Heart Specialist

by Susan Barrie

  Valentine felt her eyebrows go up. She was spending one more night at the apartment with Martine, but she had planned to leave early the following day. And why should Miss Constantia’s solicitor, Maitre Dubonnet, wish to see her in any case?

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “Of course I can make it convenient if Monsieur Dubonnet wishes to see me, but ...”

  “You have no idea at all what it is that he wishes to see you about?”

  She shook her head. She thought that his eyes were oddly penetrating, and they were so intensely dark—a sort of fluid darkness, like water at the bottom of a very deep well—that she found their direct gaze disconcerting.

  “No idea at all. Unless ...!” She felt herself turning a little pink. Surely Miss Constantia hadn’t left her a bequest? Something to remember her by? Why, she had only worked for her for three months! “Unless,” she repeated slowly and awkwardly, “Miss Constantia ...”

  “Yes?” he insisted with something soft and silken in his tones, and she had the queer sensation that she was a mouse he was waiting to pounce upon. “Yes, mademoiselle!”

  “Oh, put into words it sounds ... it sounds as if I was expecting something, but I can assure you I wasn’t! Only when you asked me whether I had any idea why Monsieur Dubonnet wished to see me it did occur to me that ...”

  “You might have been substantially remembered in our late friend’s will?”

  “Not substantially!” Her eyes were perplexed, and they were so large and clear and blue that they should have struck him as extraordinarily truthful eyes, with nothing at all to hide. “Just perhaps, a little souvenir ... something that I could remember our three months’ association by. It was only three months, and it seemed to pass in a flash, but I think that in that short space of time we got to know one another rather well ...”

  “Obviously,” he said dryly.

  She swallowed. “I was very fond of Miss Constantia.”

  “It would appear that she was very fond of you.” She looked at him with a hint of appeal in her eyes. “It seems I have done something to incur your displeasure, Dr. Daudet. Wouldn’t it have been better if you had allowed Monsieur Dubonnet to call me in while the others were still here, then I might have learned what it is that I have done?”

  This time it was he who shook his head.

  “I don’t think so.” He started to pace up and down, his hands in the pockets of his beautifully creased trousers, his lips compressed, but at the same time smiling in some queer ironical fashion. “You are not going to be very popular with ‘the others’ for some little while. Miss Brooke!”

  “But why not?” In any case, she could have added, she was not likely to see again any of the relatives who had gathered for the funeral today.

  “How would you describe a small souvenir. Miss Brooke?” Dr. Daudet asked, standing still and studying her.

  She made a rather helpless movement with her slim shoulders. “Oh, something very small, of course ... and trifling.”

  “Such as a pair of earrings?”

  “Yes,” she said quickly, eagerly, “a pair of earrings!” And very vividly she recalled Miss Constantia talking in a thin breathless voice about “a trifling little gift like a pair of earrings.”

  “Then you are not going to be disappointed. Miss Brooke, for Miss Constantia has left you several pairs of earrings—many pairs, in fact. It seems that she had a weakness for earrings, and like all the other items in her jewel case, they are valuable articles of adornment. If you wish to sell them you will probably realize quite a large sum of money.”

  “Oh!” she said and found that she couldn’t say anything else.

  He rocked back onto his heels the better to study her, and she had an impression of arrogance and lithe animal grace. The expression in his eyes continued to chill her, in spite of Miss Constantia’s generosity.

  “Mademoiselle Brooke,” he said softly, and although he spoke English perfectly his accent, at times, was very French. At others it wasn’t so noticeable, and she had already remarked that for a Frenchman he was not particularly addicted to mannerisms. Now all at once, his accent was very noticeable, and he spread his hands so that she saw how shapely and well cared for they were. “Would you say that, as a reward for three months’ work, that is a little ... over generous?”

  “I ... I have told you I didn’t expect anything!” she said.

