Abruptly Dixon turned to the window.
“No,” he said slowly, “I’m not condoning it.”
“Well, then,” Olivia persisted, “isn’t it just a little mad to feel sorry for these people when they are caught?”
“Quite mad,” he agreed, still with his back to them. “Especially if they are the hardened type of criminal.”
“Is there any other type?”
He turned with a tolerant smile on his lips, although his eyes were watchful.
“There’s always got to be a beginning,” he said, “even with a crook. A Criminal Investigation Department man once told me that they could hope for a forty per cent response with first offenders. Once caught, they wouldn’t risk it a second time.”
“The penalties are much too light, that’s the trouble,” Olivia declared. “I don’t suppose the police can patrol the entire Mediterranean, but at least smuggling can be made more hazardous. Connie tells me that tobacco and all sorts of dutiable stuff is simply flowing in from North Africa, and the patrols just can’t cope with it.”
“There are always far more contraband goods flowing through the salons of Monte Carlo and Nice than ever reach the ports,” Dixon suggested lightly. “Gossip has a tremendous imagination. People like to hear about smuggling. It gives them something to argue about over their aperitifs when the ordinary conversation has grown stale. It is, in fact, adventure at second hand.”
“There you go!” Olivia accused him. “You are condoning it!”
“Not really,” he said, smiling. “I was only trying to point out how easy it is for even the most law-abiding citizen to respond to the spirit of adventure.”
Olivia gazed at him in horror.
“You’re quite incorrigible, Dixon, when you’re in this mood,” she said. “I’m not going to argue with you anymore. I only hope that when the law is tightened up all those people will finally be brought to justice.”
Adele moved uneasily in her chair. It had not been pleasant to sit there during this discussion, thinking about The Silver Dragon and the furtive appearance of the launch in the bay the evening before. It had been even less pleasant to feel that some, at least, of Olivia’s remarks had been directed toward herself.
For one tensed, agonizing moment she wanted to scream, and then she took a firm grip on her emotions and announced that she was tired.
“If you’ll excuse me,” she suggested, ‘Td like to go to bed early.”
Dixon rose to open the door for her, his steely eyes searching her face as she said her final good-nights.
Perhaps, she thought wearily, he suspected her of making tiredness her excuse for another excursion to the beach.
CHAPTER EIGHT
As soon as Adele had left the room Olivia Cabot turned to her son.
“Pour me a nightcap, Dixon,” she commanded. “I really feel that I need one.”
He crossed to the cabinet, standing with his back to her as he mixed their drinks.
“Tired?” he asked sympathetically. “You’ve had quite a day, you know.”
“Not tired.” Olivia paused deliberately. “Only a little distressed.”
He made no answer to that, carrying their drinks to the fire and setting one down on a low table beside a convenient armchair for her.
“How long had you known this girl before you married her?” she asked when she could not tolerate his restrained silence any longer. “Not very long, I should imagine.”
“Does length of acquaintance matter?”
If Olivia had understood him as well as she imagined she did, the look in his eyes would have advised caution on her part, but she was completely obsessed with what she had to do. She had already convinced herself that it was her duty and done entirely for his sake.
“Of course it matters!” she declared, sipping at her drink to moisten her dry lips. “You don’t get to know anyone in a matter of weeks. Men can be so desperately blind,” she added, getting to her feet again. “You marry for the most foolish reasons—a good figure, a pretty face, a witty turn of phrase! So few of you ever think of the lasting qualities—sincerity, devotion, love, the willingness to sacrifice everything for the one person who comprises one’s life!”
Dixon stood for a moment looking down into the fire.
“If I told you that I didn’t marry for any of these reasons,” he said at last, “would it make you feel more content?”
She swung around, gripping her hands together.
“How can I feel content when I know you’re unhappy?” she demanded. “I haven’t been living here, in the same house with you, without being able to see that. And I don’t think you’re blind, either, Dixon. That girl is making a complete fool of you. She’s not above board. I know it! She’s mixed up with some gang or other—possibly jewel thieves!” When he did not answer she rushed on. “Only last night, while you were in Nice, she was down there in the bay, contacting someone in a launch. I saw them!”
He moved deliberately away from the fire to where the light was not fully on his face.
“I know,” he said.
She gazed at him in complete consternation.
“You know?” she echoed incredulously. “And you’re not going to do anything about it?”
Slowly he took out and lit a cigarette.
“What would you suggest I should do?” he asked.
“Get rid of her!”
There was a long pause in which her labored breathing seemed to be the only sound in the quiet room.
“I can’t do that,” he said at last.
“Because of this amnesia she’s supposed to be suffering from?” she demanded. “Has it ever struck you that it might be false—just another trick?”
“I’ve thought of that.” His voice was deadly, dangerously calm. “I can assure you that very little has escaped me where Adele is concerned.”
