"The Evil Chateau"

King Country Chronicle, Volume XXVI, Issue 3444, 12 November 1932, Page 6

"The Evil Chateau"

By SYDNEY HORLER.

CHAPTER Vll.—(Continued.) Trusting he did not look quite such a l'ool as he l'elt, Laxendale shook hands, bowed and departed. Until he left the Casino, he pondered deeply on th c following problems: When a girl one admires and respects plainly tells you to clear off, even though she herself is loft in the company of a wrong 'un, what is one to do? Well, anyway, he finally compromised with his conscience, it wasn't as though she hadn't received due warning. Thank God, playing tennis was less complicated than trying to fathom the mind of a woman. He departed in haste, a huff and a taxi cab. # # «• * The Count de la Siagne turned o the companion whom even his ultrasophisticated eye considered inexpressibly charming. "It is not often that an American is so discreet—and considerate," he remarked. "But this passion for playing games is so absorbing to Mr Laxendale, I understand; it is the better port of his life. For myself, I like tennis—but there are so many other things which go to make up existence. Is it not so, Mademoiselle?" "Oh, of course." She made herself appear in agreement with him. "When I winter at home, for instance, I am extremely fond of hunting, but that does not prevent me enjoying the Riviera." "It is a delightful coast, Mademoiselle—l must get you to honour me when our acquaintanceship is further advanced by a visit to my Chateau." She affected surprise. "You have a Chateau here, Count? How delightful! I have always found romance in the very word 'Chateau.' Our English 'Castle' isn't at all the same; it sounds cold and chilling, whereas 'Chateau' suggests to mo white towers glistening in the sun. "Yes," the man said; "it is as I imagined ; you have a poetic soul. That being so, perhaps you will consider my house, which is a little way beyond Vence on the way to Gourdon, will, from its title, partake more of one of your English Castles than a Chateau of Pair Provence. For it is called 'The Chateau of the White Wolf.' " " 'The Chateau of the White Wolf," she repeated in her character of the romantic girl she was supposed to be. "I don't think anything could be more thrilling. Vence. That is not far, Is it? I could motor up one day and have tea."

"When you come you must stay to dinner. Then I will motor you back to your hotel in the moonlight." "Count" she cried softly, clapping her hands; "you are almost romantic." "Romance is the breath of life — without it some of us would die i And now," with a change of tone, "I have talked enough about myself, have trespased upon your kindness too long. You play, I suppose? Shall we stroll into the Baccarat Room?" * * * * For an hour she played. She was indifferent to the ebb and flow of fortune; what she was acutely conscious of was the concentrated gaze of the onlookers. Was this, due to the fact that the Count de la Siagne stood behind her chair all the time she punted at the ten Louis table? A wave of repulsion made her feel suddenly tired. It had been rather a trying night for her. The surroundings in that room became suddenly hateful. She could not stay in it any longer. She would have half an hour at the innocuous Boule in the big hall to rest her nerves and then go home. She made her last wager and rose. "So soon?" whispered the Count; "if you require any money, I shall be honoured to become your banker." Felicity looked him straight in the eyes. "I remain my own banker at Baccarat, Count," she said: "and now I must wish you good night" He appeared slightly taken aback, but recovered himself immediately. "Is it permitted for me to see you home?" "Not to-night, thank you. I shall be quite all right. It is only a short journey to the Mont Fleury and there i are plenty of taxid." She knew he would seize on the name of her hotel. "The Mont Fleury. ... I will telephone. Mademoiselle, you have given me two hours' enchantment. I am grateful and shall not forget your generosity. We shall soon meet again." "But, of course," she replied with a little laugh; "aren't I looking forward to seeing your so picturesquelynamed Chateau?" A minute later she had passed through the heavy revolving doors of the room to receive greetings from a trio of physionomistes whose duty it is to recall the features of every one who passes in and out. The darkhaired janitor with the cynical eyes standing nearest the door, bowed. "Mademoiselle is leaving early," he remarked. "Yes, I feel merciful," she answered quickly, and the man, whose face Lold that he had watched this pageant of so-called pleasure until he knew now nothing but disillusion, smiled. "Mademoiselle is chivalrous —bon soir, mademoiselle." Drawing her cloak round her, Felicity walked past the vestaire, crowded

