CHAPTER FOUR
THE GIRL WHO WAS ALWAYS ALONE
CHRISTMAS had come and gone, a strange, unreal Christmas, with none of those rigors and austerities that Hugh had been accustomed to associate with the season. The long stretch of garden in front of the Casino was enamelled with patterns of pink, purple and milky cyclamen, as brilliant as banners against the green; the ribbon-like paths were terra-cotta; and the usual indolent gardeners were shaving and shampooing the velvety lawns.
Hugh was feeling elaborately well. In the last two months a great change had come over him. His pale face had taken on a healthy tan; its hollows had disappeared. A new force, a new courage possessed him; he looked a lithe, swift youth, as clean as fire.
It was then with a joyous sense of recovered manhood that he took the early train one morning for La Turbie, and started to walk to Menton. As he swung along the High Corniche it seemed as if he was looking over the nose of an aeroplane. The brilliant panorama of shore and sea expanded before his gaze. He saw the Rock rising like a huge hump from the water, the crowded red roofs of the Principality, the dainty hoop of the harbour. His gaze shifted to the dazzling curve of the coast, the pretentious Casino, Cap Martin with its gleam of modern villas in ancient olive groves. A desire to paint this beauty kindled and glowed within him.
He climbed to the ruins of the old castle of Roquebrune and gazed through a round window onto a dizzy gulf of sea and sky. His reverie was disturbed by a sound of voices and as he descended to the courtyard he saw a woman standing by the battlements, looking out into the great, shining space. She was tall and graceful, dressed in a jersey costume of primrose silk. It was Mrs. Belmire.
As if she had known he was there, she stretched her hand backwards, without turning her head.
“Come here,” she commanded.
Hugh obeyed. He took the outstretched hand and was drawn gently to her side.
“Isn’t it lovely,” she sighed.
He felt her hand tighten in his. He had a sudden desire to kiss her lovely neck. Slowly she turned towards him, then stepped back and stamped her foot in vexation.
“Oh, it’s you!” she cried. “Well, of all the— I thought it was Mr. Fetterstein.”
But quickly she recovered herself.
“I’ve a bone to pick with you, naughty young man. Why have you never come to see me?”
Hugh had no excuse ready.
“I had made up my mind not to speak to you again. But there! Good nature was always my weakness. Promise me to come soon and I’ll forgive you.”
While Hugh was promising another man joined them. Mrs. Belmire turned to the newcomer radiantly.
“Mr. Fetterstein; I want to introduce Mr. Kildair; a young countryman of mine.”
Mr. Fetterstein did not look enthusiastic, but mustered a show of cordiality.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said; and offered a large hard hand. In fact everything about Mr. Fetterstein suggested hardness. He looked muscular and forceful. His hair was iron grey; the lines of his clean-shaven face were firm and grim; his jaw strong; his eyes shrewd; his voice had a determined rasp. Even his clothes were made of some hard, wear-resisting tweed.
“Now, come,” said Mrs. Belmire; “I positively insist on your admiring this view.”
“If you insist, Mrs. Belmire, there is nothing more to be said. But you know how looking at scenery always makes me hungry. Even now I’ve got an appetite I wouldn’t sell for a twenty dollar bill. I grant you this is fine all right. We haven’t got anything in the United States that could touch it. But for my part I’d rather look into the inside of a good car than at the finest bit of scenery the Lord ever made.”
“Oh, you horrid materialist! But you must excuse him, Mr. Kildair. His enthusiasm is entirely professional. Mr. Fetterstein makes automobiles in America somewhere....”
“Detroit, Michigan, ma’am. We have five factories running right now. In fact I’m over here to pick up pointers from French cars. I’ve got one down there that’s a hummer. But that reminds me, Mrs. Belmire, we’d better be getting ong root if we want to make Song Reemo in time for dayjoonay. Come on. Let’s get down if you’ve had enough of your old ruin.”
Mrs. Belmire sighed. “I’m sorry you don’t appreciate my ruin.”
“I guess it’s a first class ruin all right, but they ain’t much in my line. Now, Mrs. Belmire, if you’ll kindly give me a few pointers on roulette when we get back to Monte Carlo to-night, that’d make a hit with me.”
They descended to the village square where stood a long vicious-looking, torpedo-shaped car. It was painted a warm orange, with finishings of nickel. In the curving body was a well with two seats, and the whole thing looked like an aeroplane without wings.