  He smiled. “You didn’t expect anything, and you receive the lion’s share! There is more yet, mademoiselle, much, much more. Your good friend, Miss Constantia, must have become quite devoted to you in the short time that she knew you, for in addition to the earrings you receive the other contents of the jewel box, fifteen million francs, and an opportunity to own this house one day, just as it stands, lock, stock and barrel, as you would say! That is quite something, quite an eccentric reward, n’est-ce pas?”

  Valentine actually felt herself turning white. His cold mocking eyes told her he was making fun of her. And yet why should he do such a thing, at such a time, on such a day?

  Miss Constantia had only just been buried!

  “I don’t believe it,” she managed hoarsely at last. “It is your idea of a joke!”

  “Not my idea of a joke at all,” he informed her icily, curtly, and then left the drawing room and returned with something in a small glass, which he offered to her.

  “Sit down and sip that,” he said. “It is neat cognac and it is possible you need it. Quite a few of the people who were here today also felt in need of something to revive them before they left the house!”

  She sat, trembling, on a Louis Quinze chair, and for a full minute the rest of the furniture in the room seemed alternately to be retreating and advancing toward her. She hadn’t bothered about any lunch that day, and although there had been a cold buffet for the rest of the mourners, it had been gone when she arrived. All afternoon she had remained shut up in the drawing room, without a human soul to talk to and without the courage to take a walk in the grounds in case it should be thought unseemly. It might even have upset the concentration of people in the library, had she been seen from the windows. And now ... now this amazing happening!

  She sat hearing her own teeth knocking against the brandy glass, and when she had obediently sipped it and was feeling more normal, she ventured to look upward at the doctor who was standing watching her. She didn’t need to be told that any hostility Miss Constantia’s family must now feel toward her was fully shared by him.

  “You think I ... I used my position—my nearness to Miss Constantia—to ... to ...!”

  She couldn’t get the rest of the words out, and with a swing of his broad well held shoulders he turned away. He walked the length of the room and back. She saw that his expression had become the remote, detached expression of a medical man.

  “It is not within my province to think anything,” he said. “And there is more that you have to hear that will call to your mind a proverb about those who live in glass houses ...!” He produced a fine platinum cigarette case from his pocket and offered it to her. “You will smoke, mademoiselle?” he asked formally. “A cigarette is soothing when—” his eyes couldn’t refrain from glinting “—the nerves are a little to pieces!”

  She accepted the cigarette because she felt she needed it.

  As if he was as restless as a panther, he started once more to pace up and down.

  “The devil is in this situation,” he said suddenly, “and yet he is the very last person one would associate with Miss Constantia! When thinking of her one did not normally think of Le Diable ...” He ground out his cigarette in an ashtray and then lit another as if he didn’t quite realize what he was doing. “What I meant when I said just now that you would call to mind a proverb is that I am in this, too. Miss Constantia could do nothing about her income, which automatically now becomes the income of her closest relative; but the money she had amassed throughout the years—her private investments, and so forth—were hers to dispose of as she wished. She ha
s, as you know, a large number of nieces and nephews, great-nieces and great-nephews, and several of them were here today for the funeral. Her favorite nephew flew from London at considerable personal inconvenience, and another flew from Athens. Yet another is on his way from Nairobi and will be here some time tomorrow. All. of course, are naturally interested in the will.”

  Valentine sat silent. There was nothing she could say. Dr. Daudet continued, prowling up and down over the Aubusson carpet as if he were a tiger released from a cage.

  “Sometimes when people grow old they become a little whimsical. Miss Constantia never struck me that way, but then I never knew her really well. She was my patient for years, and sometimes I had tea with her ... dined with her occasionally. I knew that her heart was likely to give out on her, and I was not surprised when she died suddenly. But I confess the fact that she has left me fifteen million francs came as anything but a pleasant surprise! I do not desire to profit through Miss Constantia at the expense of her family, and yet under the terms of the will I cannot reject this money, any more than you—” as she looked at him dumbly “—can reject it, either. Fifteen million francs is roughly fifteen thousand pounds, and that is the sum that will be yours very soon now. It is a fortune for a young woman like yourself ...”

