“The Evil Chateau”

King Country Chronicle, Volume XXVI, Issue 3448, 22 November 1932, Page 6

“The Evil Chateau”

By SYDNEY HORLER.

CHAPTER XI.—THE EVIL SPINNERS. This room, both in its furnishings and its proportions, evoked visions of grandeur. It had been planned by a talented architect in those days when the owners of great French names had sent craftsmen to build their wonderhomes in unspoilt Provence. The man and woman seated at the oval mahogany-table, gliLtering with glass and silver, were in keeping with the room; they more than “belonged”; One fell that it was they alone who mattered; they were above the setting, splendid as that was. The servant, who had waited on them —a man of some indeterminate Slavonic breed, dressed In a curious uniform —had gone and now mother and son were alone. “It is cold; I will sit by the fire, Antoine.” The Count de la Siagne rose instantly and walked to the high-backed chair on the opposite side of the table. “Dearest, you should have spoken before,” he said. His voice had the tenderness of a lover’s. The aged woman from whose once still beautiful eyes the sight had gone, so that now their glory was hidden hy a film, laid her cheek against the hand that was on her shoulder.

“You always did spoil your poor old mother, Antoine." “One does not ‘spoil’ the world’s most wonderful woman, ma mere; one merely loves. Now . . . gently." With infinite devotion, he helped her to her feet and then, walking with slow, steady step, he guided her :o another high-backed chair placed by the side of the great hearth in which glowed and spluttered a fire of giant logs. This woman was very old —but age had added to rather than taken from her original queenliness. In spite of her fragility which caused her to look like a Dresden figure, she retained a suggestion of strength that was remarkable. She was 82 years of age, but her white hair still grew luxuriously. Piled high above the clean-cut features, it lent the face an additional pallor. And it did something else; it gave the impression that this aged French aristocrat was a figure of steel —cold, glistening, and somehow sinister. Anyone who had been present in that room watching her would have said that the woman diffused in an atmosphere of dread, that in some unexplained way, she was uncanny. That there was great affection between these two became increasingly plain. To each of these human devils stewing in a Hell of their own devising and deliberate choice the other was the dearest thing in Life. They were bound by other ties than those of blood; the Devil had forged chains which kept them prisoners, but which they would not have broken if they had had the choice. “And now, Antoine, you shall tell your mother all that has happened.” The pair made an effective picture—the man of sixty sitting like a at his mother’s feet . . . his head pillowed against her knees. A tiny white hand, remarkably still for its beauty, caressed his forehead with light, soothing touches of the fingertips. With the firelight playing upon the sensitive and regal features of both man and woman, they presented a scene which would have struck any painter of genius with sudden inspiration. “Westover’s dead body was found outside the Casino at Cannes last night," said the Count. He felt the body of his mother stiffen. The Count laughed. It was a low, musical laugh. He might have been enpoying some subtle joke. “Dorando, mother mine, did the job rather neatly ... a knife-thrust through the heart. There will be no chance of that Englishman talking too much.” Like an icy wind came the woman’s comment: “He should never have been allowed to leave here, Antoine. He was valuable in many senses—once here, he should have been retained.” “I know, dearest.” The tone was humble, almost contrite. “But Conrad has been punished—-such an accident will never occur again.” “It might have been fatal if this man Westover had talked.” His mother was still brooding. He pressed the tiny hand to his lips. “You are despondent to-night, ma mere; it is not like you. We take risks certainly, but we have already agreed that they are necessary. Every now and then a wealthy visitor to the Riviera disappears, but what if they have been said to visit the Chateau of the White Wolf? lam known to he a hospitable person: my poor old mother likes company—she is blind and so finds time drag rather heavily upon her hands and aren’t there many evil people to be found along' the Mediterranean Coast?” He used a tone of light banter and gentle raillery. “To cheer you up, ma mere,” he continued: “I will say that you may shortly expect a visitor.” There was silence in the great room except for the. rustle of the woman’s dress as she moved in her chair. “I am blind and 1 find time drag rather heavily upon my hands —” the words were accompanied hy a peal of laughter that, although silvery, would have chilled the blood of any listener. There was Hell in that laughter, and

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tliu i'acc of almost unearthly beauty became devilish. The Count felt the tiny hands of his mother grip his shoulders lightly as she asked a question. “Man or woman, Antoine?” “Woman, ma mere. A very beautiful girl named Felicity Howard —” “English, then?” “As English as the rose she so closely resembles. We must do our best to make her happy, mother, for she is wealthy, and if she approves of the Chateau she might recommend it to her friends. Since we have turned hotel-keepers we must do our best to secure future custom.” A second tinkle of silvery laughter greeted the remark. On the surface there was nothing wrong either in what the Count de la Siagne said or in his mother’s encouraging mirth; they might have been enjoying in the privacy of their own company a rather thin but favourite jest. But outside the door, a servant, about to enter with some message, turned round as she heard the laugh and ran so hard, her hand pressed to her mouth to keep back the rising scream, that Satan himself might have been at her heels. “Yes, mother,” continued the Count, “we must do everything we can for Miss Howard. She is so charming that lam already in love with her —" “Antoine?” interrupted his mother, with another of those terrible laughs, “you arc most amusing.” “It is true,” he insisted; “next to you, ma mere, I consider Miss Howard to he the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.” “You are keeping something back, my son; you arc not telling me everything.” Once again the hand that was so small it might have belonged to a child was caressing his forehead. “What can I tell you, ma mere, except that Miss Howard is attached to the British Intelligence Department?” “Ah!” The Count could feel a wave of emotion pass through his mother’s body. “And that she is—or was—a friend of that man Westovcr?” she asked. “That would not surprise me. She is, I should say, a girl of unimpeachable virtue and yet she displayed rather marked friendliness to me, a perfect stranger, when I approached her in th e Casino last night.” “Ah!” said his mother again. “This morning I was fortunate enough to run across Miss Howard again in the Rue d’Antibes and when I raised the question of paying a visit to the Chateau, she said she would be pleased to come quite soon. All that is needed now is a letter offering a definite invitation.” “And that you will send?” “Immediately, clearest.” “I am blind'and time drags rather heavily upon my hands.” The old woman chanted her dreadful litany again and then bent down and kissed her son’s forehead. “Your news pleases me, Antoine,” she said; “I shall sleep well to-night, for you have made me happy. Will \ou please ring for Dorando? ’’ Alone in the vast room, the Count cle la Siagne lit a cigar and, leaning back in a padded leather chair, reviewed recent events. As his mother had said, the fact that Westover, the meddlesome Englishman, had been allowed to escape, was to be regretted. A great deal might have been learned from this son of a highly-placed politician. But Conrad had been punished so seriously he would never be able to offend again, and, in any case, Dorando had repaired the blunder so far as was possible. Dorando must be back by this time. He would see him. Pressing a bell, ne waited until the Slav, who had waited at dinner, appeared. “See if Dorando is back. If he is, send him here at once.” The man bowed and left. Within three minutes there was a knock on the door. An Italian of hangdog appearance shuffled into the room. He looked furtively at the Count. "Your report, Dorando.” The man shuffled his feet.

(To be continued.)