Mediterranean Nights Read online

  Suddenly she stood up. ‘I’m going to the louis table,’ she declared, gathering her piles of plaques together. ‘My chance has come.’ He did not attempt to stop her, but moved quietly at her side. For a few minutes she watched the higher play at the new table without making any bet, then she leant forward and plastered the seventeen. It was a spectacular entrance to a spectacular game. As though to welcome her the little ball clicked into seventeen—the middle dozen at the higher table favoured her, just as the lower numbers had before. Time after time her bets came home—steadily the chips of higher value mounted in three piles before her.

  People began to follow her luck after a while, but she began to dodge about the table and the luck always followed her choice.

  At half past two the croupier spoke to an official of the casino, and for a few moments play was suspended. Sally had accomplished the gambler’s dream—more money had to be sent for—technically, she had broken the bank at Monte Carlo.

  When the money arrived she still played on and added yet another hoard to her amazing winnings in the ensuing half-hour. At three o’clock the young man tapped her on the shoulder. ‘Time for you to stop,’ he said gently.

  ‘Must I?’ Sally looked up, her grey eyes shining with excitement. She felt that she could go on and on—that her luck would never change. ‘Must I?’ she pleaded. ‘Just a little longer.’

  He shook his dark, attractive head, his firm mouth showed no relenting; she got up slowly from the table. ‘We’ll cash them in,’ he said, and began to stuff the plaques into his pockets.

  Sally turned to the croupier and gave him a mille note. With a charming smile and low, ‘Merci—bon soir’ she turned and followed her fairy godfather to the caisse. Directly she left the table she felt how right he was to make her stop. Another half-hour and all that money might have melted away again; now it was safe—she had won a little fortune. Smiling, she watched him change the plaques into notes of high denominations. He was busy for quite ten minutes; as they walked away he held them out to her—a bulging, solid sheaf. Then he drew them back as he said with a smile: ‘Too much for your little bag, I’d better take care of them for the moment—you won’t be tempted to change your mind about that cousin now.’ He split the bundle, pushing the two wads into his pockets.

  Sally smiled back; she knew that the cottage was hers now—all through a mille of borrowed money. ‘Thanks,’ she said, ‘I’ll get my coat, then if you’ll take me back to my hotel we’ll put them in the safe till the morning.’

  She was only gone five minutes—five glorious minutes of visualising again those marvellous coups—those masses and masses of counters being pushed towards her—that great solid roll of bank-notes that was hers. What a perfect darling that young man was—how wonderful of him to have made her leave the table at just the right moment. If she had stayed she would be certain to have lost it all again; but when she came out of the cloakroom, that marvellous young man was no longer there.

  For a few minutes Sally waited patiently, thinking that perhaps he was in the other cloakroom, but as he did not appear she described him to an attendant and asked him if he had seen her friend.

  ‘No, no one like that has gone in.’ She hurried back to the Salle des Jeux, he was not there. She tried the bar-—perhaps he was having a drink; no, it was nearly empty. She was frightened now. Just supposing that nice young man was not all he seemed to be! She had always heard that Monte Carlo was full of swindlers attracted by the large sums of money constantly changing hands; but he was much too nice—it simply couldn’t be that he had gone off with her money! She bit her lip as she scanned the faces of the people in the rooms and corridors—with angry eyes she hastened to the caisse.

  Almost before she had made her complaint she was surrounded by polite officials. The system of the Casino is very highly organised—there are strange stories of secret passages in the walls, through which the body of a suicide can be carried within a moment of the tragedy. Certain it is that on the smallest sign of trouble from a demented loser, a little group of men in evening dress gather unostentatiously around him, and hurry him away.

  Almost before she was aware of it, a private door had been opened, and Sally found herself in an office. A bearded man questioned her quietly, others were sent for: the croupiers from the three tables at which she had played—the man at the caisse—the waiter at the bar.

  Sally had to admit that she had been cleaned out earlier in the evening—that she did not know the man who had spoken to her—that he had cashed a mille note and handed her the plaques with which to resume play—that she had left the table at his order—that he had cashed her winnings and put the money in his pocket—and finally that she did not even know his name.

  The bearded man shook his head. ‘It is with his money that you were playing, Mademoiselle. It is, of course, at the discretion of a lady if she chooses to speak with a gentleman she does not know, but such a practice is dangerous. I learn now that this monsieur left the Casino immediately he parted from you—I fear that there is nothing which we can do. May we place an automobile at your disposal to take you to your hotel?’

  ‘No,’ said Sally furiously, ‘I will walk.’

  ‘As Mademoiselle pleases—a most unfortunate affair.’ He escorted her to the doorstep of the Casino.

  She shivered as she walked the short distance to the hotel through the deserted streets. What an utter fool she had been! He had offered her the notes quite casually, why hadn’t she taken them and given him back his thousand francs—or ten thousand if he had wanted them? Gone now was the cottage with the pretty little garden—only Aged Aunt remained, or the alternative of going every day to some stuffy office and living in a poky flat in London.

