Rogue's Holiday

by Maxwell March

  “But why not?”

  She shook her head.

  “I can’t explain. You promised you wouldn’t ask. You must wonder what on earth I’m doing, I know that, but I can’t very well tell you all about it. One thing perhaps, though, I ought to explain. I’ve come to the Arcadian to meet the man I’m going to marry.”

  He stared at her, a completely unaccountable chill passing over him.

  “Don’t you know him?” he said at last.

  “No,” she said. “Not yet. My guardian’s bringing him down some time this evening or tomorrow.”

  Inspector Blest felt suddenly and completely flat, so flat that he recognized that he was in danger of making a fool of himself and took refuge in lightness.

  “Is this extraordinary performance for his benefit?” he inquired, indicating the cosmetic jar. “What’s the idea? Are you arousing his protective instincts?”

  “Don’t,” she said. “Please don’t.”

  “Look here,” he said, “can’t I possibly help you in some way or other? I don’t understand this business, and I don’t want to inquire if you’re anxious I shouldn’t, but if there’s anything I can possibly do——”

  She shook her head, and he saw to his surprise and alarm that she was very near tears.

  “There’s nothing,” she said. “Nothing at all. Now, really, please, I must get on with my makeup.”

  He watched her paint out most of her beauty and helped her into her heavy coat. Then she huddled up in the seat beside him.

  “Now,” she said, “please, as fast as you can. It’s been a wonderful, wonderful day.”

  They entered the Arcadian together, the girl leaning lightly on his arm. Inspector Blest was amazed at himself. Her touch thrilled him, and her extraordinary story, far from filling him with mere curiosity, had poured over him an avalanche of gloom.

  The lounge was crowded. New arrivals showed on every hand.

  They were halfway across the foyer when he heard a quick intake of breath at his side, and the arm which rested on his own trembled.

  “Oh,” said a small husky voice at his side, “there’s my guardian! And that man with him, that, I suppose, is the man I’ve got to marry.”

  David turned his head and followed the direction of her eyes. The next instant he had stiffened, and a wave of utter incredulity and amazement passed over him, for edging his way through the tables toward them was the square figure of his own original quarry, Sir Leo Thyn; and behind him, a self-satisfied smirk on his not unintelligent face, was the last man in the world he expected to see—Johnny Deane, alias the Major.

  Sir Leo came up to the girl.

  “Judy, my dear,” he said, “where have you been? Mr. Deane and I have been at our wits’ end about you. And,” he added, turning a stony glance in David’s direction, “and who on earth, my dear, is this?”

  For a moment after Sir Leo had spoken there was an uncomfortable pause. The hostility in the old voice was unmistakable, and the girl was quick to assimilate it. Before David could open his mouth she had answered.

  “It was such a beautiful evening, Sir Leo, that I thought I would try to go for a stroll. But the exertion was too much for me. I felt very faint, and this gentleman most kindly brought me home.”

  For the first time since he had known her David was conscious of a thrill of alarm in her tone, and he realized intuitively that her need must be very great or she would never lie so glibly.

  Sir Leo looked at her sharply, and David found himself hoping, most unprofessionally, that those quick dark eyes would not penetrate her extraordinary disguise.

  “I see. Very kind of Inspector Blest, I’m sure.” Sir Leo’s sarcasm was biting. “However, now you’re in safe hands, my dear, and next time you persuade a policeman to bring you home, choose one in uniform, not a plainclothes officer.”

  He drew the girl’s arm through his, and for an instant his glance met David’s own. The young man’s lean brown face had turned a dusky crimson, and there was certainly now no trace of laziness in the very blue eyes. He controlled himself, however, and nodded stiffly. There seemed nothing he could say.

  “A police inspector?” He hardly heard the words, they were uttered so softly.

  He turned his head to find the girl looking up at him, and before the expression of dismay and reproach in her white face he was stricken helpless.

  Sir Leo led his charge away, and David Blest stood looking after him. For the first time his official attitude towards life was completely undermined. At that moment, as far as Inspector Blest was concerned, the world held no other woman save Judy, and the one desire he possessed was to talk to her and explain.

