The Evil Chateau

Putaruru Press, 9 March 1933, Page 7

The Evil Chateau

SERIAL STORY

By

SYDNEY HORLER.

(All Rights Reserved)

DRAMA IN THE DARK. “D’ye feci like a bit of bridge, Heritage?” The elderly medical man who played such an astonishingly good game of tennis, had crossed from his usual corner to ask the question. The lounge of the Hotel Chester was never so British as during the after-dinner hour. With utter disregard for any newcomers’ convenience, the old-stag-ers reserved the best easy-chairs by placing books, knitting or other impedimenta on them prior to entering the adjacent dining-room. That evening, in a malicious mood, Heritage had ruffled the feathers of a particularly objectionable retired Colonel by removing the magazine with which this obnoxious person had stalced-out a new claim, and appropriating the chair himself. Result: scowls and rumblings under which barrage Stephen had remained outwardly calm. Even with this diversion, he was feeling bored, however—the evenings drag infernally on the Riviera unless

you are a millionaire and can afford to spend money every minute of the time —and it was a relief, therefore, to receive the invitation. A» In most hotels, the company was composed of (1) Certain people, the ex-Colonel included to whom he would have liked very dearly to be extremely rude; (2) A larger group who interested him not at all, and (3) A select few with whom he had struck up a superficial friendship, This short list included Dr. Thoms and liiß wife. Both were most agreeable people who played an excellent game of bridge. “Thanks very much, doctor—f shall be delighted." - “Good I Mrs Crosfield,’ indicating an elderly specimen of the travelling Englishwoman type, “will make the fourth. But we can’t play in this infernal row—let’s go into the reading- j room.” I Leaving an ebullient clergyman’s wife and her group of incessant chatterers in possession, they fixed themselves up in the reading-room next door. With three keen and determined bridge-players in association, Stephen had little time for introspection, but when, after a couple of hours’ play, the party broke up (“if I don’t get to bed early in this place. I’m absolutely done”—Mrs Crosfield), Heritage recommenced to wonder moodily what he should do with himself for the rest of the evening. The night was still absurdly young—it was only a little after ten—-it was useless to go to bed, and—

His brooding was interrupted by a hand being placed on his arm. “You mustn’t mind my saying so, young man, but you look a little under the weather. The ordinary fellow wants to take plenty of exercise here if he is to keep fit. That’s why I go up to tennis every morning. What about coming along to-morrow?” “It’s very good of you, doctor, I—”

He did not know what else to add. He knew very well what he would have liked to say; he would have liked to have drawn this kindly-faced elderly sportsman, who was the best type of Englishman in the hotel—the sort who came to play games and to enjoy the sunshine—into a quiet corner and confide in him. But that would mean a loan, for Thomas would make an instant offer, he felt certain. And to accept that loan with no prospect of being able to repay it, was beyond his courage. Even though the oportunity was now thrust at him, he could not summon the necessary nerve. “How are you finding things here? Happy, comfortable—any worries?” No, hell, he simply couldn’t do it! Pulling himself together sufficiently to look the inquirer in the face, he replied: “Oh, everything’s top-hole, doctor—of course 1”

“That’s good,” answered Thoms in the tone of a man who means “That’s bad.”

Then, his wife calling “Harry,” the would-be Good Samaritan turned away. It was really none of his business, of course, but he was sure that that very likeable young fellow had something on his mind. He seemed up against things. Gambling, he supposed. That cursed Casino again. Dr. Harry Thoms went thoughtfully to bed.

The man of whom he had been thinking returned to the lounge. Apart from one party of bridge players, this was deserted; the Chester was an eai;ly-to-bed Riviera hotel, except on the nights when small dances were held.

Heritage endeavoured to become interested in the three-weeks-old Tatler which he had brought along from the reading room, but the remarkable plainness of the women photographed in its pages was distressing. He flung the paper aside and lit a cigarette—the last in his case.

The proper thing for him to do was to go to bed. Either that, or get a book and read until such time as he should become reasonably tired. Both appalled, him. He knew it would be impossible to sleep, whilst whet book could hope to hold his attention? The events of the past week were quite enough for him; he did not require any futile fictional excitement. Finishing the cigarette, he walked across the room in the direction of the short winding stairway which. led down to his room.' His mind was made

up; he would put on hat and coat and go for a walk. The choice was extremely limited; there was only the Groisette, of which he was heartily sick, but at least it extended for some distance, and the sea-air might induce a sufficient drowsiness to ensure some sleep when he returned.

That was what h j wanted—forgetfulness, if only for a few hours. In the morning he would have to tackle Caron. Possibly the amiable Swiss would be willing to accept his luggage in lieu of payment. Possibly he wouldn’t. In that case . . . but what was the good of speculating? He was tired of seeing people, and so, after putting on hat and coat, he left the hotel by means of the window which opened out on to the grounds. Two minutes later he was in the steep rue St. Nicholas walking towards the sea- front.