  She licked her dry lips. “I don’t need to take it!”

  “I have told you,” he said impatiently, “you have no option but to take it. And so crazy is this last will and testament of Miss Constantia’s that, if you fail to marry within a year, the legacy—or, presumably, what is left of it—reverts to me, and this house becomes mine. If you marry within a year you keep your legacy and you inherit the house with, as I said, everything in it. So it is up to you. Miss Brooke!” And the cool derision in his tone flayed her afresh.

  She stood up.

  “In that case, Dr. Daudet, you can already begin to make plans for the house,” she told him. an icy indignation taking possession of her, “and you can hand over my legacy to some deserving charity if it pains you to keep it, for I have no intention whatsoever of marrying anyone within the year! Possibly not for several years—if ever. I am not interested in the thought of marriage.” And she started to draw on her gloves with shaking fingers. “And now, have I your permission to leave? Perhaps I can pick up a taxi to take me back to Paris because I wouldn’t dream of troubling you.”

  And she walked blindly toward the door.

  But his voice came calmly from behind her as she reached it.

  “My car is at the front of the house. Miss Brooke, and I have every intention of driving you back to Paris. So don’t use up your energy by making foolish protests. I didn’t make that will!”

  CHAPTER THREE

  ALL THE WAY BACK to Paris Valentine was conscious of resentment seething in her that was stronger than any emotion she had ever known in her life. The fact that Miss Constantia—her dear Miss Constantia. whom she so truly mourned—had left her a large sum of money and the contents of her jewel box, seemed to have passed her by.

  The only thing that had registered was that Dr. Daudet, fashionable Paris heart specialist, whom Miss Constantia had also remembered in her will, had so much disliked the task of breaking the news to her that he had been quite unable to conceal his dislike, or his opinion of her, which was that she was nothing better than an adventuress who had worked hard for her own advantage during the three months she had been employed by Miss Constantia.

  Valentine never clearly remembered that drive back to Paris. The spring evening was one of almost poignant beauty, the countryside between Chaumont and the glittering French capital as lovely as anything France could offer, with the quiet dusk waiting to swoop down and enfold it long before they reached the busy thoroughfares. Under ordinary circumstances, being driven in a long sleek car that was surely the sleekest and the most opulent car she had ever been driven in, would have been a novel experience in itself. But she was in no mood to enjoy novel experiences. She was in no mood to do anything but bite her lower lip so hard and so persistently that, by the time they finally got back to Paris, it was sore and felt slightly swollen. Her back felt stiff from maintaining a rigid attitude in the seat beside the driver.

  Dr. Daudet respected her obvious desire for silence until they drew up outside the block of apartments. When he helped her out of the car, he said, “If there is anything further you would like explained to you tonight I can come in for a few minutes. I have a dinner appointment, but I can spare a short time.”

  “Thank you,” she returned without looking at him, “but there is nothing I want you to explain.”

  He looked down at her as they stood side by side on the sidewalk—she was a good head shorter than he was and almost childishly slender in her black suit—and for an instant something gleamed in his eyes; it could have been a quizzical gleam.

  “Then you will go into details with Maitre Dubonnet?”

  “If there are any details to be gone into.”

  “I assure you that there are many details.” She kept her face so firmly averted that he simply couldn’t see into her eyes. “For instance, Miss Constantia expressed a wish that you would continue to occupy this apartment until the lease runs out—which will be in about nine months’ time, I believe. So you don’t have to start looking for a home immediately.”

  She turned away. “Good night. Dr. Daudet. And thank you for driving me back to Paris.”

  One side of his mouth twisted impishly. “It was not, I somehow feel, an enjoyable drive for you, Miss Brooke!” She ignored him and moved toward the lighted entrance to the apartments, but he touched her arm, and his voice was suddenly quiet and apologetic.