  The incident which pulled him together and restored his perspective was typical. Forgotten completely by the three participants in the little drama, Major Johnny Deane stood apart, and as the old man and his ward moved off down the foyer he hesitated whether to follow them or to make an overture to the inspector.

  David found the man’s eyes resting on his face with that half-diffident, half-speculative expression which he had seen before in the faces of so many crooks.

  Acting on the inspiration of the moment, the young policeman smiled.

  “Watch out, Johnny, my lad,” he said softly. “Watch out.”

  Then, with newly found purpose, he strolled off out of the hotel to find a conveniently quiet telephone box from which to hold a long conversation with Scotland Yard.

  CHAPTER III

  Three Hundred Thousand Pounds

  “YOU ARE very silent, Major.”

  Sir Leo’s booming voice was softened, but his eyes were not nearly so amenable. So far the meeting had hardly been a social success.

  The three people sat in the drawing room of the luxurious and somewhat over-ornate suite, the best the Arcadian could provide. Two tall windows gave onto a balcony which overlooked the front, now glittering in the dusk with a thousand coloured lights, while the grey sea, warm and mysterious, reflected them again and again.

  Still clutching her coat about her, Judy sat huddled up in an immense gilt and tapestry chair, her eyes fixed on the romantic scene outside the window in an absorbed, unseeing stare.

  Sir Leo was plainly irritable. For half an hour now he had tried to give this meeting some semblance of the romance it should have possessed, but the two chief protagonists in the tragi-comedy had failed him. The girl was shrinking, weary, and silent, and the Major ill at ease, awkward, and a great disappointment to Sir Leo, who had expected much of him.

  Lashed by the underlying irritation in the soft voice, the unfortunate Johnny Deane pulled himself together.

  “Er—yes,” he said, “I was telling Miss Wellington she can have no idea how pleasant a yachting trip in the Mediterranean can be at this time of year. I remember some years ago——”

  He broke off. The girl had risen. She looked terribly pale and haggard, her small face peering out from the great collar of grey fur.

  “Sir Leo—Major,” she said, “I wonder if you would excuse me? I’m afraid I have overtired myself today. I usually go to bed very early. I don’t wish to seem impolite, but——”

  “Of course.” The Major’s alacrity was a little too spontaneous for true gallantry.

  Sir Leo rose. “I will see you to your room.”

  She shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m quite all right. I’m so sorry to be so silly. Perhaps we could continue our talk in the morning?”

  She steadied herself with an effort and controlled her shaking voice.

  “By that time I shall be quite ready to do anything you suggest, Sir Leo.”

  She went out, very small, very dignified, and somehow extraordinarily pathetic. The high panelled door closed behind her, and they heard her high-heeled shoes clicking on the polished parquet of the corridor.

  When the sound of her footsteps had died away Sir Leo spun round and faced the Major.

  “Not good enough, Deane,” he said sharply. “You’ll have to play your part bett
er than this. What’s the matter with you?”

  The bully in the man’s nature had never showed more clearly than it did at that moment, and before the onslaught the unfortunate crook drew back. But, like many weak characters, there was a querulous, sly side to his temper, which suddenly blazed up.

  “That’s just what I was going to say to you,” said Mr. Deane. “What are you playing at? What’s the big idea? When I came into this business I didn’t know there was going to be a perishing inspector from Scotland Yard in on the ground floor. What are you doing? Trying to frame me?”

  Sir Leo laughed, but the sound was not very convincing.

  “Good heavens, is that what’s worrying you?” he said.

  He helped himself to a cigar from a box on the table and lit it before continuing.

  “That policeman was an accident,” said Sir Leo airily. “He must have met the girl, seen that she was feeling ill, and brought her along. It’s just a coincidence, that’s all.”

  “Do you believe that?” Johnny Deane was regarding his employer thoughtfully.

  “Well, of course,” said Sir Leo testily. “What else could it have been?”

