STRANGE ABSENCE

Star (Christchurch), Volume LXIV, Issue 939, 8 December 1933, Page 12

STRANGE ABSENCE

Author of ______ 4 ‘The Dividing Years,” and “Guarded Watch.”

By

ALLYN SLOAN,

CHAPTER XVI. Perichon’s Picnic,

It was soon after ten next morning when Jerry Grant arrived at the Villa Marguerite. He was carefully dressed and in rather a haughty mood, for he had come intending to propose again to Jean Graham and this tune to extract some definite answer from her. The starch was taken out of him at the outset, however, for Helen informed him that Jean was staying in bed until lunch time. All the grand sentiments which he had prepared to voice suddenly seemed rather silly, and he looked at Helen appealingly. “D’you think she’d lunch with me?” She shook her head. “I’m afraid she’s lunching out.” “Oh?” He glanced at her sharply, hesitated, then as if unable to help himself, blurted out: “Not with that fellow ?” Helen nodded. “Hell!” Grant’s smooth brown forehead gathered into puckers as he stared moodily at her. “Look here, Mrs. Gorst, what does she see in that fellow? I mean—Oh, I suppose I’ve no real right to —to say anything, but I can't understani it.” Helen nodded. She too was sorely puzzled and not a little worried. There was one tiling of which lately she had become conscious, and that was that Jean ki c\v something which she had not divulged. She had no absolutely definite reason for this belief, excepting the girl’s own nervousness, which sometimes amounted to apprehension, and a curious sudden reticence which sometimes descended upon her when they were discussing the affair. She sighed, however, and said: “I don’t understand it, either, Jerry. It’s odd, I agree, but I shouldn’t worry about it too much.” “I don’t like the man. Can't you do anything? Couldn’t you —well, suggest to her that —” Helen laughed. “That we don’t like her baron? I have, tentatively, but it doesn’t seem much use.” “I see,” he nodded gloomily, standing with his hands thrust into his pockets and staling out of the window. “What d’you think of M. Rivaux’s clues ?” “Not much. In fact, I don’t believe that any of these people know anything. They’re just a lot of mutts.” The entrance of the butler put an end to this tirade. “M. Grant, you are wanted to the telephone by M. Washburn.” “Oh, I say, I’m sorry.” “That’s ail right. The telephone is in the hall.” Whilst Grant went out, Helen continued to arrange the flowers, a duty which she always performed herself, first cutting the blooms in the garden, then arranging them in their vases. It was a work which she loved, and her rooms were always beautified by gay colours and sweet scents. It was only a moment before Grant returned, looking somewhat more cheerful.

“I say, Dan has just rung up to say that old Periehon wants us to take him somewhere, so it’s just as well that Jean isn’t free after all. Only 1 wish she was lunching with someone else.” “So do I. The only thing for you to do is to hurry up and annex her yourself,” smiled Helen. “Gosh, don’t I want to,” he cried. “But—oh, well —bv the wav, Dan’s sister, Mrs. Van Dyke, is arriving tomorrow night,” he volunteered. Reluctantly Grant left the villa, stopping to look back at Jean’s window, which was wide open; then he walked down the road until he met a fiacre, which lie hailed, and drove to the Hotel de Paris. There he discovered M. Perichon, looking melodramatic in a long black coat and wearing a broad-brimmed felt hat pressed down on his head. Washburn was also there, stowing some peculiar-looking parcels into the ear. Both men hailed him with satisfaction. “What’s it all about?” asked Grant. M. Periehon smiled at him mildly. “To day, my friend, 1 am going to show you some of the most beautiful places along the Riviera. AUons, en voiture!” “Oh. look here, sir,” he burst out. “Is this thing ever going to work out? We don’t seem a jot further than we were.” “To-day, mon ami, to-day we shall progress. I feel it.” “But have you any reason for saying it? We don’t seem any further than we were two weeks ago.” The Frenchman eyed the troubled face humorously, then he turned back to the ear, saying: “You may not be any further, but I Grant eyed the ex-detective coldly, incredulously, but climbed into the car and sat down in the back seat, gazing gloomily at the beautiful country which unfolded itself before his eyes as the car climbed the Grande Corniehe. What did this expedition mean? What bee was buzzing in Perichon’s bonnet now? Washburn was a. fast though steady driver, and the Mercedes ate up the white roads as they passed through one after another of many of the most famous resorts of the French Riviera. Nice, Cannes and finally St. Raphael fell behind them, until they came to the small sea coast town of St. Tropez, when M. Periehon, who had been almost entirely silent, seemed suddenly to a wake'and drew from his pocket a paper upon which certain hieroglyphics were scrawled. Grant’s thought had been mainly upon the problem which was absorbing them all, and upon the mystery of Jean’s apparent iiking for de Laurier. Also, staring at the back of Periehon’s nodding head, lie had wondered whether the old fellow knew anything at all, or whether he was after gome mare’s nest. As far as he could see. only time had moved since the day of the fateful accident; Euan Graham was still lost and Mrs. Winton’s pearls were ritirecoverecl. There had been the clue of the petrol lighter, of course—- “ Gosh!” That was where they were going—to the place where the lighter had been picked up. Anyway, the very sense of rushing through the air as they were doing gave him a feeling of activity, and Grant’s spirits lightened appreciably. It was one o’clock when they passed La Croix, and again M. Periehon began to study the paper in his hand. Then at at once he cried “Stop! Stop!” Washburn drew in to the side of the road. “Now what?” he asked. “Descendez. We will have our lunch by the sea.” Suiting the words, M. Porichon got out. left the road, and began to slither down the steep pine-clad incline which led to a small white-sanded beach. “What the devil —” exclaimed Washburn. watching the old detective swinging from tree to tree to keep himself from falling. “I think it’s the place where Graham’s lighter was found,” Grant propounded.

