The Evil Chateau

Putaruru Press, Volume XI, Issue 252, 18 May 1933, Page 7

The Evil Chateau

SERIAL STORY

By

SYDNEY HOLLER

(All Bights | Reserved)

“To our next merry meeting,” the dispenser of hospitality proposed, raising his glass. In spite of the potency of the Giant’s Breath, Heritage lowered his drink at •a gulp. There had been a significant movement on the other side of the room; the mystery-girl had risen. “Doing anything to-night, you two?” He heard the words, but they had no meaning for him. He was beyond tile paltry scheming of the speaker—if l

scheming it was. “As a matter of fact, we haven’t,” Matcham’s answer accompanied the hardest nudge yet. “Well, in that case, what about a spot of dinner up at my villa? Er—•oh, I say—going?” Heritage, who had risen, turned swiftly. “ I’ll leave it to my pal to fix,” he said. “Yes, sorry, I must go.” A second later he was striding across the room; a hand caught the brass bar of the swing door, flung it open—and lie was outside. “Funny cove, your friend —what.'” commented the cripple. “It’s the girl he’s after,” put in the cripple’s companion; “he’s had his eye

■on her every second during the last ten minutes. He was very mushy.” Stic spoke with a certain hardness, somewhat at variance with her former “bonhomie,” and finished the sentence with a laugh. The cripple look a deep pull at his cigarette. “It's none of my business, of course, Mr Patchway,” he said, “but, as you are a stranger to Cannes, perhaps you won’t be above taking a tip from a friend?” “It’s very good of you.” “Your pal is heading for trouble if he intends taking up with that girl he’s evidently chasing. You saw the man she was with?” “Can’t say I took particular notice —I was otherwise engaged.” He grinned with deliberate foolishness at the girl, who stopped gnawing her underlip to acknowledge the compliment. “Well, he’s the Prince of all the crooks on this Coast,” was the reply: “and that’s saying something, you can take it from me. Has your friend much money?” “Oh, he’s pretty well fixed,” was the nonchalant response. “Then if he gets in with that fellow he’ll be stripped clean. Now about tonight; here’s my card; we’ll expect you both about 8. You needn’t trouble to dress; we’re very simple folk. Glad to have met you—ready, Dorothy?” They both nodded to a Bill Matcharn who, what with a couple of Giant Breaths and general bewilderment. »did not feel quite so clever as he would have liked. After the cripple and his companion had gone, he rose, filled with a fixed ■determination. He had to find Heritage. But when he reached the street Stephen was not to be seen. Bill turned to the right. Five minutes past one. Lunch at the Chester was at 1.15. The cocktails had made him hungry. There was no sense in his chasing all over Cannes. Steve would return to the hotel some time, he supposed. It was a rummy business, though what on earth had made him rush off like that?’* i Then, as he stepped oft into the ; roadway to allow the whole pavement , to a woman leading a Borzoi dog, who might have stepped out of a film, re- i velation came. j That girl old Stevo was chasing— j jumping snakes it must have been the > girl! And, if One-Leg could be believed, ] Joined up with a swell crook. Things promised to be lively in the ■near future. He decided it was a good, thing he had come to Cannes. Bill went to lunch with a light heart. CHAPTEB X.—THE GIRL OF ! SECRETS. Stephen’s one thought as he lefl Tiicolai’s' was not to let the mystery, girl-out of his sight. The determination to speak to her strengthened un til it became an obsession; he wouli know no peace until he had stood fact to face with her, looking into her eye: and demanding something of the truth He was not more than a dozen yard: ’behind the couple, and was conse quently in time to see the girl ste] into a wonderful Rolls, a chauffeur i horizon-blue uniform, which matcho the paintwork of the car, holding ope

the door. Tile bearded man gave the driver an address before he took his seat by the side of the girl. “The Mont Fleury.”

Heritage had been long enough in Cannes to be familiar with the names of most of the leading hotels. He knew that the Mont Fleury was one of those •caravanserai” patronised tlie rich and beautiful if not necessarily the good. Lords were practically tliree-a-penny there; one fell over them at nearly every step. Vicomtes and Barons littered the place. The Rolls shot off with noiseless silken swiftness, leaving him staring after it. Possibly it was merely his fancy, but Stephen imagined that, at the moment of the car leaving the kerb, the girl half-turned as though she might be trying, very discreetly, to get a glimpse of someone standing on the pavement. Himself? He hoped so. Hope never did any poor devil much harm, he reflected bitterly. Before the Rolls had turned the corner, he had plunged into the road. A taxi-cab, hooting like a fiend, was making for the entrance of the cocktailbar, having evidently been summoned to take a fare away.

