His smile was frankly sardonic when he answered her.
“Dixon Cabot, traveler and author, at your service,” he informed her.
He picked up the table lighter and she heard the hard metallic click of the flint before the flame sprang from between the dragon’s jaws. He bent his dark head to light the cigarette, and when he straightened she had the disconcerting impression that he had been aware of her every movement, almost her every thought. His eyes reflected the orange flame from the silver dragon as he added, “I can see that it means nothing to you, even though you happen to bear my name.”
Adele drew back. Her hands pressed against the hard paneling of the door, she could only stare at him speechlessly while her heart pounded on slowly and heavily in the stillness.
“You mean...?”
Eyes as blue as tempered steel met hers, although his smile still held a hint of mockery.
“I have seen Maria,” he said, walking to the cabinet at the far side of the room. “She was good enough to inform me that ‘madame’ had returned.”
With his back still toward her he proceeded to pour two drinks.
“If I am married to you, I ... don’t remember,” Adele blurted out. “I’ve had an accident—climbing in the Swiss Alps.” Desperately she tried to explain the situation to his unresponsive back view, but he gave her no help. “There was an avalanche and I was hurt. The past has gone. I don’t ... I can’t remember anything that happened before I went to Bourg-St. Pierre.” When he turned with the two glasses in his hands, he looked frankly incredulous.
“Your ... adventure in the Alps can hardly complicate the situation any further,” he assured her. “As I see it,” he added with slow deliberation, “our alliance remains the same.”
He handed her one glass, raising his own while he continued to watch her warily.
“To our complete indifference!” he toasted her. “To the marriage that you can’t remember and to our separate ways!”
“I’ve got to make you understand,” Adele cried. “This is amnesia—hysterical amnesia, I think it’s called. They didn’t exactly say so at the clinic, but I heard John talking to the professor. John Ordley,” she added when the black brows shot up in swift interrogation. “He’s a doctor. He was at the clinic where they took me after my accident. He’s English.” Suddenly her voice sounded flat. “He brought me here and he was to come back with my suitcase, but he hasn’t come.” She looked up at him, biting nervously at her lip. “You don’t believe me, do you?” she accused. “You don’t believe a single word I’ve said!”
He was like steel. Nothing could penetrate his cold reserve, she thought, gazing back into the vividly blue eyes that revealed nothing but a cynical incredulity.
“Perhaps we’d better wait for your doctor friend to turn up,” he suggested in answer to her challenge. “He might be able to explain the ... amnesia.”
She could not tear her eyes away from his dark face. There was anger in it now, restrained, but none the less disconcerting for being held in check. If they were indeed married, she decided, something terrible had come between them, driving them irretrievably apart. Beneath the suave exterior she fancied that she could detect a desire for retaliation and knew herself completely vulnerable. Alone and unable to remember one single thing about her life until now, how could she cross swords with this man? She could not even appeal to him for understanding, because what she saw in these steady blue eyes was surely contempt.
“I can’t hope to convince you,” she told him with a dignity that appeared to surprise him. “I can only wait till Dr. Ordley returns from Nice with my suitcase.”
He put down his empty glass.
“So,” he mused, “you did intend to move in? You must forgive me if I find the situation slightly amusing.”
His laughter angered her almost as much as the contempt, and she turned hastily toward the door.
“There’s no need for me to stay,” she cried. “I can easily walk back as far as Villefranche...”
He stepped between her and escape.
“I don’t think that would be a very good idea,” he said mildly. “Since you have come—of your own free will—I feel that you ought to stay. Besides, your doctor friend intrigues me. I would be more than sorry to miss his explanation of the amnesia. Surely you owe me that at least?”
Wearily she pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, her eyes closed tightly in an effort at concentration.
“I can’t tell you any more,” she said. “I can’t tell you a thing about myself before this accident.”
He made no attempt to help her. Instead, he held the door open, waiting for her to precede him out of the room.
“This must be your doctor now,” he suggested as a car approached along the driveway. “We must certainly welcome him.”
John was already out of the car when they appeared together at the front door. Dixon Cabot did not give her an opportunity to speak to him alone. It was almost as if he suspected them of some deep intrigue, some plot that he hoped to nip in the bud now that he had returned to the villa so unexpectedly. He might even consider them lovers, she thought desperately, which would be reason enough for his show of anger a moment ago.
John looked completely disconcerted as he stood there in the pool of yellow light from the door lantern with her suitcase in his hand.
“Do come in,” Dixon Cabot invited. “Mediterranean nights can be extremely chilly at this time of year once the sun has gone down.” He stepped back into the hall. “I don’t think we’ve met before; Dr.—Ordley, isn’t it?”
John put down the suitcase just inside the door. He gave Adele a swift searching scrutiny, which said a good deal before he turned to the older man.
“You must be wondering about this setup,” he acknowledged, “but we did try to get in touch with you from the clinic where ... your wife was taken after her accident. The fact that you don’t have a phone here didn’t exactly help,” he pointed out, so aggressively that Adele knew he would have got in touch with her earlier in the afternoon if it had been at all possible.