  “I am sorry if I have given you any cause to feel upset, mademoiselle. I should not have permitted my sympathy for Miss Constantia’s relatives to affect my attitude toward her former secretary.”

  “That’s quite all right, doctor,” she said through stiff lips. “We are unlikely to see much—if anything—of one another in the future, and your opinion of me is in any case quite unimportant.”

  And then she slipped between the revolving doors, and he watched her cross the carpeted space toward the elevator.

  Upstairs in the apartment, Martine was waiting for her with Fifi actually hugged in her arms.

  Martine, in the past, had had little time for Fifi, but now she seemed to derive consolation from the feel of the animal’s curly gray fur.

  “Mademoiselle!” she exclaimed when she had admitted Valentine. “Oh, mademoiselle, Monsieur Dubonnet has telephoned, and my mistress has left me a wonderful legacy!” She allowed Fifi to wriggle out of her arms and then covered her face with her hands. “It is too generous!” she sobbed. “It is much too generous!”

  Valentine soothed her and then asked in a faint voice if she could have a pot of tea.

  “It has been rather a ... long day,” she said, collapsing onto a settee.

  Martine instantly recovered herself.

  “But of course, mademoiselle,” she said. “But of course.”

  She flew to make the tea, and she also cut a few sandwiches and arranged them temptingly on a plate. When she returned to the big room where Valentine was still sitting limply on the settee, she was chattering about the breast of chicken being very tender, and that if mademoiselle was really hungry she would serve her the main meal immediately.

  “As it is your last night, I took the liberty of ordering ...” she was beginning and then broke off and set down her tray hurriedly and went to the side of the settee.

  “Ma fois!” she breathed. “How I run on, and it is plain that the day has been very painful to you indeed! And is it any wonder?” She sank down onto the deep V cushions beside the slight figure in the plain black suit, and she was shocked by the pallor of the other’s face. “In the morning, mademoiselle, you should stay in bed, and I will bring you a tray.”

  But Valentine shook her head and smiled with her colorless lips.

  “In the morning, Martine, I shall be q
uite myself again, but today has been, well, rather more than I expected!”

  Martine nodded understandingly.

  “And there were many people at the funeral?” she wanted to know in a slight sepulchral voice. “Monsieur Georges Constantia was certain to be there, and Monsieur Henri ...? All who could get there, of course, would be there!”

  Valentine gave her a few details of what had happened that day, and while Fifi scrambled up onto her lap and nibbled the sandwiches she didn’t touch, and Martine poured her a cup of tea, she wondered how she was going to break the news to Martine of Miss Constantia’s extreme generosity to herself. Perhaps because she didn’t believe in it herself yet—for the impact of Miss Constantia’s generosity had so far passed her by because of the manner in which it had been made known to her—she even toyed with the idea of not mentioning it to Martine at all that night, as if it was something unimportant that could be delayed. But then the anxiety in the maid’s face when she spoke about future plans and clearly indicated that the very idea of saying goodbye to the apartment was “tearing her apart,” as she put it, convinced Valentine that the news must not be delayed.

  She began by saying, “Martine, when Monsieur Dubonnet telephoned, did he tell you anything else of importance? Did he, for instance mention ...”

  And she watched Martine’s face as she broke the news.

  Martine looked, at first, uncomprehending. And then the most widely delighted smile broke over her face.

  “Then you will not after all be leaving Paris!” she cried. She stood up and started to flutter excitedly around the room. “You are a rich woman, mam’selle! You are a woman of substance! Ma fois, but it is wonderful! And if monsieur le docteur says that you may remain here for nine months, then I will also remain and look after you. I will look upon you as my new mistress, and with the money in the bank that has been left to me by my dear late mistress, I will have, as you say, the ‘nest egg.’ It will be something to fall back on in my old age, and as yet I have many years of work ahead of me—I am but fifty—and ...”