CHECKMATE

Taranaki Daily News, 6 February 1931, Page 14

CHECKMATE

; ' By

SYDNEY HOREOR.

“You see,” said ths Comtesse tensely 5 “a woman -with pearls! You must arrange to sit next to her. Don’t, miss any opportunity or I shall be angry.” The spaker, quite obviously, was possessed by' a passion which ovqf-ruled for the moment every other consideration. Evidently the Comtesse herself was a creature swayed by what she had described as gambler’s superstition. But for this fact and her previous determination to endeavour to discover what purpose her employer had in mind, Mary might have remonstrated not only at the manner in which she had been addressed, but also because of the pain she had been caused by that ruthless squeeze on her arm. As it was she made no reply. She noticed that her companions were not the only persons who became interested in the woman with the pearls. The latter left a ripple of interest behind her as she strolled past the different tables.

Once Mary caught a whisper. “Those pearls can’t: be real —no woman would be fool enough to run such a risk.”

And the reply: l “My dear, the wearer is Lady Wentworth. She isn’t the woman to be afraid of any risk.” At the 20-louis table the woman under discussion stopped. The Comtesse, close behind, caught Mary’s hand and held it tightly. ' ; ■ ' Tf she plays here, stand directly behind her so that you can slip into the next chair. Don’t forget—it’s very important”: The voice had become harsh and brittle with anxiety. Before she cqjild say anything in reply, Mary found herself being pushed forward into a chair. '

“Here are your counters, my dear,” she heard the Comtesse say. Before .her on the green cloth of the table were ranged a number of different-coloured plaques. Whenever she looked back the hour which followed always seemed to her to have no more substantiality than the fabric of a dream. She lived in a world during that never-to-be-forgotten time that seemed utterly unreal and completely fantastic; it was as though another person’s mind had entered her body. ■ The most wonderful thing of all was that she was not confused —no, not even in that first pulsating moment when, sitting on the right of the croupier, she found herself holding the bank. She had the benefit of-the whispered advice of the Comtesse, who was standing directly behind her chair, it was true; but, nevertheless, by some miraculous process, her brain became remarkably clear of its own volition, and she felt as composed as though this were merely a game of Bridge instead of her first essay at nerve-testing Baccarat. She had laughed at the superstition which the Comtesse had mentioned, but the woman on her right wearing the pearls had certainly brought her luck. V Luck so amazing that the crowd which gathered quickly forgot the usual decorum and broke into comments of astonishment. The counters, each representing twenty louis, with which she had started, rapidly changed, at first into a mound, then iito a hill, and after that into a miniature mountain of plaques. After the bank held by her had run ten times in succession, the woman on her/right spoke smilingly. ' “You are evidently m wonderful luck —do not lose your nerVe.” _ The words were uttered in a friendly, cultured voice, and Mary warmed to the woman at once. „ ‘T will try not to, Lady Wentworth, she said/ ■ ' • “You know my name? —- “I heard it mentioned when you came io this .table.” ' - ' The mobile mouth of the elderly gentlewoman shaped itself into a fresh smile. . , “I should be known here—l have lost enough money in this room,” she remarked, and then the play was on again. Once more the banker won—and then again and yet again. Fifteen times successively did the fair-skinned girl in the simple frock so unmistakably English, who it was being whispered was paying her first visit to the tables, hold the master cards. The number of winning coups threatened to break the record for the Casino. “She must have won fifteen hundred pounds,” said a voice behind her,. Mary turned, not with the intention of looking at the speaker, but because she wanted to rest her eyes—and in doing so, she looked straight into the face of Robert Wingate. She smiled instantly, but received nothing but a blank stare in reply. Wingate, the man from whom she had parted only a few hours previously on the pleasantest of terms, looked at her stonily. The shock shook her nerve. The composure which the onlookers had remarked upon previously deserted her. She felt tremors in her limbs and her head began to throb. Reaction had come. She half rose in her chair. A hand thrust her violently back into the seat. ‘ “Play on!” she heard the Comtesse command stonily. “I do not feel well—l shall not play any more.” There was a quality in her voice which kept the Comtesse silent, although a stream of passionate vituperation was trembling on her lips. The voice of the croupier broke in. “It is still Mademoiselle’s bank.” “Can I pass it to this lady?” She indicated the woman with the pearls who had been sitting on her right. “Most certainly, Mademoiselle.” The rest was confusion —utter, and complete. So dense had the watching crowd become, so frantic was the desire to sit in the chair which had brought the retiring banker so much fortune, that Mary had merely a recollection of struggling desperately to get free, helped on the one side by Jose Santos and on the other by the Comtesse Zamoyski. Her first action when she was free of the throng was to look round for the man who in her opinion had insulted her so cruelly. But there was no sign of Wingate. She was alone with her employer, Santos having gone away to see to the changing of the counters. “Why did you speak to me like that?” she demanded.