“I can’t understand why you married her!” Olivia cried, in spite of her determination to keep her own point of view well in the background. “I can’t see why you had to marry at all. If I had been here,” she added with conviction, “it would never have happened!”
“But you were in New York,” he reminded her quietly.
“I just can’t understand why you didn’t see,” she began, but he held up his hand to silence her.
“You needn’t worry about it,” he said with infinite patience. “I’m old enough and, I hope, sensible enough to work this out for myself.”
“I hope so,” she murmured, momentarily defeated. “I most sincerely hope so!”
“Can I pour you another drink?”
“No! No, I feel quite ill.” She moved toward the door. “You know how I’ve always worried about you, Dix. How I’ve always put your interests and your happiness before my own. I’d do anything, make any sacrifice, to see you safely out of this, my dear, dear boy!”
He put a comforting arm around her shoulder.
“I’ll survive,” he assured her. “Off to bed now, and no more worrying!”
He smiled down at her and she lifted her face for his kiss. When his lips met her cheek it felt as smooth and cold as wax.
When she had left him he smoked cigarette after cigarette, crushing the stumps into the ashtray at his elbow with a savage movement that matched the dark frown of concentration between his brows.
Then, on an impulse, he went out onto the terrace and walked down to the bay.
Standing at her window with the long curtains drawn close behind her, Adele saw him go, her heart contracting with pain and bitter disappointment. What was she to think? Either he had gone down to the bay to check on her movements, or he was part and parcel of some nefarious business himself.
She did not want to believe either of the two alternatives, but until she could look into the past she could not confute her own guilt.
It was a dreadful position to be in and she longed for John Ordley’s return now with all her heart. He had not written to her, although he had promised to do so if he discovered anyt
hing relating to her accident, anything that might help to break the amnesia.
Would anything ever help? Would she have to go on like this, not knowing about that other self, which the past had claimed so cruelly—on and on till the end of her days? She had a right to the past. It was over twenty years of living and it was all a gray meaningless blank. Nothing to guide her, nothing to help her to understand why she felt as she did.
I could have been anything, she thought. Anything at all!
The fact that Dixon knew angered her for a moment. It was his duty to tell her. She must find some way of speaking to him privately—tomorrow. She could not wait one day longer, playing this dreadful cat-and-mouse game.
Slowly she undressed, slipping between the cool sheets and drawing them tightly beneath her chin in an endeavor to sleep. I’ve not got to think, she told herself. I’ve just not got to think!
Perhaps she dozed, but almost immediately she was awake again, switching on the lamp on her bedside table. The noise she had heard came from the adjoining room. Dixon had returned from the beach.
When she looked at her clock it was after midnight.
Still she lay with the light on, imagining that she could hear her own heartbeats above the ticking of the clock. When the knock came at her window she knew that it was Dixon out there.
Hastily she swung her feet to the floor, feeling for her slippers as she caught up the blue silk dressing gown that lay tossed onto a chair. She did not speak as she opened the window. Deep down inside she felt as cold as ice.
“I saw your light,” he told her briefly. “Do you mind if I come in? I have something to say to you and I think it ought to be said without delay.”
She closed the window behind him, still finding nothing to say, and he fumbled for a cigarette, asking if he might smoke.
“Do you mind?” he said.
“No.”
She hardly recognized her own voice and she was trembling so much that if he had offered her a cigarette she would hardly have been able to hold it.
“You’re cold,” he said. “Let me find you something warmer to put on.”
“I’m not cold.” She steadied her voice with effort. “What have you come to say?”
He swung around, facing her in the pink glow of the lamp.
“I want you to tell me where the jewels are,” he said slowly and distinctly so that she could make no mistake about his request. “Then I’ll let you go. I don’t intend to prosecute you.”
His mouth closed in a harsh line and his eyes were like flint, but she could only offer him one answer.
“I don’t know,” she whispered. “I can’t tell you. I can’t tell you anything, Dixon...”
She was shivering from head to foot, feeling physically cold now because she had not allowed him to find her that warmer wrap.
“You’re a mass of nerves,” he said harshly. “You can’t possibly hope to go on with this. You must know about the jewels. You had them in your possession.”
“No!” she protested instinctively, yet how could she really convince him of her innocence? And why was she so sure of it in her own mind? “I would have known about ... that sort of thing,” she rushed on. “Surely I would have known?”
Furiously he stubbed out the cigarette, taking her by the shoulders in a grip of steel.
“Don’t you see what you’re doing?” he demanded angrily. “I can’t keep this to myself much longer. I’ll have to contact the police.”
She drew back as if he had struck her.
“The police...?”
He looked into her eyes, convinced beyond any doubt of her utter distress. There could be no disbelieving the amnesia after this. He was forced by the look of shock in her face to realize that she really had lost her memory, that this was no clever trick calculated to deceive him.
“Look,” he said harshly, “you’ve got to listen to me.” He opened the wardrobe and pulled out a coat. “Put this on,” he commanded, laying it across her shoulders. “You’ll be warmer.”
