Women were pressing round him closely. One old, raddled creature with a babyish white lace hat above her orange hair and painted wrinkled face, pushed money into his hand.
“Put it on for me, lad,” she croaked with a North-country inflection that sounded oddly out of place.
Without looking round, Buckland put the money on to red. It won.
The harridan seized her winnings and melted into the crowd.
Angie, by reason of her height and determination, took her place and pressed close to Buckland’s side.
He turned and looked straight into her eyes. His own were alight with triumph and excitement.
“Hallo, sweetest! How long have you been here?”
“Just come. What about celebrating your winnings?”
“I’m not through yet.”
“You are, Buck,” said Angie, with sudden intensity. “Come on out, before you lose it all.”
“Faites vos jeux....”
Buckland placed his stake carefully on the first dozen, red, and impair.
The wheel spun round, slowed down, came to a stop.
Buckland lost his money.
“I told you so!” cried Angie. “It wasn’t all you had, was it?”
“Not by a very long chalk. Come on, then. I’ve got a thirst on me like the devil.”
He had forgotten all about Coral Romayne. Angie could see her, and knew that she was looking at them. But she did not, as Angie had expected, follow them immediately.
On the terrace, which was comparatively empty, they turned and faced one another.
“My God!” said Buckland quite simply. “It’s like a dream — you — and now this.”
“You’ve never been near me all day.”
“I’m going to make up for it later all right. I had to put her off the scent, somehow. Not that it matters now.”
“How much have you won, Buck?”
“I don’t know. I lost count after the first five thousand francs.”
“Five thousand francs? How much is that?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t got these things cashed yet. I can’t walk about with a fortune on me. I shall get murdered, or something.”
“Ask Courteney what you’d better do. He’ll know. Here comes that old bitch — —”
“Where’s my money, Buck, and how much is it?” cried Mrs. Romayne.
“Haven’t got it yet,” said Buckland. “It’s all in counters. Hallo, Courteney.”
Courteney joined them, with Hilary Moon.
They were all excited and anxious to know the extent of Buckland’s winnings. Mrs. Romayne kept on reminding him, very loudly and shrilly, that she had given him the money to play with, and that it wasn’t really his own.
“Fifty-fifty was what you said,” Buckland replied imperturbably, “and you’ve dam’ well got to stick to that.”
(2)
The whole party had arranged to meet before dinner at a café known to Courteney.
Buckland, in uproarious spirits, recklessly standing apéritifs to everybody, was boasting of his achievement. He had won just over four hundred pounds, of which total he had handed over an exact half to Coral Romayne.
Angie wondered how soon she could borrow some of the remainder from him. She felt sure that the same speculation was also occupying the mind of Hilary.
All of them were drinking, at Buckland’s invitation. Even Mrs. Wolverton-Gush, who had arrived limping and with an air of exhaustion under her determined brightness, accepted, with elegant protests, a small mixed vermouth.
Angie, restless and dissatisfied, wondered how soon she was going to find herself alone with Buckland.
She looked angrily round, and thought what an enormous party they were. Chrissie Challoner had just joined them with Captain Morgan, Olwen, and Patrick.
Dulcie Courteney was hanging on to her father’s arm, chattering about the lovely time she’d had at the swimming-bath.
Denis Waller, Angie observed with malicious amusement, showed plainly in his face, without having the least idea that he was doing so, his almost sick envy of Buckland’s good fortune.
Courteney, reviewing his party, was advancing suggestions as to where they should dine.
Suddenly bored, and rather angry, Angie wondered why on earth Buckland hadn’t the sense to take her somewhere where they could be by themselves.
(3)
Hilary was not desperate, because no emotion so violent as desperation held any place in the cynical and pessimistic outlook into which he, like so many of his generation, had been born, and in which he had grown up.
He knew that he was in more serious difficulties than usual, because Madame at the Hotel that morning — easily circumventing his avoidance of her — had curtly and coldly demanded an early settlement of the week’s account. She had made it clear, without actually saying so in words, that she did not believe his credit to be good.
He perfectly understood that she would have not the slightest hesitation in making things extremely unpleasant for him and for Angie if he did not let her have almost at once some of the money owing to her.
The Hirondelle — a dead loss — had been only half paid for. Hilary intended to tell his Cannes acquaintance that she must have been unseaworthy when he bought her, and to refuse to pay the remaining instalment of the price. If a dispute followed, so much the better. It would give him time to leave France. The Hotel bill was a far more pressing necessity than any problematical payment on the motor-boat, and so was the price of the car. For that, he had undertaken to send, without delay, a cheque to his Cannes friend, who had also arranged the sale of the car.
Hilary had not the slightest doubt that, in the course of the day at Monte Carlo, at least one telephone call from Cannes would have been put through to the Hôtel d’Azur. He had instructed the concierge to say that he would ring up that evening without fail on his return.
A vague feeling that he might win money at the tables had sustained him.