  A sleepy night-porter took her up in the lift to her room. She felt terribly tired and disheartened; abandoning her usual care, she flung off her clothes hurriedly, brushed her white teeth, and tumbled into bed.

  Sally woke early after a night of fitful dreams. She dressed at once; there was just a chance that she might catch that man, and it was not her way to accept defeat without a struggle. She set out to make a tour of the hotels.

  At each one she described him to the commissionaire, or rather endeavoured to do so—but all she could say was that she was looking for a gentleman of medium height—dark hair parted in the middle—brown eyes, a kind, firm mouth, and a pleasant smile—that was all she could remember, but there must be a dozen such figures in Monte Carlo, and none of the hall porters she questioned could give her any help.

  All day she roamed wildly up and down the principality from the Café de Paris, with its umbrella-covered tables, to the Rock of Monaco—from the pigeon-shooting stands to the steps on the harbour. A dozen times she followed unsuspecting men, only to surprise them by peering into their faces to discover that she was once more mistaken. Many of them seemed quite prepared to enter into conversation, for Sally was an attractive girl, but she had turned her back before they could speak to her. At one time she had two of them following her, and once to her intense disgust a gendarme cautioned her—high and low she sought, but all in vain.

  She returned to her hotel worn out and late for dinner; even Aged Aunt came out of her lethargic calm to inquire into the cause of the girl’s distraction.

  Directly dinner was over Sally darted off to the Casino, and, taking up a position in the vestibule, stood watching the arrivals with anxious eyes. After a time the bearded official came up and questioned her; she pulled herself together sufficiently to talk to him quietly. He made it plain that she would be allowed to remain only so long as she caused no disturbance—at the least sign of trouble she would be put out into the street.

  Sally sat there till the muscles of her neck grew stiff with the constant turning of her head in her anxiety not to miss the features of a single man, but all to no purpose. At half past two she gave it up, returned to her hotel utterly exhausted, and cried herself to sleep. The following day she was on her way back to England.<
br />
  . . . . .

  Sally sat brooding in her sanctuary at Mallowhayes. It was a little room in which she kept what she called ‘her dirts’. There were tennis racquets, boxes of paints, knitting, books—a tambourine, and a hundred other odds and ends littered about.

  The pale rays of winter sunshine filtered through the tiny panes of the mullioned windows; soon, all these treasured bits and pieces must be removed. Cousin Henry was coming down for the week-end. In a month her time was up, he would take possession, and out she must go.

  With an impatient movement she wriggled out of her favourite chair. Cousin Henry would not be down till teatime; she thought she would go for a run in her little car, the fresh air would do her good. She would have to be polite to the man anyhow—after all, it was not his fault that her father had made that stupid will.

  She went down to the garage and got out the two-seater that Aged Aunt had given her as a twenty-first birthday present. She drove slowly down the drive. There was another cottage near the one she had hoped to live in, just outside the gates; she gave the object of her affections a wistful look as she drove by, and failed to notice that a child had run out from the other house into the road.

  When Sally saw the infant standing there waving a toy flag it was too late to pull up—a big car had swung round the corner on the other side—she must run down the child or swerve straight into that. She did not hesitate, but charged the Bentley, There was a grinding shriek as the brakes locked on, the tearing sound of metal, and with a dull crash the two cars came to a standstill.

  Having given herself a little shake she found she was uninjured. She looked at the driver of the Bentley; his head was tilted forward on his chest, one hand hung, limp and still, over the side of the car.

  Sally started up her engine and found to her surprise that she could back it away from the other. The steering felt a bit queer, and her lamps were smashed, but the bumpers of the two cars had saved a broken axle. She got out quickly and ran over to the other car. As she touched the driver his hat fell off—it was the man of Monte Carlo.

  She was so surprised that for a moment she gaped at him. He was unconscious, and a little trickle of blood ran down his face from a cut on his forehead. The mother of the child who had caused all the trouble came up to her. ‘Better put ’im in your car, Miss, and take ’im up to the ’ouse,’ she suggested.

  Together they got him into Sally’s car, and in a few minutes he was being lifted out again. He was still insensible, so Aged Aunt superintended his immediate removal to the room that had been prepared for Cousin Henry while Sally telephoned for the doctor.

  They bathed the wound and he began to mutter; then he sat up and looked at Sally—recognition dawned in his brown eyes.

  Sally stared at him stonily; she was tempted to accuse him at once of having gone off with her money, but she felt she could hardly do that with a man whom she had very nearly killed a few minutes before. ‘You’d better not talk till the doctor’s been,’ she said quickly. ‘You may have concussion.’

  He smiled feebly. ‘All right—I’m in no hurry,’ he said.