She huddled into the coat as if it was some sort of protective armor, yet she knew instinctively that he would not spare her the harsher facts now that he had decided to tell her the truth.
“We’re not married,” he said briefly. “You’re not my wife. You never were.”
Long afterward Adele realized that it was relief that had surged uppermost in that first awful moment of truth. She felt it rush over her in a mad exultant wave without questioning its origin, and then the full force of the words struck her. All this time he had accepted her, and she had never been his wife. It was fantastic, utterly and completely incredible!
Why had he done it? She stared back at him, aware that he never did anything without a very good reason.
“Try to tell me,” she implored, sitting down on the edge of the bed. “I don’t think I can take very much more of this sort of thing.”
He sat on the bed beside her.
“I’m not sure what there is to tell,” he began almost guardedly. “You may still be the enemy, but I’m taking a chance on that. I’ve accepted the amnesia now. Heaven knows!” he added dryly, “I’ve struggled against believing long enough. The curious thing is that I had to believe John Ordley. Oh, yes!” he admitted, “I checked up on your charming doctor, and his credentials are in order. I had to credit him with knowing about the amnesia, but I also discovered that it could be faked, up to a point. I had then to decide whether Ordley had been cleverly deceived or not.”
She felt resentment at that, but she bit her lip on a retort and allowed him to go on.
“Ordley believes your memory will return in time,” he said. “But the trouble is, we haven’t got a lot of time. If I haven’t cleared up this mess in my own way in a day or two, the prefecture of police will step in and take charge.”
She shrank farther down into the folds of the coat.
“If I’m not your wife,” she said, “why did you accept me when I came back here?”
He got up, taking a quick turn around the room before he came back to stand over her.
“I thought I’d got that part through to you,” he said tersely. “You’re not Adele Cabot.”
The words seemed to spin in a mad circle inside her head.
“Then who am I?”
He stood looking down at her for a brief moment of indecision and then he knelt beside the bed.
“I’m sorry if that was too abrupt,” he apologized, “but we’ve got to get this thing straightened out. I’m not a doctor,” he reminded her dryly. “I don’t know how much I dare tell you—with safety. What I do know is that we’ve got to go over it all again, step by step, and you’ve got to help me where you can. If the police got hold of the facts in their present state, you would be arrested.”
“What can I do?” She was looking at him appealingly now. “I’m here under false pretenses; you’ve convinced me of that. And you think I’m some sort of crook. The type of criminal you were discussing with your mother only a few hours ago! Well, perhaps I am.” Her voice rose hysterically. “How can I prove I’m not? You say I’m not your wife, yet I came here believing that this is where I belong. You have only my word—and John’s—for that. But we can vouch for the accident.”
“I’m not disputing the accident,” he told her. “That, too, has been checked by the police. What I could suspect was that Adele never reached Switzerland—that you went there with her luggage and her passport.”
“Then ... that’s what you really believe?” She felt defeated, unable to struggle anymore.
“That’s what I could believe,” he amended. “There’s a great deal involved in this.” He stood up, drawing her with him. “I mean to go to Switzerland if there is no word from Ordley in the morning, and I want you to come with me. We’ll pick him up there,” he added dryly.
“I’ll do anything I can,” she promised. “Anything to help.”
He crossed to the window, locked it and put the key in his pocket.
“A neces
sary precaution,” he told her on his way out.
“Hadn’t you better lock the door?” she asked him bitterly. “I could escape that way, too.”
“I hadn’t thought about it.” He looked straight at her. “But I really don’t think you will.”
The following morning she was first down to breakfast. She had been awake since five o’clock and now, at eight, it seemed as if she had been waiting for the mailman’s arrival for an eternity.
Would there be a letter from John? Would he have some solution to offer this dreadful impasse? She dared not dwell on her own loss of identity and still continued to think of herself as Dixon’s wife, which was all wrong. Dixon had refuted it all last night. She was under his roof still, but only by virtue of the fact that he seemed to have taken pity on her because of the amnesia. The cold fact was that he still suspected her. He had even said that she might have taken his wife’s place deliberately to commit a felony.
Desperately she pressed her hands to her temples. If this were true, then where was Adele Cabot?
Dead? She thrust the suspicion from her, wondering if two people might agree to change places for some quite innocent reason, not expecting that an accident would precipitate one of them into this dreadful situation of not being able to give a true account of herself or the past.
Unable to settle indoors, she made her way into the early morning sunshine, walking slowly along the driveway to meet the mailman. Sometimes Maria went on a like errand, or sent Jean-Paul, who now helped her in the house, but this morning they were both busy in the kitchen.
The sharp ping of a bicycle bell quickened her footsteps and she reached the gates as the mailman turned in off the main road. He had a small sheaf of letters in his hand and he smiled when he saw her. She had saved him the ride up to the villa and back.
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