“Twelve cylinders,” said Mr. Fetterstein, as he climbed into the raking seat. Mrs. Belmire looked distinctly nervous but bravely adjusted her cloak and veil. Mr. Fetterstein raced the engine, jammed in his first speed; the car leapt forward like a flame. Hugh saw it flashing down the white road and thrilled as it took the sharp curves. Then a shoulder of mountain hid it from his view.
“A most delightful woman,” he thought; “no wonder she has a lot of admirers. I wish I could call on her, but what’s the good. She’d only find out that I’m what Mr. Fetterstein would describe as a ‘four-flusher.’”
Hugh lunched and lounged in Menton, until he felt a strange nostalgia for Monte Carlo come over him.
“Curious,” he reflected; “already the place has such a hold on me, I cannot leave it even for a few hours.”
He jumped into a big lemon-coloured motor bus and in half an hour was sitting in the Café de Paris.
“Hullo, old chap,” he heard a shrill voice say, and looked up to see Mr. Jarvie Tope. Mr. Tope seemed as if he had stepped from a band-box, a flawless figure of a well-dressed man.
“Hullo!” responded Hugh. “You’re looking well.”
Mr. Tope raised his jaunty panama.
“I should think so, sixty and still going strong. Getting younger instead of older. Oh, I’m a great boy, I am.”
“Come and have tea with me,” Hugh begged.
Mr. Tope sat down. Together they gazed at the brilliant scene. The air was bright with banners and exultant with music. Gay crowds promenaded in front of the Casino. An aeroplane swooped down, scaring the drowsy pigeons on the cornice. Men watched it through their monocles, women from under their tiny frilled sunshades. Under the striped umbrellas elegant demi-mondaines sipped their orangeades; professional dandies, slim and elegant, passed amid the green tables; and dancing girls, befurred and bejewelled, sauntered on their way to the Thé Dansant. It was a kaleidoscope of colour; a moving pattern of dainty costumes; an entertainment that never lost its interest.
“Isn’t it just like a scene in a theatre?” said Mr. Tope. “That’s how it strikes me even after twenty years. A beautifully dressed crowd, beautifully behaved; yet below it all vice unfathomable. It sometimes reminds me of the rainbow iridescence one sees on a pool of scum.... By the way, I haven’t seen you tempting the fickle goddess?”
“No, I haven’t been inside the Casino.”
“Ha! that’s quite a distinction. I noticed you talking to old Bob Bender the other day.”
“Yes, he’s having rather a hard time. He’s waiting a backer from America.”
“Oh, you needn’t waste any sympathy on old Bob. He’ll never starve.”
“Why?”
“Well,” said Mr. Tope, lowering his voice to a whisper, “they say he’s in the service of the Secret Police.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ah, young man! you only see the showy side of Monte; but believe me, there’s a very seamy under one. This is the most cosmopolitan spot in the world, and criminals of all countries collect here. You might call it a sort of criminal clearing-house. Well, to counteract this, the Casino people have the most efficient police force in Europe. They have agents in all the big capitals; an international crook can’t put his foot in Monaco without being recognized and watched.”
“You surprise me.”
“Do I? Let me tell you: the rooms are full of detectives, male and female. The chief of the Secret Police is a man of genius, a Swiss called Krantz. He speaks seven languages and seems to have an eighth sense, the sense of detection. You may have seen him, a tall, thin man dressed in black with a dark, clean-shaven face. He always wears a smile of cheerful simplicity.”
“And Bob?”
“Oh, Bob’s just a spy. He keeps track of the English crooks and shadows if required. They say Krantz values him.”
“It seems very strange to me.”
“Not at all. If you only knew the underground workings of this place, the mentality, the way in which everything is run.... Why, here you’re not living in the Twentieth Century at all. It’s mediæval. Even now some spy may be trying to over-hear us.”
“A queer place!”
“Yes, and packed with the queerest people on earth. Now, for instance, that little girl in black, just entering.”
Hugh started. The girl was Margot Leblanc. He had not seen her for some time, and had wondered if she was still at the pension. She was dressed shabbily and as she passed he saw that her face was white and haggard, and her eyes stared vacantly before her. She sat down at a nearby table.
“Now, that girl,” continued Mr. Tope, “is a puzzle to me. She came here about two months ago and she has never been seen to speak to any one. She is always alone. Nobody knows anything about her. She spends most of her time in the Rooms gambling with small stakes. I have seen her stand silently at a table for hours.... By the way, here come my friends, the Calderbrooks. Let me introduce you.”