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with men, leaving their coats and hats, and passed on into the large hall. This, the 'kitchen' of the Cannes Casino, was crowded to the point of suffocation with a very mixed throng. The air was so stale as to be almost unbearable. Keeping to her resolve to have a few minutes' quiet relaxation at one of the Bouie tables before leaving, Felicity showed her Baccarat Club ticket to the officials at the one franc entrance to lbe room on the left, who allowed their masks of faces to slip info a smile. She had scarcely sat down before she noticed some one staring at her from the other side of the table. It was the man whose personality had so interested her during the last few days. She had seen him many times during the past week in the Baccarat Boom and on each occasion she had been tempted to speak. In such a place the action would have been scarcely unconventional. At the first glance she had decided that he belonged to that class who should never have passed through that heavy revolving door, watched by the physionomistes. He was poor, and, therefore, desperate. His history was written in his face; he had scraped together a hundred pounds, perhaps, and had come a thousand miles to try to turn it into a fortune. How pitiable.

He was a gentleman—at least, he had come from good stock. Breeding was there: if the luck had not been against him, he would have been staying at the Carlton, the Mont Fleury, or the California not considering each five franc note before he spent it. She really would like to speak to him. Strange that this shabby clerk —she decided that, back in England he must be a clerk or a commercial travel lev, but whatever it was he hated it with all the strength of his being—should hold her interest in a place where the famous and the picturesque jostled one on very hand — and yet there it was. Felicity played mechanically. Boule is a stupid game, in any case, and she had something very much more absorbing to occupy her mind than wagering sums which, even if she had a run of good fortune, would not have paid a week's hotel bill. After a while, she left her seat and joined the crowd that was watching the play at the adjoining table. The man at whom she had flashed a look of recognition—he had looked so unutterably lonesome, sitting on that seat outside the Madrid that afternoon, that the gesture had been more or less involuntary—was still unlucky, it seemed. His face had the unmistakable drawn, grim expression of the gambler who is losing money which he cannot afford to lose. Finally, with a snatch of white teeth against the lower lip, he rose and walked unsteadily away. Felicity, again acting on an impulse, followed. She had seen other men leave the' gambling rooms with that same lurching movement —and the next day there had been whispers hi the Baccarat Boom and the hotels. . . . Bodies found in the harbour, on lonely roads outside the town, in motor cars, the engines of which had been silent for many hours . . . She was going to prevent this threatened tragedy if possible. Although Stephen Heritage did not know, she was close behind him as he walked along the harbour wall on his way to the sea which he had intended should be his grave; she had glided into a shadow as he stopped, his attention drawn to the murderer's victim—and after Heritage had gone, she too, had walked across to the body. One look, and she had felt her heart bounding. The dead man was Gerald Westover. CHAPTEB VIII. —FELICITY ACTS. Even in the uncertain light of the quay-lamp, there could be no mistake —the body stretched out in that horrible sprawl was that of Gerald Westover, the man she had come to Cannes to find. A brief examination showed that he had been murdered through a knife stab in the heart. Poor old Gerry! Her mind went back to the night he had danced with her at the Embassy in Bond street barely a month ago. He had looked so attractive, so buoyant, so much alive that night that if he had attempted to kiss her in the car going home, she

And now he was dead. She rose, pulling her cloak closely about her shoulders. The police must he informed; the body could not he left there. After that there were other things to see to —the British Consul would have to he interviewed. Sir Godfrey Bar ringer cabled. Lord Dalrymple would come out, no doubt, to take the body home. A man sauntered past, looking at her curiously. He was of the night-hawk-type, but the fact gave her no misgivino-. 'A man has been killed —will you please fetch a gendarme?" she said. 'I will wait here until he comes." As though recognising the quality of the speaker, the man courteously raised his hat. "11, is an honour to servo Mademoiselle," lie replied and went off into the darkness. Tt was four o.'clock before Felicity got to her room that morning. And when at last she was in bed sleep would not come. The tragic surprise of that night had upset her nerve.

For a man of Gerry Westover s virility and charm to be cut off—brutally murdered—at the age of 29,; the thought filled the world with grastliness. (To be continued.)