She was on her dignity now, burning with a fierce resentment against everything—especially against this woman who had addressed her as though she ■were a. creature of no account. She had a revulsion from what had recently happened; that gilded room suddenly sickened her. She hated it.

“My dear, you must please forgive me. I apologise. In the excitement of the moment I allowed my feelings to carry me away. Do you know that you won over fifteen hundred pounds?—that if your winnings which, you remember, I advised to capitalise, had been covered each time you turned a card, you would have won a fortune running into perhaps a couple of millions? As it is, you will be the talk of the town for a week. Aren’t you excited?”

The girl shook her head. “I am very tired —and I should like to go home at once.” Wliat did it matter about the money ? That look of icy contempt in Wingate’s face had dealt her a blow from which she felt she would never recover. It had made her feel utterly humiliated. She had not the will at the moment to probe this mystery; all she wanted was to be away from this hateful place. Santos returned, his face beaming.

“Congratulations, Miss Mallory!” he said; “now do you believe in the Comtesse’s favourite superstition?” His aunt answered.

“Mary, poor dear, is feeling the strain —I am going to take her straight home, Jose—you needn’t come.” "“Thanks; if you don’t mind I’ll hang on for a bit, and bring back the news.” Had Mary been less indifferent she would possibly have caught the look of significance which passed between the two, but as it was she followed the Comtesse out of the Baccarat Room with one thought uppermost. She yearned for the solitude of her bedroom with an intensity that was almost painful. Little was spoken on the way back to the Villa Graciosa. The Comtesse kept her raging temper in check, realising that it would be bad policy to remind the girl of a scene which for some unaccountable reason, had changed in a second’s space, from the pleasurable to the utterly repugnant. What could have caused this transition? The girl was a sane, completely stable, wholly sensible type; her level-headedness had threatened, indeed, to be a handicap in the near future. She was, moreover, extremely healthy, and not in the least degree neurotic. What, then, had made her behave in the extraordinary manner she had done? Was it the way she had spoken to her? No, that could not have been the reason because, although she had clearly showed she resented the brusqueness, the change had come before then. The transformation had dated from the moment she had turned round. In that instant her expression had completely altered. Why? Had she seen someone she recognised? —someone she knew would not approve of her gambling? Some elderly relative, perhaps? But, according to her own story, she was alone in the world, now that her aunt, whom she ' had nursed, had died.

She would get at the truth soon—but it could not happen that night. The solution when it camo was not supplied by Mary. It was brought to that shabby villa in Super-Cannes by Jose Santos when he returned from the Casino a couple of hours later.' “Where’s the girl?” was his first question.

“In bed —and asleep, I hope,” was the reply. “What happened after we left?”

“Lady Wentworth ran the bank lanother five times and won a pot. She seemed pretty pleased, talking to some friends about how she had found a mascot to-night.” His companon made a sharp exclamation. ,

“Do you realise what this means, Jose?” she said. “Luck is Tunning our way, too. The next time Alary sees the woman they will become friendly—although Lady Wentworth may be a great lady, like the real aristocrat she is she will speak to the plainly-dressed girl who brought her such luck—the girl whom she has herself described as a mascot. After that it should be easy —leave the rest to me.” Santos did not share in her enthusiasm. ,

“There’s a snag,” he replied; “I suppose you have been wondering why the girl turned off as she did? Well, I can tell you. When she turned round and completely altered, she saw an Englishman named Wingate. This man is the nephew of Lady Wentworth —and if you ask me, he’s come to Cannes to keep a watchful eye on those pearls we are after.”

A jewelled hand plucked at the woman’s lower lip. “Mary told me she met an Englishman she knew on the Croisette this morning.” “Did she tell you his name?” “No. I assumed it was someone of no consequence. At the worst a nonentity, at the best a man who might be useful if he had sufficient money.” Santos’ dark face carried a frown. “It’s going to be damned awkward if this Wingate fellow tries to put his spoke in,” he said. “Leave it to me,” was the Comtesse’s comment. But Santos was not prepared to leave it at that; he continued to discuss this new development. (To be Continued.)