“The telephone is about the last thing I want,” Dixon Cabot assured him, removing his heavy coat before he led the way back into the room, which Adele now knew must be his study. “I work here, Dr. Ordley, and I find it convenient not to be disturbed. In London one has to tolerate such things in the interests of business and social contacts. Here, I prefer to hold on to my privacy at all costs.”
“I don’t think I blame you,” John said, “but it can have its awkward side, can’t it? If ... Mrs. Cabot had been seriously injured a week ago a quick telephone message might have made all the difference to you.”
Dixon Cabot chose to ignore that. He had turned to the cocktail cabinet and his back was toward them, but Adele realized that he could still see them. The cabinet was lined with mirror glass and their slightest movement would be recorded in it quite clearly.
John moved uneasily to stand before the fire. He had not expected to meet her husband so soon. Probably he had not expected to meet him at all, but Adele felt that she needed him at that moment more, surely, than she had ever needed anyone in all her life before.
“I’ve been trying to explain about my accident, John,” she said as he accepted the drink that his host held out to him. “I found it difficult, since I can remember so little...”
She hesitated, aware of Dixon Cabot’s eyes steadily on her, unmistakably watchful. Of course he suspected her of trying to drop a hint to John, of attempting to convey the drift of their former conversation to him in the only way possible. It was maddening, especially as she could not challenge him outright.
“Of course,” John agreed, swallowing more than half his drink at one gulp, “that’s my job, isn’t it?” He looked at Dixon Cabot, his eyes suddenly narrowed in dislike. “Perhaps you don’t quite understand the true position,” he suggested stiffly. “Your wife is suffering from a form of hysterical amnesia that, at the present moment, we can do nothin
g about.”
The older man motioned him to one of the big cream leather chairs. Adele had already sunk into the chair near his desk because her legs had suddenly felt too weak to support her, and the pulses at her temples were beginning to throb. She rested her chin in her hand and looked at John with an odd helplessness in her eyes.
“So I hear.” Dixon Cabot remained standing. “Do you think you can explain ‘hysterical amnesia’ to me, doctor, in nonmedical terms? Preferably in words of one syllable,” he added with a crooked smile, “since I have quite a lot of thinking to do.”
John finished his drink.
“Briefly,” he said, “It’s a mental blackout effacing all memory before the set of circumstances that produced it. There has been some shock, coupled with physical distress. In ... your wife’s case, a climbing accident. She was apparently swept down with an avalanche and only saved from death by the remotest chance—a broken rope. She suffered both a severe blow on the head and extreme exposure. This, coupled with the fact that she may have been through some heavy emotional strain just beforehand, could quite easily produce such amnesia. The mind rejects the past by refusing to remember, that’s all.”
His words sank into a deep silence. Dixon Cabot moved to a low table on the opposite side of the hearth and opened a jade cigarette box, offering the doctor a cigarette. For a moment he looked undecided about what to say, as if for the first time he doubted his own suspicions.
“Does this mean that there is a certain amount of invalidism attached to the condition?” he asked at last.
“None at all,” John assured him somewhat sharply. “These cases are only unusual in so far as the mind refuses to look back beyond a certain point. It’s a protective mechanism, if you like to put it that way.” He took a cigarette, holding it thoughtfully as his host crossed to the desk. “Of course,” he added, “someone must be here to look after ... Mrs. Cabot.”
The name stuck in his throat as Dixon Cabot picked up the silver dragon and came across the room to light his cigarette for him. Their eyes met over the first swift little burst of flame.
“Are you returning to England, doctor?” the older man asked.
“Not yet.” John pulled strongly at his cigarette. “My original intention was to take a holiday, somewhere down here on the south coast.”
“Why don’t you stay with us?” The invitation was so unexpected, so smoothly delivered, that Adele almost gasped with surprise. “You have just explained that you are on holiday with no ultimate destination in view. Cap Ferrat can be as pleasant as anywhere along the Mediterranean coast in early spring.
John hesitated. It was obvious that he did not want to stay and equally obvious that he could not desert Adele if she needed him. Subconsciously she made a little pleading gesture toward him.
“I’ll stay,” he agreed without further demur.
“Excellent!” Dixon Cabot prepared to fill their glasses once more. “That means that you will have to return to your hotel for your luggage,” he suggested. “We have two hours before dinner. You could easily manage Nice and back in that time.”
John rose to his feet and Adele noticed that, standing, he was disconcerted by the other man’s superior height, as many stocky people are when they seek to gain an advantage.
“I won’t be long,” he said brusquely. “I seem to be inaugurating a ferry service between here and Nice!” His host saw him to the door and Adele went slowly toward the staircase. Somewhere on the floor above Maria was busy, and she fled up the stairs, guided by the caretaker’s tuneless singing.
“Maria,” she said when she came on her in one of the rooms, “will you prepare a bed for Dr. Ordley? He will be staying with us for a day or two.” There was sudden blessed relief in the thought. “Mr. Cabot will tell you which one to use,” she added, greatly to the servant’s surprise.
“I get this room ready for the master,” she explained, looking back into the bedroom she had already prepared. “He says it is the one he will use.” Maria gave her a dark, almost an accusing look. “You have the one there, next door.” She pointed, shrugging expressively. “Too big a room for one person,” she added decisively.