  “Policemen and coincidences don’t go together,” said the Major doggedly. “Not in my experience, anyway, and I’ve had plenty of both. And if it wasn’t a coincidence, what was it? That’s what I want to know. Are you trying to frame me?”

  Sir Leo sank down in his chair and laughed.

  “My dear good fellow, why should I go out of my way to do anything quite so futile and ridiculous? There’s no need to have a fit of hysterics every time you see a policeman.”

  Johnny flushed. The thrust had gone home, but he was still far from being convinced.

  “I don’t like it,” he said. “I’m superstitious, for one thing, and it’s unlucky to see a policeman walking with the bird you’re out to pluck.”

  Sir Leo frowned and broke the ash off his cigar into the tray on his table.

  “I don’t like your conversation, Deane,” he said. “I don’t like your mind. Good heavens, what have you possibly got to fear?”

  “That’s what I want to know,” said Johnny Deane, coming forward. “And that’s what I’ve got to know before I go on any further in the business. What am I letting myself in for? You’ve promised me twenty pounds a week for life as long as I remain married to that poor invalid kid you’re responsible for. As long as I don’t divorce her you guarantee that I needn’t live with her or support her. That’s the bargain, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” said Sir Leo without looking up. “That’s it, my friend, and an extremely advantageous one from your point of view, if I may say so.”

  Johnny Deane was a crook of some experience, and whatever his other shortcomings might have been, he was not a complete fool. A faint smile spread over his ignoble countenance.

  “Yes,” he said softly. “A very good bargain for me. Almost too good. And when I say that, Sir Leo, I mean suspiciously good. When you put this yarn up to me you told me that you were very fond of the little girl, that you wanted to see her married. It made it sound as though you were something philanthropic. I didn’t know you then as well as I do now, and perhaps I thought you were one of these rich eccentric old birds, not quite as steady on the top story as you ought to be.

  “Look at it from my point of view, Sir Leo,” he went on, changing his tone. “When you come down here I find you’re not so keen on the girl as I’d supposed. No one seeing you with her for half a minute, you know, could imagine that you thought any more of her than you would of a stock or a bond in which you were interested. After we struck our bargain I come down here and hang about for you to arrive and introduce me to the lady, and when you do come, what do I find? ‘There’s the girl,’ you say, and there she darned well is, on the arm of a blinking copper. No, I’m sorry, old boy, you’ve picked the wrong man.”

  Sir Leo, who had listened to this harangue in silence, an amused smile upon his lips, glanced up sharply on the last words.

  “And what exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Deane?”

  The question, put so quietly yet with such a force of interrogation behind it, pulled the Major up sharply. He fell back on bravado.

  “Just exactly what I say, old man,” he said, albeit somewhat uncomfortably. “Just exactly what I say. I’m through. I don’t like the sound of the business as much as I did, and the bargain’s off. You must get someone else to marry that kid of yours, for it’s not going to be Johnny Deane. I’ve done all sorts of risky things in my life, but always with my eyes open. I’m not one of these guys who work in the dark. That’s all I’ve got to say.”

  He paused uncomfortably. Sir Leo was not looking at him. He was leaning back in his chair, his eyes closed, puffing leisurely at his cigar.

  Mr. Deane moved towards the door.

  “Well, I’m off,” he said jauntily. “Sorry we couldn’t do business.”

  “Don’t go, Deane.”

  It was not a request but a quiet command, and in spite of himself the crook stayed exactly where he was. Sir Leo did not go on speaking immediately, and the other man remained uncomfortably, his hand on the doorknob.

  The silence lasted for perhaps a minute, and again Mr. Deane attempted to take his leave.

  “It’s no good, I can’t reconsider it,” he said. “I’ve thought it over, and I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Don’t be silly, Deane.” Sir Leo’s tone was gentle and if anything a trifle bored. “You will move into this hotel tomorrow, and I will make arrangements for the ceremony as soon as possible. You’re perfectly all right as long as you don’t talk. Get that well into your head.”

