“It is to be a party,” Lydia declared. “Joan dear, will you ever forgive us? We are going to what I think you call in America ‘cut in.’ We are going to make a big party and fill the box. We are going to make a circle like a daisy chain around this young man for fear someone should come and try to steal him away from us.”
Rudolph turned appealingly to Joan.
“It is not my fault, chère Mademoiselle,” he pleaded. “I planned for this evening a dish of caviar sandwiches—a bottle of champagne, the four walls of that mouldy old box of the Prince’s—and Thou. . . . I should have preferred the green boughs and the moonlight or the sunlight—whichever was available—but, alas, the setting has failed us.”
“I think it is a lovely idea,” Joan declared. “Not that I should not have adored sitting hand in hand with you, Mr. Rudolph Sagastrada! But all these dear people—why should they not have their pleasure?”
“More sandwiches, Louis,” Domiloff begged. “I leave you for a quarter of an hour, my friends, while I change.”
“It is already quarter past eight,” Joan warned him.
“It is of no consequence,” he answered. “I shall send word to our friend Riotto. I shall tell them not to start before a quarter to nine, and then who cares about the first twenty minutes of ‘Louise,’ anyway? The glory of it comes later. What is it, Louis?” he added, as he turned to leave the place.
Louis had appeared from behind his counter with a single glass on a silver platter.
“Monsieur le Baron est fatigué,” he said. “There is just one drop of absinthe in this. It will revive.”
Domiloff looked down at the man. Their eyes met. There was a sort of doglike wistfulness about Louis’s that many people before had noticed at odd times. The Baron patted him on the shoulder.
“Good man, Louis,” he murmured. “If you knew how I wanted that without knowing it!”
He drank it off and set down the glass empty. When he left the room, his own almost jaunty freedom of movement seemed to have returned. Joan’s eyes followed him to the doorway.
“The Baron is tired to-night,” she murmured.
Lydia sighed.
“If he were six men, he would still be tired,” she said. “They have not left him alone for a single moment. Regnier was a little troublesome, too. It will do Paul good to sit back in a corner and listen to the music. If only he could be cut off for a few hours from the telegraph and the telephone and these special messages and that dreadful wireless!”
The fall of the curtain at the end of the first act of Charpentier’s great opera was followed by a furore of applause. Céline was a favourite in Monaco and everyone agreed that she had never been in better voice. Bouquet after bouquet was passed up. Again and again she bowed her acknowledgement and every time her last gaze, her last smile, was for Sagastrada, who was standing in front of the box clapping enthusiastically.
“I am becoming very jealous,” Joan announced, as at last the lights went up and the curtain was finally lowered.
“And what about me?” Lydia Domiloff complained. “All day long I have waited upon that young man, I have read to him, I have sung to him, I have even held his hand and all to find him now shouting himself hoarse with admiration for another woman!”
“I am afraid he is inconstant,” Joan sighed.
He smiled as he turned away from the front of the box.
“It is the voice I salute,” he explained. “The voice, the music, the atmosphere which the two create. I am proud to feel. It is gratitude which overpowers me.”
“You are too glib with your tongue, young sir,” Lydia declared. “You should have been a diplomat and not a banker. Paul,” she added, “I absolutely forbid you to take our friend to Céline’s dressing room.”
Domiloff shook his head.
“That would not be possible,” he said. “For what reason do you suppose I have two gendarmes guarding the door? Why were we escorted even those few yards across the road from the Paris? Why are we the first since Royalty faded away to occupy this gloomy mausoleum of a box? All for our young friend’s safety. Do you think that I would risk those dark passages—”
“To say nothing of the danger arising from the enchantress herself!” Lucille intervened. “Mr. Sagastrada is much too susceptible.”
“You like to make fun at my expense,” he grimaced. “Well, I do not know that it matters. All those bouquets, or nearly all of them, were from me. She must accept my homage then in that fashion.”
“Worse and worse,” Lydia sighed. “He has never offered me even a rose. Has he sent you any flowers, Joan, or you, Princess?”
“Not a blossom,” the latter replied.
“You do not make music, either of you,” he pointed out. “In my country one sends flowers to an artiste just as one leaves cards upon a lady of society.”
“I never regretted not being an artiste so much,” Joan lamented. “Those pink and mauve orchids were wonderful.”
“There are more to be had,” Sagastrada declared hopefully.
There was a knock at the door. Domiloff stepped swiftly past the others and opened it. The gendarme outside saluted.
“There is a gentleman here,” he announced, “who desires to speak with Mr. Sagastrada.”
“Where is he?” Domiloff enquired, stepping outside and closing the door of the box behind him.
A young man advanced from the shadows, the young man who had approached Domiloff on the night of the party.
“It is Monsieur le Baron Domiloff, is it not?” he said. “I am a friend of Rudolph Sagastrada’s and I should like to shake hands with him.”
“Unfortunately,” the Baron observed, “Mr. Rudolph Sagastrada is in rather a peculiar position just now. You are aware, no doubt, of the circumstances under which he arrived here?”
“I know everything,” the other replied. “I would nevertheless be glad of a few words with my old comrade. Permit me to remind you of myself, Baron. I am Anselm of Herm.”