“The Mont Fleury—quickly!” Heritage told the driver, and, without waiting for any reply, he swung the door open and got into the vehicle. The cupidity of the driver won the day. This Englishman was in a hurry. Mis experience told him that mosL Englishmen who came to Cannes paid well, but that those who were in a hurry paid especially well. No doubt, this one was going to lunch with a lady . , , Bien! Turning the bonnei of his rickety Juggernaut, he Ignored the call of the page-boy who had just emerged from Nicolai’s and started off in the direction of the Californie. The taxi-driver made excellent progress —so good, in fact, that the cab purled through the imposing entrance to the hotel grounds in sufficient time to allow the man who sprang from it to see the girl shaking hands on the hotel steps with her companion.

Thrusting a twenty-franc note into the taxi-driver's hand, Heritage walked forward rapidly. “Then I can expect you soon. Mademoiselle?” he heard the bearded exquisite say as he passed. “Yes —quite soon, Count. And thank you so very much for seeing me home.” “It has been an unforgettable pleasure.” lie bowed over her hand, raised his hat and walked down the steps. The girl turned and looked straight at Stephen Heritage. For the latter it was an unforgettable moment —a moment that he was to recall frequently in later life; a moment, indeed, that he was never able to obliterate; a moment when the world stood still, and the mere matter of living became m

ecstacy. The girl was the first to speak. “You are a very obstinate person, Mr Heritage,” she said. “I am a very fortunate one,” lie hoard himself replying, and wondered how Providence had given him the sense to utter such words. Her eyes met his, and for a marvellous moment, held them. It seemed tc Stephen that he would become drowned in their cool depths. With an effort he came out of the trance. .

“I apologise for being a nuisance, but I must speak to you. There is io much I have to say . . . But you haven’t lunched; I will wait—if I may.”

Back behind him the crowd of cosmopolitan idlers, pleasure-seekers, and who-knew-what were strolling languidly in one direction. “It’s unforgiveable to pester like.

lhis. but She performert-whatr-to Heritage was a miracle. She smiled up at him, saying: "Now that you’re here, you had better lunch , with me.” The same kindly Providence which had guided his tongue before came again to his aid. “You are more kind than I could i have believed.!’ | “Whilst you are annoyingly obstinj ate —but you shall have your lunch ; before I indulge in any further up--1 braidings. Do you mind hurrying? , The hotel is very full.” 1 Stephen was barely conscious of having his hat and coat taken by-a uni--1 formed servant, of walking side by

side with the girl through a huge and eiaboraleiy - decorated dining-room, quizzed at by several hundred eyes . . and then he was sitting opposite her. The wonder of it! She was so near that by stretching out his hand he could have touched the warm magic of her flesh . . .

He was incapable of speech. Perhaps the girl, with the same infinite understanding she had already shown, realised this, for she took upon herself the ordering, merely saying at the end, “I hope you approve?” “Of course—anything.” He felt a boor now because the words had been gulped. Once again came a dream-state, lie imagined that this table for two, set in the corner was utterly remote from the rest of the world —certainly remote from that chattering, vividtongued crowd which filled the great salon. Unbelievable luck was his; he, a shabby nonentity, a person completely without quality of any kind, was receiving the favour of a great lady—small as had been his knowledge of the world, he knew instinctively that this girl had been born, reared, and was still living in the purple. She was an aristocrat of aristocrats, a thoroughbred of thoroughbreds. That wjs the reason, of course, why she had been able to meet this peculiar situation with case instead of embarrassment ; and why, even if it was not sincere—and how could he hope it to be? She had extended to him a frank sense of comradeship. The food, no doubt, was delightful, but Stephen could not have told what lie ate or what ho drank. Enchanting us it was to be allowed to sit opposite this girl in the intimacy of a meal, yet lie longed for solitude and the opportunity to speak freely and without restraint. It seem.cd that that tin'*' would never come.

