safe.'