He handed over his card. Domiloff glanced at it and nodded.
“I do not doubt your bona fides, sir,” he said, “but the fact remains that your friend is at present in a very difficult position. The last visitors he received from your country have not come in a particularly friendly spirit.”
The young man smiled.
“I can assure you,” he persisted, “that my errand with Rudolph is entirely a personal and not a political one. He will admit it himself if you will be so kind as to let him know that I am here.”
He advanced a step forward. Domiloff, however, still barred the way.
“I must ask you to wait, sir,” he begged, “until I have spoken to Mr. Sagastrada.”
The visitor frowned.
“As you wish,” he declared brusquely. “I might add, however, that my business with him is of some importance. I shall not leave here until I have seen him.”
Domiloff smiled.
“If that is to be your attitude, Prince,” he said, “I may as well tell you at once that Mr. Sagastrada is my guest for the evening and is now engaged with my friends. You can make your call at a more opportune time.”
The young man showed signs of losing his temper. He pointed to the gendarmes.
“If the presence of these fellows and the fact that you are in the Royal box indicates that any member of the reigning house is here, you will be so good as to stand on one side and let me address myself to him. The family is well known to me.”
“Unfortunately,” Domiloff answered, “the members of the family you speak of are not at present taking any interest in the affairs of Monaco. The gendarmes are present by my direction and to ensure that my guest is not interfered with by unwanted callers.”
The door of the box was suddenly thrown open. Lord Henry made his appearance with the Princess by his side. Sagastrada was just behind them.
“You don’t mind our going out for a stroll, Baron?” Lord Henry asked.
There was a moment’s silence. Sagastrada moved f
orward impulsively. It was too late to check him. Domiloff, however, held his place.
“There is a young man here, Sagastrada,” he said, “who announces himself as a friend of yours. You recognize him, of course. He is Prince Anselm of Herm.”
“Yes, I know the Prince,” Sagastrada replied doubtfully. “You really wish to see me, Anselm?”
“Only to make a short announcement,” the visitor replied, “which is not in the least of a private nature. At the request of our Chancellor, whose authority we all now acknowledge, the Colonel of my regiment has withdrawn his embargo upon the little meeting we had arranged. It can, I hope, take place here. I have brought Hebbisturm with me. He will wait upon anyone you choose, to-morrow morning, or better still, to-night.”
Of the two men, Sagastrada was the cooler. He drew himself up and would have moved a step nearer but Domiloff barred the way.
“Unfortunately,” he announced, “I have changed my mind. You refused to fight me in our own country because of my connections. It is I, now, who refuse for other reasons.”
“You will permit me then,” Prince Anselm said, raising his voice a little, “to proclaim you a coward.”
“If it amuses you,” was the indifferent reply.
The visitor snatched the glove from his hand and sprang forward. Domiloff, however, still impeded his progress. The gendarmes obeyed his gesture. They seized Prince Anselm on either side. For a moment he seemed to swell in size. He appeared to have sufficient strength to throw them both away. Their uniform, however, and long generations of disciplinary training were in his blood. He became passive.
“Put this young man outside,” the Baron directed.
“They may take me where they like,” Prince Anselm scoffed, looking across fixedly at Sagastrada and throwing the glove which he had been holding so that it struck him on the cheek. “I shall send Hebbisturm to you in the morning, Sagastrada, and if you are not prepared you will take the consequences.”
He fell into step, unconsciously as it seemed, with the gendarmes, who marched him down the corridor. The curious little group of people who had gathered round melted away. Only one remained—a small, still-looking man standing back in the shadows. None of them noticed him in the excitement of the moment. It was a way Mr. Ardrossen had in life. He seemed always to escape being noticed.
CHAPTER XXVIII
Table of Contents
TOWNLEYES, who had thrown himself exhausted into an easy chair facing the entrance to the Sporting Club bar, nevertheless found energy to sit up and watch Joan Haskell’s leisurely progress as she passed through the rooms. She was wearing a black gown to-night and many in the crowd turned their heads to admire her. In a way, she had established a sort of vogue in the place. With her graceful, athletic figure, her pleasant manners, her complete ease and naturalness, she represented a certain reversion to the past, a reincarnation of the old Gibson type of femininity. She was the natural reaction to the tyranny of fashion—the Boadicea who watched the passing of the slim boyish type of half-starved bodies and flat chests. Townleyes’ eyes followed her all the time with increasing admiration. On the threshold of the bar she paused and threw up her hands with a little exclamation.
“So you are really back again! We were all getting rather worried about you. In fact,” she went on, looking at him more closely, “I am worried now. What have you been doing? You look tired out. Sit down again at once, please.”
He obeyed and she took a chair by his side.
“It is two or three nights since I went to bed,” he confessed. “To wind up with I left Paris at four o’clock this afternoon. I have just dined and I am trying to summon up energy enough to get down to my boat.”
“What on earth do you want to go there for to-night?” she asked.
He evaded the question.