But, because there is an end to everything, the lunch finished at last.

“I never drink coffee for lunch, but you would like to smoke, I know,” said the girl; "we will go into the grounds.” Five minutes later they were, sitting side by side in two deck-chairs in a spot so secluded that they might have been cut off from the rest of Cannes. “And now,” asked the girl, puffing the cigarette which he had lit for her —“Oh, by the way, my name is Howard—Felicity Howard.” “Thank you,” he replied, and then became silent. For two reasons. The first was that the beauty of her hands fascinated him, mad the second was that now he had the chance there was so much to say that he did not know where or how to begin. “Y’ou will think I am the worst kind of fool —but you bewilder me,” he said at length; “you see, I have never been privileged to speak to anyone at ail like you before. I think you are wonderful.”

Now it was Felicity who said “Thank you.” She meant it. She was perfectly sincere. This was the fullest, the most perfect compliment, she decided instantly, she had ever been paid. The tribute had been so spontaneous that the speaker could scarcely have realised what he was saying.

She looked at the man. The impression that he had been born a gentleman was confirmed. His clothes were shabby, but they were worn m that unmistakable manner which only an inner and unconscious intuition can give. The brown shoes when new had borne a famous name. They had grown old gracefully and with good taste.

“I owe you some ironey,” she heard him say. He put Lis hand into a pocket. “You have been to the Tables again?" "No.” He shook his head. “Will you allow me to bore you for a minute, Miss Howard? This morning, after receiving your wonderful help, 1 ran across an old friend. He used to be a clerk at a newspaper office where I once worked, but now he is rich—an aunt he had never heard of left him the fabulous sum of £40,000 —” “Was that the man I saw with yo>i at Nicolai's this morning?” she in- , quired. “The same." “Will you give him a word of warning from —well, one who knows?” j “From you?” “Yes.” H e fumbled.

“I have no right, no shadow of right of course . . . it is the most terrible presumption—but-—” “You needn’t be afraid,” she encouraged.

He mustered all his courage and looked straight into the eyes that were the colour of massed bluebells. “It hurts to think you ‘know’ —” She smiled—and the glory of the sunshine was in that smile. “That is idealism—and idealism is rathfer Out of place in the Riviera, Mr

Heritage. However, to reassure you, j let me just say that the man with crutches and the woman who was en- ! dcavouring to charm you and your friend this morning are well-known card-swindlers. They specialise in newcomers to the town.”

“I had already been told about them by a local journalist—a correspondent for one of the London newspapers.” “Then you will be able to warn your friend yourself. Now about this money; I sent it to you because I was afraid you had lost money at the Tables and it was necessary that you should leave Cannes.”

“I intend to stay,” he said. “I should like to ask you a thousand questions, but perhaps, as you have been ao kind, you will permit just one?” “Ask it first,’ she parried. With the words a curtain seemed to Stephen to drop between them. Perhaps he had already presumed too much, but—“l believe you yourself are in danger here. Are you?” She asked a question in turn. “Was that why you stayed instead of leaving Cannes immediately?” “Of course,” he said. “I’m a presumptuous ass, aren’t I?" She threw away the stub of her cigarette.

“If things were different, if 1 were the ordinary sort of person, i mean, you would be the type of man I should , rather like to have as a friend. Can i say more than that?” “You honour me,” he said, and ay I the tone he used he honoured tier, j “Isn’t it possible now?—just to fet:h and carry you know; to wait about; never to presume, I promise. But first, won’t you answer my question? You see, I tried to get through again to you on the telephone hut the Exchange said they couldn’t trace the call.” “The telephone service in C-.nnes isn’t very enterprising." She continued quickly: “Mr Heritage, I am honoured by your confidence, but I am serious when I say that you must leave here at once. There is a train for Calais at 3.22. Won’t you catch it i ” “I hate for you to think me still obstinate—but why should I go?" “You found a dead man outside the Casino last night.” “Yes." She had started this sub-

ject herself. llow much would she tell? “That man was murdered. He was an Englishman holding a very important position. Don’t ask me how I j know; it is sufficient to say that my information is correct. The polite susI pect you. Of course, it is ridiculous “The man was dead when I reached him." “I know. The murderer was the man who ran off as you approached. I told the Commissaire that.” (To be Continued.!