CHECKMATE

Taranaki Daily News, 30 January 1931, Page 11

CHECKMATE

*y

SYDNEY HORLOR.

During the remainder of the drive to the villa, the Comtesse asked no further questions, but occupied the time in calling, attention to the various pUcpa of note on the route. The villas belonging to many famous English people were pointed out to the keenly interested girl. “Although Cannes, in common with the rest of the French Riviera, has been invaded since the war by that hopeless race, the poor but proud English tniddle.class petty snob—you know, the (retired army and navy "person who, instead of doing their duty by their Country, coine abroad in order to avoid paying rates and taxes—yet it still attracts. the very best, type—the aristocrats. That is why you See so many iniagnificeiit villas—thit salnidh-colour-ed one we have just passed, for instance,is the property of Lord Derby, who named it the Villa Sansovina after one of his. famous racehorses.” In this mood her employer was so interesting ae to hold her complete attention, and Mary listened in absorbed attention. ' Just before they reached the shabby gates qf the Villa Graciosa, something tempted, her .to ask a question. ■■ “With all the wealth that is here—sufcly Cannes must be one of the richest towns in the world at the present time—isn’t there any danger from thieves and other criminals?” Watching the Comtesse closelv she ■"Was able to notice the woman's fade harden. “Criminals,” she replied with a short unpleasant laugh, “there are everywhere, I daresay—if you read the newspapers, you will be able to discover that for yourself—but I have never heard that they are more., numerous here than anywhere else. Who has been putting such ideas into your “th every story about the Riviera I hj-ye ,x&ad,’’ said SJary, with a lightjiee>s of tone that was bleverly assumed, desperate criminal has always been * ...leading character.” She did not add that only, that morning she had received a warning from a man who surely ,iqupt know what he was talking input.; “You mustn’t be influenced by bennovejists,. my d<?ar. .In any cili, if you havq bny fears on. that subI 'y° u P°hce here ire very efficint. You do not sep ■njuch' of . them, but they are everywhere, working., secretly. I pity the criminal, however he t may be, who -tyies to hoodwink them. The (French, prisons are . extrefnely. nasty places. But here wa are at .home. I feel, sure you are ready for" your 14nch-’’

“I am indeed.” The excitement of the morning had given her quite ah The Comtesse went straight to her ?oom. Here she found Nadia. "There’e; a telegram,” announced the supposed maid; "perhaps it’s from

“Yes,* replied the older woman, after Tipping open the envelope, “it. is from Gbfce.' He will be shortly after lunch. There is nothing doing in Paris, he says.” . ‘‘And t what did you do with Miss 'High 'arid. Mighty this morning?’’ enquired Nadia; lighting a cigarette. “I gave her Iqave to walk about-—and met a man—someone who may be useful to us, perhaps” ‘’Who is he?” “I know nothing beyond the fact that he is. someone she met in London and Who looks as if he had money. Curiously enough, I was able to recognise him

<s the mpn at the next table at the Rosy Dawn the last night but one I .vyas qn London.” "Well, it’s money we want. This English doll may be useful, after all.” “She will be useful enough, do not be afraid. Do you think I promised to pay her six. pounds a week for doing nothing?” 'The speaker caught her compapion’s eye, and they both smiled as though ah some secret jest. “lAt her begin straight away then. Tell her to cultivate her rich man friend? We could arrange a little gamble here, no doubt.’’ < "No doubt,” agreed the Comte see and spalled again. “I am sorry thing are rather slow at present, but they will improve.” "They will have to,” was the uncompromising answer. Lunch at the Villa Graciosa that day was a pleasant meal. The Comtesse seemed to be exerting herself to be specially agreeable, and the morning’s adventure induced Mary not only to live in the present but to look on the bright side. Time enough for her to croSa the bridges when she came to (them, she told herself.

"I have some news for you, my dear,” her employer announced when the dessert stage had been reached; “my nephew will be here almost immediately. He concluded his business in Paris yesterday and caught the Riviera express. He will prevent us from becoming dull.” Mary could not help smiling. She contrasting her memory of this mincing mannikin of a man with Bobby iWingate. Then, to cover up what might 'have appeared to be rudeness, she said quickly; “I’m sure I shall not be dull here, tComtesse; everything is so attractively different from what I have 'been used to.”

The words gave the woman an opening. “I am delighted to hear you say that, Mary. After all, it was a certain responsibility to bring you so far away from London and all your friepds. I have been thinking: If you/vould like to invite, the friend you met this morning to lunch or dinner one evening, I shall be most pleased to entertain him.’’

“That’s very kind of you, Comtesse.” She hesitated before saying anything more The sharp glance the woman had given her roused once again that indefinite mistrust, which every now and then reared its ugly head to dissipate.

her happiness. “But I do not know if he will be able to accept; I believe he

knows a. great many people in Cannes And. will probably ‘be invited out a great deiL” .