Adele escaped to where she could see shaded wall lights burning through an open doorway and her suitcase lying on a chair between two long windows, which led onto a balcony overlooking the terrace and the bay.
Swiftly she drew the curtains, shutting out the oncoming night. Then, since she had the best part of two hours to await John’s return, she began to unpack.
A chambermaid had put her things together at the hotel. They were all meticulously folded and she laid them automatically in the drawers that had been pulled out for her use. Then, suddenly, she was searching among the few remaining items still in the suitcase, looking for something she knew should be there.
The green morocco leather jewel case. It was as if a light had been switched on close above her head. She could not remember seeing it at the hotel. Certainly she had not unpacked it there.
Her hands dug down among the filmy silk underwear, but they did not encounter any hard object, and she searched each pocket without result.
Flustered, she turned toward the door to find Dixon Cabot standing there, looking in at her.
“You look distressed,” he suggested. “Have you mislaid something?”
“My jewel case,” she told him shakily. “It was here, in the suitcase, when I left the clinic and now I can’t find it anywhere.”
He came into the room, so slowly that she wanted to shriek.
“What was in it of value?” he asked.
She thought for a moment.
“I don’t think there was anything very valuable in it,” she decided. “Oh! Except my wedding ring...”
He smiled grimly at the rather naive remark.
“You weren’t wearing it?” he asked. “But perhaps that was understandable.” Then, before she knew what was happening, he had taken her by the shoulders, turning her to face the light. “What else was in the case?” he demanded.
“A string of pearls and a jade bracelet.” Her voice sounded very far away to her own ears. “I think they were both artificial...”
His strong fingers tightened their grip.
“About as artificial as your amnesia,” he suggested calmly, although there was a flicker of returning anger in his eyes. “You don’t surely expect me to believe in it?” he added scathingly. “Why have you come here?” He shook her a little. “Answer me! Why have you come? We no longer have an audience. Dr. Ordley should be halfway to Nice by now, so we can dispense with the trimmings. There’s no longer any need for pretense. We can speak freely.”
Adele pressed her hands to her face.
“I wish I could!” she cried. “I would give everything I possess to be able to look back—to see the past as it really was, as you know it to be. But I can’t! I’m trapped. Trapped by my own mind. You can’t know what that means, can you? I can’t make you understand and I can’t stay here. Even if I do belong, you don’t want me to stay.” Her eyes were suddenly full and accusing on his. “I have no place in your scheme of things. I’ve felt it right from the beginning. I’ve seen it in your eyes dozens of times in this past hour. I’ve seen your anger and your suspicion and your contempt—even your hatred, in a way. I’ve done something to you, something I can’t hope to know about till my memory returns.”
She gazed at him helplessly, aware of a strange expression in the eyes that looked steadily back at her. It was calculating, yet somehow he seemed vaguely puzzled.
He released her, turning toward the door.
“You needn’t worry unduly about the situation between us,” he assured her stiffly. “You have a most faithful watchdog in Dr. Ordley.”
But John Ordley, Adele was forced to remind herself, wouldn’t be able to stay at the villa forever.
CHAPTER FOUR
Their first meal together had been a farce. Dixon, as befitted a diligent host, had worked hard at the conversatio
n, but he had not quite been able to erase the suggestion of hostility that flowed beneath the surface. They were like boxers sparring in a seemingly friendly bout with a good deal of earnestness in their punches, Adele thought unhappily, and always her husband seemed to emerge the victor.
She was glad when Maria brought in the coffee and they could get up from the table to settle in the deep velvet divans surrounding the fireplace.
Dixon did not sit down. He drank his coffee standing on the hearthrug, saying as he returned his empty cup to the tray, “If you’ll excuse me, I’d like to put in an hour at my desk. I have two rather important letters to send off to London first thing in the morning.”
Relief hit Adele like an enveloping wave, and John’s eagerness to assure him that he must not consider them at all was almost indecent. They sat drinking coffee in silence for several minutes after he had closed the door behind him.
“Well,” John said at last, “how do you feel?”
The kindness in his tone broke down the last barrier of her reserve.
“I feel awful!” Her voice had trembled and there were tears in her eyes, of which she was immediately ashamed. “I just can’t feel that I belong here, John,” she hurried on in order to hide her embarrassment. “I know that I should. I ought to be convinced, but I’m not. There’s a thick gray wall everywhere, even between me and ... Dixon Cabot.”
“He’s the famous yachtsman, of course,” John remarked gruffly. “And a successful author to boot. Round the World With Jelida and Rhino Country. I’ve read ’em both. There isn’t much he hasn’t done.” There was a certain amount of envy in the doctor’s pleasant young voice. “Maybe you develop that arrogant look when you’ve been around the world a couple of times and are a literary lion into the bargain.” He got to his feet. “Dash it all, I’m sorry!” he apologized. “I ought not to be talking like this to you, but somehow I can’t imagine you being married to him. I can’t imagine you married to anyone, come to that,” he added.
The Silver Dragon Page 5