Skirting the railway station, where there was the usual activity, down the steps, on through the narrow rue J. de Riouffe, across he cobbled rue d’Antibes, and he found himself facing the Casino. A cold wind blew from the sea, and he turned up the cojlar of his overcoat. Standing On the pavement outside the offices of one of the big tourist companies, he waited for a few moments, At this time, half-past ten, thi; rest of the town seemed dead, but, although it wanted another hour-and-a half before the real gamblers arrived, a constant stream of cars were drawing up before the Casino. Men and women in evening dress were converging on rooL hound for the same destination. For the laßt six nights he haJ been a membfil* 6f that throng himself. Tonight—•—

The hundred-franc note in his righthand waistcoat pocket seemed to burn his fingers as he touched it. Giving j a short, bitter laugh, he started to j cross the road. What was a hundred francs in this town of millionaires? He despised himself as he turned in through the big swing doors. So much for his resolution. So much for his will. He had started out to go for a long walk, and yet here he was back at the place which had already ruined him. Well, what about it? They couldn’t get much more out of him; and to all intents and purposes he was as penniless now as if that note had gone the way of all the rest. He was saved the five francs admittance, for his Baccarat Club ticket had still a week to run. The Baccarat Room itself was out of the question, of course, but the Bouie tables to the right of the big central hall were open to such impoverished people as himself, and he passed through.

Bouie, a very modified form of roulette, is a stupid game, with the odds always against the backer, but to those who cannot afford to sit at the baccarat tables, it provides a form ff gambling at which the losses need not be very heavy, considering that the maximum stake even on either of the two series of numbers is limited by the cauLious Casino authorities to 300 francs.

Heritage knew that the only method to. extract any amusement out of the game was to have a brief, brisk gamble. Fooling about with small bets led merely to boredom. Although the scene had become ao familiar by this time, he ignored the approach of the red-faced, black-mou-stached changeur, one of six patrolling the room eager to do service, and stood watching the players. He recognised two people. One was the wizened, witch-like wife of the exColonel at the Chester, with whom he had had a silent passage-at-arms over the corner easy-chair after dinner. In spite (or perhaps because qf) his belligerent attitude to the rest of humanity, the retired military man was very subservient to the wishes of this haglike creature who by some unfathomable means had snared him into matrimony. Every evening after dinner, she extended her hand for her husband to kiss, which he dutifully did, and then left him to his own' resources whilst she hastened-to the Bouie room at the Casino, there to hover over the table like some human vulture whilst watching the fate of the solitary franc she staked at every coup. Stephen had disliked the woman on sight. She wks unmistakably “fo-

I reign,” and to his mind there was something sinister and unhealthy about her. No, as she gathered in her small winnings, there was a cruel light in her eyes. He looked away, feeling disgusted. The next moment lie felt his breath being cut short; he had a feeling of being momentarily stifled. Directly opposite him was the girl who had passed him at dusk that evening when he had been sitting on the Croisette. The Girl of the Baccarat room, as ho had mentally called her. As always, she was simply if perfectly dressed. She wore no jewels except a small string of pearls about her graceful neck. Her beautiful hands and still more beautiful arms had no adornment. In contrast with every other woman there she looked like a visitor from another world.

An insane thought came to Heritage as lie looked at her. He wanted to catch her up in his arms and carry her away from this contamination. She had no right to be in this atmosphere tainted by evil. This passionate if absurd wish must have flashed some subconscious message to the girl, for she looked up. Her eyes gave him recognition and greeting. Stephen felt the blood mount to his face. He was conscious that the hard reptilian eyes of Colonel Monassey's wife were upon him in a calculating stare. To cover his confusion he moved away and beckoned a changeur, who, from the black leather satchel he wore round his waist, changed the hundred-franc note into a number of different, coloured counters. A minute later Heritage sat down at another table to play.

“Mesdames et messieurs, faites vos Jeux . . The metallis-voiced official in charge of the wheel sent the rubber- ball on its last journey—the last se far as Stephen Heritage was He had exactly ten francs left, an<k 'he placed the counter on “5." . ,

The ball came finally to rest. “Deux I” came the drone. . It was the end. He had lost exVry cent he possessed. At shortly nfte“r eleven he had been winning over ""a 4 thousand francs. If he had stopped''*then he would have achieved the oh- It' ject that had been in Jiis mind—he ~ would have been able to pay his hotel bill. Now he was penniless—not practically, but absolutely. He hadn't even a franc left to tip the cloak room attendant who would help him on with his coat.

He gave no thought to anyone as he rose from his seat; and, apart from the bored-looking official with the receding chin who sat on the right of the man at the wheel, and whose sleepy eyes noticed everything, no one took a a second glance at him. Being cleaned out—whether the process tobk a hundred or a million francs—was such a commonplace that those watching would have remained indifferent even had they known.

He was out in the frcsli air at last—away from the mincing-mannered officials whose smile were as false as their dyed hair, and who did not seem so much men as mechanical figures wound up to last until dawn. Strangely enough, Stephen did not feel a fool; h e had got past that stage. He just felt that he had come really to the finish. His ill-luck was completed: it had described a full circle and spent itself. *- Disregarding the taxi-drivers who came clamouring, he turned to the left and sat on a seat in that tree-lined space which has the high-sounding title of Allees de la Liberte. Barely a week before he had joined in the carnival held here.

He felt in his pocket, pulled out his cigarette case, and found it empty. Inevitably his mind travelled back to the scene in the London office just ten days previous.

“I'm sorry Heritage, but with business as it is we have no alternative but to cut :Own our outside staff. We shall pay you a month’s money, of course. :. . ."

Although he had been prepared, for several weeks, for something of the sort, the shock was not lessened. Once again his damnable destiny had run true to form. He had ability, every one admitted that, but he never seemed to be able to find his right niche. He did not wish to make any excuses, but he had proved the unquestionable truth that one wanted a factor infinitely more vital than mere ability itF order to succeed in life. That fadUOr was LUCK—with each letter a capital. Without it you were doomed.

(To be Continued 1