“Domiloff’s been telling me all the news,” he said. “Things seem to be pretty well disturbed here. Domiloff and Regnier have their charter but they hesitate to proclaim it. In London there’s a regular war fever and Paris is in a state of nerves with a special committee of war experts sitting day and night.”
“I understand no more about your English politics,” she declared, “than I do about what is going on in Monaco.”
“Our politics are really very simple,” he assured her. “The only trouble is that there are too many of us in the game. The old Roman idea of a Triumvirate was a more logical form of government. Our system is bad because when our statesmen realize that a thing ought to be done, instead of doing it they set up a committee to do it for them. Prompt action is impossible with us. If ever we come to a bad end as a nation, it will be the ‘wait and see’ policy that has done it.”
A valet came in bearing a note in his hand. He recognized Joan and made his way towards her.
“From Madame la Baronne, Mademoiselle,” he announced.
“You excuse?” Joan murmured to her companion as she broke the seal.
She read the few lines hastily.
My dear—Come and make your bob. We have to give our august visitors supper and you must join us. We shall be at the usual table.
LYDIA.
The man stood waiting. Joan fingered the note irresolutely.
“Another supper party,” she confided. “I don’t think I feel like it.”
“Don’t go,” Townleyes begged. “I tell you what—we’ll have a little carriage, drive down to the quay, and I’ll give you a sandwich on board. The carriage can wait and bring you back if I decide to stay and sleep there. You’ll get some fresh air, anyway.”
She smiled.
“Quite an adventure!” she murmured. “I feel like getting away from this atmosphere. I’ll come. Will you please tell Madame la Baronne,” she went on, turning to the valet, “that I am fatiguée and am going to bed early. I thank her very much but I beg to be excused.”
The man bowed and took his leave. Townleyes rose immediately.
“Come along,” he invited. “We’ll go at once. I know what will happen. They’ll send Henry or someone to fetch you. I’m going to carry you off before you change your mind.”
She laughed as she rose to her feet.
“That is a thing,” she told him, “which I very seldom do.”
The air, during that brief drive, seemed to possess an unbelievable freshness. The clank of their horses’ hoofs on the hard roads sounded to Joan like music. The very slowness of their progress was soothing.
“I think I was beginning to feel what they call the hysteria of Monte Carlo,” she declared. “This was a divine idea of yours.”
The cocher cracked his whip, the little dog by his side sat up in ever-increasing animation; two or three big cars passed them on their way up the hill to the Sporting Club, but the streets were becoming deserted. The night was brilliantly fine except for dark intervals when a roll of black clouds coming up from eastward blotted out the moonlight. They swung round and skirted the dark waters of the port. There was a flavour of salt now in the air. At the corner Townleyes leaned forward.
“Le quatrième bateau à droite,” he told the cocher.
The man touched his hat. One of the horses, however, was restive and plunged.
“Elle n’aime pas la petite route, Monsieur,” the cocher apologized.
“All right,” Townleyes replied. “It’s only a few yards, Miss Haskell. You don’t mind walking?”
“Love it,” she answered, stepping down on to the cobbles.
“Wait here,” Townleyes enjoined. “We may be half-an-hour to an hour.”
The cocher removed his hat with a smile. A waiting job was always welcome.
“Comme vous voulez, Monsieur.”
They picked their way along to where the yacht was tied up and he handed her down the gangway. Below, all looked dark and impenetrable except for the single light hanging from the mast. Joan stepped to the rail and looked across landwards at the glittering line of lamps and the fainter lights twinkling away on the hills. Every breath of the air seemed inspiri
ng.
“Couldn’t we sit here for a few minutes instead of going below?” she suggested.
He found her a wicker chair.
“I’ll have to go down myself to see about the sandwiches,” he said. “I won’t be long.”
“Don’t hurry,” she begged. “It’s perfect here. I’m enjoying every minute of it.”
She lit a cigarette and lay back in her chair. The quietness of it all was immensely soothing. The dwindling lights and the looming clouds seemed to be enveloping the whole place in a mysterious garb of solitude. The lights on the Condamine still remained, and a reflected blaze from the Casino. Someone in the Port Café was strumming on a guitar and there was the occasional honk of a horn as a car rushed by on the road above. Otherwise, the soft night atmosphere was one of complete peace. She closed her eyes. The cigarette fell from her fingers. In a few minutes she was asleep. . . .
One by one the lights on the Condamine went out. The Casino itself became merely a grey and ghostly structure in the light of the dawn. The silence of the place seemed still unbroken, but the easterly breeze stealing across the foam-flecked surface of the sea was chilly and dank. Joan, as she sat up with a start, mechanically pulled her wrap around her throat. She looked about her in amazement, unable for the moment to realize where she was. Then suddenly, with a little exclamation, she sprang to her feet. To her astonishment Townleyes was nowhere in evidence, there were no signs of drinks or sandwiches and yet even as she stood there the chimes of the Cathedral clock struck the hour: four o’clock. She must have been asleep there alone on deck for more than two hours! Townleyes—of course, he must have been up and finding her asleep had returned to the saloon. She hurried to the hatch and called down into the dimly lit space.
“Sir Julian!”
There was no response. She descended a couple of steps.
21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series) Page 498