“Very likely—this is a most hospitable place.” The tone intimated that the speaker had lc,st her previous interest, and the meal finished in silence.

Shortly before three o’clock Jose ■Santos arrived. He looked travel-etain-■ed and ill-tempered, but hie face brightened when he saw Mary. “It has been worth the journey from (Paris to be able to see you at the other end, Miss Mallory,” he said, bowing ■with exaggerated grace; “I trust my aunt, the Comtesse, has seen to your comfort? As I had the privilege of engaging you, I consider myself responsible for your happiness whilst you are with us.”

She conquered her instinctive dislike ■of the man, and smiled as she said: “Thank you, Mr. Santos, I am very comfortable indeed.” Which, if not strictly accurate, was certainly a safe reply to make. “And now, if you will kindly excuse me, I must go to make myself presentable. Oh, that journey from Paris! ...” The Comtesse, coming into the joom at that moment, stretched out both arms, and her nephew ran towards her. The two embraced affectionately. After all, Mary decided with sonic sense of satisfaction, there' wa§ a distinctly human side to her employer. Her Idve for this mincing nephew of hers seenied genuine enough. One might have imagined that she would have held this mere parody of a man in contempt. ‘‘Take a chair into the grounds. and rest until tea, Mar;,” said tlie Cointeste; “my nephew and I have so much to talk about —his trip to Paris kas a business one on hiy account—that 1 shall be engaged all the afternoon. Tonight we may- have some mild excite-j ment for you; Jose will probably require to celebrate his return.” “Yes," indeed, ma tante,” echoed Santos, “and now I must mike niysplf fit to entertain two such beautiful ladies!” He ran off laughing. A mercurial creature, Mary reflected as she took thedeck chair and walked through the hall; he had changed from utter Ipigubriousness into the highest of good spirits, all within a few minutes.

As she settled down with an English magazine, she wondered what the Comtesse had meant by the Mlfpromise of giving her sonie excitement that evening. She also wondered, when she w|s to be allowed to begin earning her ealary.

CHAPTER XIV.

WINGATE IS PERTLEXED. \ . . For at feast three rhuiutes Wihgatb stood Stock still, staring 0-fter the c<r. He had. experienced a shattering shqck. Unless ho was mistaken in that "woman’s face—and he did not think this was possible—the girl whom he thought so fresh and virginal, sb healthily frank, was the associate of k crook! No wonder she had. hesitated over the world “friend!” What whs he to do? As he turned and walked down the Rue des EtatgUnis on his way to the Majestic where he was staying, he did not .see tbit he could do anything. That the girl whk aware of the real character of her companion was shown by the dexterous manner in which she had refused to ■bring her into the conversation that morning.

But wait a minute-r-he might be condemning her unjustly. What was it ■Dick Delabrae had said at. the Rosy Dawn ,on Tuesday night? Damn it, hb ■wished he could remfember.

During the ten minutes it took him to reach his hotel, Wingate puzzled his brain over the problem. He realised quite frankly that a great deal of hib

future peace of mind, if not actual happiness, depended on Mary MaM° r y coming through the present suspicious circumstances unscathed- If She really proved a wrong ’un, then he’d never believe in a woman so long a-s he lived. Arriving at the Majestic, he took a seat at one of the tables and ordered A cocktail. Drinking this, he pulled out a pencil and a piece of paper and, whilst drawing haphazard designs, concentrated afresh on his task.

Bit by bit came remembrance. To begin with, Delabrae had rushed off to dance with a girl (whom he himself had not seen). Whilst Dick was away, he had overheard a conversation between this woman (whom he had seed just now with Mary) and a yellowfaced dago. They were discuseipg a ■girl—yes, it must have been a girl. Now what in hell was it the woman had ■said? Something about whether this girl would be suitable dr not . . . And what was it the dago had replied? Something about being of an independent spirit—beyond that his mind would not register; the memory had gone. After all, there had been no particular reason at the time why he should have endeavoured to imprint ■this conversation on his He had' mistrusted the woman, whose appearance had rather intrigued him—but she ■had meant nothing to him beyond that.

Then Delabrae had returned. He had asked Dick who the woman was, and had been told that she was a crook. ■Dick had said something else —why in 'thunder couldn't he remember? But since that motoring smash back in the ■summer his memory had been most unreliable. He was able to recall parts of events and conversations —and then everything else appertaining to the subject would vanish, leaving him feeling a fool. He was able to remember faces all right—in fqet, he still had a particularly good memory for faces—but bits of talk were often confoundedly elusive. Until people got to know of this weakness, he had been in no end of rows. It usually ran like this: “But, [Bobby, old thing, I told you ...” And then he could only shake his head lik® the hopeless ass ho was. Could the girl this woman-crook had been discussing at the Rosy Dawn have ■been Mary Mallory? It hurt him to think it —hurt him like fury.

(To be Continued).