The Calderbrooks were so uncompromisingly English, that their nationality was recognizable a long way off. They wore tailored costumes made of the same kind of tweed, with stockings of wool and low tan shoes. Under broad-brimmed hats their faces were pink and cheerful. The mother was sweet; the girl pretty; the father a tall thin man, with drooping moustache, a mild manner, and pale blue eyes.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Calderbrook, after they had been introduced, “we’re going on to Mentony; but we thought we must spend a day or two here.... Perfectly beautiful! Mr. Tope tells me you don’t go to the Rooms? How very extraordinary! Of course, we strongly disapprove of the whole thing; but I think every one should go once, if it’s only to see. We’re going in now for the first time. Mr. Tope has promised to be our guide. We shall play just once to say we have done so. You’d better come with us.”
Hugh shook his head smilingly; “I’d rather not, thank you. I’ll wait here till you come out.”
“All right. Shan’t be long.”
Piloted by Mr. Tope the three mounted the carpeted steps, passed the bowing flunkeys, and disappeared through the swinging glass doors. In half an hour they reappeared. They were quite excited.
“It’s wonderful,” said Mrs. Calderbrook; “Alice put five francs on the twenty-one, that being her age. What do you think! The twenty-one came up. They paid her a hundred and eighty francs. Of course we stopped at once. It doesn’t do to abuse one’s luck. I really believe we are lucky. We’re going again to-night. Father will try this time,—won’t you, Father?”
Mr. Calderbrook said he would in his weak, refined voice. Alice was shyly radiant. Hugh wished them further good fortune and they returned to their hotel, eagerly talking of the play.
Hugh remained a while longer. He was watching the girl of his pension. Her face was pinched and peaked, her eyes strangely haunting in their pathos. She was so thin that he could see the outline of her sharp shoulder blades under her shabby jacket. Her bright hair was braided and coiled away under a hat of black crepe.
“Poor little devil,” Hugh thought; “she looks up against it.”
Presently she took a note-book with black glazed covers from her bag, and began to turn its pages abstractedly. Hugh saw that it was filled with columns of figures.
“Roulette records,” he thought again, “the same idiotic obsession.”
Soon she rose; and having finished his tea, he sauntered idly after her. He thought she was going to re-enter the Casino; but instead she turned up-hill in the direction of the town. He saw her climb the steps of the Church and enter its swinging door.
After waiting a little, he, too, entered. He found her seated in the cool dusk, her slim hands crossed and her eyes closed. Whether she was sleeping or praying he could not tell. He watched her for a while; then as she continued to sit immovable he went away.
Hugh had found that the strange theatrical charm of Monte Carlo was most obvious after dark, and he never tired of wandering through the still gardens, breathing the delicious freshness of the air. Whichever way he looked a picture formed itself. The tiny paths were like coral ribbands on a gown of green, embroidered with pansy patterns of crimson, violet and silver. Under the lamps the blades of the patrician palms shone like swords. There were lace-screens of translucent green, rich velvet dusks, and sudden surprises of silver. The fountain sprayed diamonds into the dark pool, from which came the ruddy flash of gold-fishes; the roses climbed the palms as if to reach the light.
That evening he took a seat on the terrace. He heard below him the soft crooning of the sea, and felt its cool breath. Behind him was starlight and softly luminous mountains; in front, deep violet space ... mystery, immensity.
A small form came slowly along the terrace. As it drew near he saw it was the strange girl who was always alone. Once or twice she stopped, looking out over the balustrade to the sea. As she passed him he saw that her face had the vacant look of a sleep-walker. She sank on a bench, and took a glazed note-book from her bag. As she looked at it she sighed with weariness. Her head drooped forward and she slept.
Another dark form drew near her, the furtive figure of a man. Softly he sat down on the same bench and seemed to edge nearer and nearer.
Hugh rose, making unnecessary noise. The man, with a start, glanced his way and swiftly disappeared. Yet in that flash Hugh had recognized him; it was that sinister individual, the Rat.
Hugh went for a walk in the Condamine and did not return until half past ten. He glanced down to the terrace; hunched on the bench, a solitary figure, the girl still slept.
When he got back to the pension, he found it strangely upset. The two Swedish ladies were going off in a fiacre with their baggage. Their faces were very red, and they gabbled furiously. The Twitcher and the Sword-Swallower were talking in low tones. The Rat was nowhere to be seen.
“Perhaps,” whispered Teresa, the waitress, “I shouldn’t tell you, but madame and mademoiselle have left us. They say some one has gone into their room and stolen money. It was done this afternoon. Fortunately for me I was away at the time. It is very annoying. Voila! it is evident we have in the house a thief.”