  They left him to sleep, with Aged Aunt’s maid sitting in an adjoining room to keep watch. Sally went downstairs. What could he have been doing, she wondered, outside the gates of Mallowhayes? The road was only a lane which led nowhere in particular. Perhaps he had been coming to return the money, but why, as he had bolted with it, should he do that? Then an extraordinary idea flashed into her mind. Could he—was it possible that he was Cousin Henry? Had he known who she was all the time—and kept the money deliberately with the idea of returning it to her later? Sally’s heart began to bump as she thought about it. Her father’s will—the place in Gloucestershire—she had told him all about that—he would have guessed who she was at once; she had even spoken of him by name, and said he lived in Canada. As she recalled her words Sally felt her cheeks grow hot. If this were true—what then? He was not the least little bit as her imagination had painted him—much nicer—ever so much nicer. Of course, she could not marry him, but she was sure he would give her back her winnings. They would be neighbours—that would be rather fun, he must have money of his own—the Bentley seemed to indicate that. Sally began to walk quickly up and down, humming a cheerful little tune.

  She was recalled to the present by the sound of wheels on the drive—the doctor perhaps? No—an antiquated station fly had pulled up outside the door. A long, lank, ginger-headed man emerged. He stood for a moment surveying the house with an interested stare. Sally was seized with sudden panic—who was he? What was he doing there? A sense of foreboding held her rigid; a moment later he was in the hall staring at her in a curious, unpleasant, apprising way—then he spoke. ‘You’ll be Sally, I suppose—I’m Cousin Henry.’

  Tea was a ghastly affair, how Sally got through it she never knew. Aged Aunt came out of her shell and saved the situation. Sally had meant to be polite—she found herself boggling at her cousin, he was more awful than she had ever imagined; she did not like his socks, she did not like his tie, she liked his manners even less.

  Just as tea was over the doctor arrived. Aged Aunt went with him to inspect the invalid. She was left alone with Cousin Henry.

  He lolled back in his chair and without asking permission lighted a most unpleasant pipe. He gazed round him with a pleased, proprietorial air, then his glance rested on Sally.

  ‘Well, little girl,’ he said in a nasal twang, ‘when’s the happy day that we get hitched up?’

  So he took it all for granted, did he? thought Sally. Well, she would show him—and in a few brief sentences she did.

  Aged Aunt returned to find them flushed and silent. Sally quietly slipped away. ‘What a dreadful, dreadful man,’ she exclaimed angrily to herself. ‘It is a shame that Mallowhayes should go to a man like that.’

  She opened the door of the invalid’s room; he was smiling cheerfully, propped up in bed. Sally sighed, he was really a most attractive person.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me your proper name?’ he said. ‘I had to hunt half round Gloucestershire to find you.’

  ‘Why didn’t you wait for me?’ she countered. ‘It was horribly unkind.’

  He laughed. ‘I didn’t mean to let you have your winnings till you were safely back in England—on your last night you would have lost the lot.’

  ‘You brute,’ said Sally, but her voice was kind.

  His brown eyes twinkled. ‘How’s Cousin Henry?’

  ‘Too ghastly, but I don’t mind now—I can have the cottage.’

  ‘You can keep Mallowhayes if you want to—you’re Sally Ashton, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but whatever do you mean?’

  ‘Your father made a mistake in that will—I’ve been to Somerset House and seen it—had it vetted by counsel, too.’ He paused to light a cigarette.

  ‘Go on,’ gasped Sally. ‘Oh, please, please go on.’

  ‘You can marry anybody you like provided his name is Ashton. Cousin Henry only gets the place, and the hospitals the thirty thousand, if you marry someone with a different name.’

  For a moment Sally’s face dropped, then she smiled. ‘There must be thousands of Ashtons in the world—I could advertise in The Times and look them over, couldn’t I?’

  ‘You could,’ he said, and his laughing eyes looked deep into her grey ones, ‘but I’d like you to consider me as first applicant—my name’s Ashton, too.’

  STORY V

  HERE we leave the sunbaked olive groves and azure sea to come back to earth with a bump. And what a bump, since we find ourselves in cold and foggy London in the first winter of the Second World War.

  I had just finished my first long spy novel, The Scarlet Impostor. I was doing a few odd jobs for various people but my regular war employment had not yet begun, so I was restless and dissatisfied. Mr. Bowler of the Daily Sketch rang me up to ask if I would do a series of six 1,000-word spy stories for him round a new character. I had not written a short story for years, but
I was not ready to settle down to a new book, and a holiday was out of the question with a war going on—so I agreed.

  It was my step-daughter, Diana Younger, who always used to do the covers of my books, who had the idea for the new character, and this was largely responsible for the little series which ran as The Man with the Girlish Face.

  But it was my wife who provided the dénouement of the present story, which links it in a rather curious way with the last Great War. She was then married to a British diplomat stationed in Rome and she recalled the queer, sadistic pastime practised by an old Italian Marchesa of her acquaintance. To say more would spoil the story, but I have said enough to show that between Joan and Diana I can really hardly claim any share in this little masterpiece at all.

  THE CRIPPLED LADY

  VIVIEN PAWLETT-BROWNE was his brilliant father’s greatest disappointment. At sixteen he failed to take his School Certificate for the second time, and at nineteen all hope of his getting into Sandhurst had to be abandoned; but old ‘Frosty’ Forsyth had an utter contempt for the examination system and he liked the boy, so he gave him a chance. Vivien became plain V. Brown on the register of the highly secret department that Sir Charles Forsyth ran, and henceforth began to receive instruction on many curious matters.