  “Now then, now then, no funny business!” Johnny was becoming impatient. “I’m out of this. Get that into your head.”

  “I’m afraid you’re not.” Sir Leo was still leaning back with closed eyes. “I’m afraid you’re in this inextricably, Mr. Deane. If you’re wise you’ll go home and go to bed now, and dream about your future wife, for if you make any foolish attempts to back out of your bargain, or above all, if you so far forget yourself as to have a long heart-to-heart talk with Inspector Blest or any other police officer, then I’m afraid the Yorkshire Constabulary will have to hear the sad story of the wealthy Mr. Emlyn Maughan, which may lead them to make a search of a certain disused stone quarry in the vicinity of that interesting little hamlet, Manchester.”

  On the last words he opened his eyes and glanced across the room. The change in the unfortunate Major was pitiful. The colour had vanished from his face, and his eyes were round, brown, and terrified, like a beaten dog’s.

  “I didn’t do it,” he said. “It wasn’t me. I saw him there, but I didn’t kill him. On my dying oath I swear it—I——”

  “That’s all right.” Sir Leo cut him short. “Don’t distress yourself, my dear fellow. Have a cigar. I have no doubt that you could make a very satisfactory story to the police, one which perhaps you could make them believe, but in case you should not care to go to all that unnecessary bother, why not carry on with our little bargain whereby you will receive an assured annuity of one thousand, payable at twenty pounds a week.”

  Johnny Deane was a broken man. His lips were still white, and he was trembling.

  “All right,” he said. “All right. Move into this hotel tomorrow, you said? I’ll be here. Good-night, sir.”

  “Good-night, Deane,” said Sir Leo cheerfully, adding, “Don’t look so downtrodden, man. You’re going to be married.”

  Sir Leo’s Thyn’s mood lasted until the Major was well out of the suite. As soon as he was alone, however, it vanished with remarkable suddenness. He sat up, threw away his cigar, and strode up and down the room, his hands thrust deep in his pockets. His forehead was creased and his dark eyes almost hidden by the heavy rolls of flesh above them.

  The soft opening of the anteroom door made him turn abruptly.

  “Oh, it’s you, Marsh, is it?” he said. “Do come in. I want to talk to you.�
�

  Saxon Marsh came into the room noiselessly. He was a tall man whose hair had once been red but had now faded to a nondescript colour midway between straw and white.

  Perhaps the most startling fact about him was the remarkable thinness of his face. The bones of his skull showed clearly, and his deep-set pale eyes looked as though they were set in a skeleton.

  He had been one of Sir Leo’s private clients for thirty years, and there were many strange stories told of his curious hermit-like existence. He was reputed to be very rich, but few people actually knew much about him.

  He perched himself now on the extreme edge of the formal little sofa which was part of the room’s ornate suite and crossed his long thin legs, encased in tight striped trousers.

  Sir Leo stood with his back to the window and regarded him.

  “The police,” he said.

  Saxon Marsh nodded. “Yes, Inspector Blest. A personable young officer, very well thought of at the Yard, I believe.”

  His voice had a curious impersonal note in it, as though he were talking about things that could not possibly concern him.

  The other man went on.

  “The girl was lying. She met Inspector Blest in the lounge at three o’clock this afternoon. After half-an-hour’s conversation they went for a ride in his car. She was returning from this ride when you met her. I inquired discreetly about this and heard it from the commissionaire.”

  Sir Leo’s face darkened. “I guessed that, but I hoped it wasn’t true,” he said resignedly. “How much did she tell him, do you think?”

  Saxon Marsh shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows?” he said. “But one thing she can’t have told him, the thing that is really interesting.”

  Sir Leo looked at him questioningly.

  “That the man who marries her before she is twenty-five inherits three hundred thousand pounds,” said Saxon Marsh, still in the same odd singsong tone. “She would hardly have told him that, my dear Thyn, because she doesn’t know it herself.”

  Sir Leo swore.

  “Why on earth did old Silas Gillimot make such an idiotic will?”