Carrying the lunch, which M. Periehon had supplied from his hotel, they followed him to the beacli. When they reached the sands, they discovered hiru standing staring up the hill at a white villa which gleamed through the trees high above their heads. “Is this where the lighter was found 7” asked Grant. “Yes, on that slope,” Periehon nodded. “That’s odd, isn’t it?” The slope was not that which led down from the road, but was a further one between the semiconcealed villa and the sea. “Perhaps it is peculiar—perhaps »t is not. Come, let us lunch.” The Frenchman sat himself down on a rock and began to open one of the parcels. As lie munched a great sandwich of bread and cheese, the old man waxed lyrical about the surrounding beauties of Nature. “Those red rocks —that amethystine sea —the lovely sun—the air sweet with the breath of the forest, it i* Grant agreed, but thought it would more nearly resemble heaven if •lean were lying in a bathing suit beside him on the hot sand, instead of being sealed, as he supposed she then was, across a small table from that unnecessary addition to the world’s store of beastliness — Baron Max de Laurier. Perichon’s voice rolled on: “Nature is superb, but I often ask myself, when I meet myself in the glass, ‘Why is it that you are so ugly, mon vieux? You are yellow, your hair is a dirty white, you have pig’s eyes.’ ” The two young men laughed, then for a while they munched silently. Suddenly Washburn mentioned his sister’s advent. “M’me van Dyke you say? Is she not the lady who owns the pink diamond?” Washburn nodded: “Sure. She has it set in a ring. But liow did you know?” “Such stones are famous. It belonged at one time to the Grand Duke Ivanovitcli.” “That’s so. My brother-in-law bought it at the Russian sale in New York.” “And will madamc bring that stone “Why, I guess so. She wears it quite frequently.” Periehon nodded and raised his eyes to the gleam of white plaster through the trees. “You’re a mysterious old fellow,” thought Grant, lying on his back on the sand, “but I don’t believe you know a thing.” But he forgot about Periehon and reverted to thinking about Jean and her host at lunch. The memory acted like an irritant and he sat up. “M. Periehon, who is Baron de Laurier? D’you know anything about him?” For a moment the Frenchman was pensive, then he remarked quietly: “You are jealous, yes?” Grant hesitated, then blurted out: “Damn it, yes, I am. He’s always with Miss Graham now and I —1 ” “You think she should be with you?” “N —not exactly, but ” Periehon nodded. “I understand perfectly, mon ami, but as far as is known there is nothing against M. the boron. As far as is known suddenness which startled the other two, he got up. “Allons! We must work! Now, messieurs, I want to know about that villa. To whom it belongs and if they are there. You will go and ask. You will say—say anything you like, but describe to me the owner of the villa. Allez! ” Glad to be doing something definite at last. Grant set off with Washburn. They made for the road, so as to approach the villa by the drive which evidently must be a long one, for the house stood out on a promontory surrounded on three sides by the sea, and as they went they discussed the possible meaning of this latest of M. Perichon’s whims. “D’you think that Graham is shut up in that villa?” asked Grant. “Golly, what a brain!” grinned the American. “I never thought of that.” “Well, how did the lighter get on that hill?” “You’re light. Wouldn’t it he great if we found and took him back to Miss Graham ?” A thrill of excitement passed through Grant and lie quickened his pace. This was really doing something. Walking up to the great iron doors, they pulled the rusty old bell and, scarcely knowing what to expect, waited. (To be continued daily.)