Instead, he had lost the few hundred francs that constituted all he had left of the money he had brought to France. In England, he and Angie had nothing but debts. Hilary’s banking account, opened in the years of his prosperity under the generosity of the Atkinsons, had long been overdrawn. The bank was continually pressing him for repayment, or for some form of security.
He had heard of Buckland’s good luck with cold annoyance, followed by an instant determination to profit by it. His first thought, that Coral Romayne might be much easier to handle than Buckland, he dismissed at once.
She had never shown any signs of liking either of the Moons, was evidently in love with Buckland, and had certainly seen, and resented, his admiration of Angie.
Coral would be of no use at all.
Hilary congratulated Buckland effusively, encouraged him to drink as much as possible in celebration of his luck, and took care to suggest to Angie, coldly and nonchalantly, that she should make a point of driving back to the Hotel in the same car as Buckland.
He felt that it ought to be unnecessary to say any more.
At dinner he sat next to Chrissie Challoner and tried to talk to her about her own books, ignoring Dulcie who sat on his other side.
The dinner was a long one, very noisy, and prolonged by the champagne that Buckland ordered freely.
Only Captain Morgan, his daughter Olwen, and Patrick Romayne, had failed to take any share in it. They had gone to dine elsewhere.
By the end of the evening Hilary was sufficiently drunk to feel absolutely certain that he was the only man of the party in full command of his senses.
The women had gone to prepare themselves for the return journey. Courteney reported that the cars were at the door.
Hilary, oblivious of decisions made earlier in the evening, went up to Buckland and drew him aside.
“Look here,” he said very earnestly, “one can say this to you, I know. Don’t be an ass and chuck that money away on a lot of champagne for a crowd of women. It’s ridic-ridiculous thing to do
. They don’t respect you any the more for it, either.”
“Don’t they?” said Buckland. “Thanks for the warning, I’m sure.”
“That’s all right. Now look here, Buck, I’m going to be perfectly frank and open with you. I’ve been thinking about you, and this windfall of yours. What you want is a car. A good car is simply an investment. That’s all it is.”
“Now look here,” said Buckland, in his turn, “when I want a car I shall know how to set about finding one. And I may tell you that I shan’t come to you for it, what’s more.”
“Why not?” asked Hilary, hurt.
“Because I don’t believe you know any more about cars than you do about motor-boats.”
“The motor-boat was a mistake. I’m absolutely and entirely ready to admit that I was done over the motor-boat. But the car is O.K. Definitely.”
“You’ve got one to sell, have you? I thought as much,” said Buckland contemptuously. “Well, you and your car can go straight to Hell for all I care. In fact, I’d a bit sooner you went there than not. Got that?”
“Buckland,” said Hilary, with extraordinary dignity, “I consider your attitude definitely offensive. Definitely.”
“It’s meant to be,” said Buckland, turning away.
Hilary thought for a moment of knocking him down, but it seemed rather too much trouble. He contented himself instead with going up to Courteney and uttering a solemn warning.
“Buck’s had one over the eight, have you noticed? Thought I’d better mention it, because of the drive back. One doesn’t want to upset the girls.”
Courteney looked carefully at his informant. Then he said: “I see, quite. Thanks very much and all that. Don’t worry, I’ll see it’s all right.”
Reliable fellow, thought Hilary. Definitely reliable. Of course that was what he was paid for, in a way. To keep things going smoothly for the Hotel visitors. Would it be of any use to get him to talk to Madame, and explain that she ought to trust people — English gentlepeople — to pay what they owed, all in good time? Damn it, an Englishman’s word was his bond all the world over.
Hilary stumbled down some steps and found himself standing on the pavement, under a starlit sky. The jolt made him feel slightly sick, and he lost the thread of what he had just been thinking. This vexed him, for he knew that he had been on the verge of hitting upon a scheme that would put right his financial difficulties. What on earth could it have been?
Something to do with Buckland, that was it.
Buckland was going to buy the car, out of his winnings.... No, he wasn’t. He’d been damned disobliging about it. Insulting, in fact. Definitely.
“You get in, Moon, will you?” said the voice of Courteney, suave and yet firm, behind him. With a hand at Hilary’s elbow, he helped him into a car.
It had started before Hilary perceived, with disgust and astonishment, that he had somehow been induced to sit outside, in the seat beside the driver.
(4)
Dulcie’s day had been one of manufactured enjoyment. The Hotel child had long ago been taught that it was her job to seem amused, and pleased, and entertained, wherever she went. She must be attentive to everybody and admire the women’s clothes, and keep away from the young men, and allow the elderly ones to pet and paw her if they appeared to wish to do so, and always be very, very friendly with visitors’ children.
She did not find any of it very difficult. She had been used to it from early childhood, ever since her mother, whom she could barely remember, had been killed in a motor accident. Dulcie was naturally adaptable and anxious to please, and she was terribly afraid of her father, whom she adored. He was usually kind to her, but if he thought that she had been disobedient, or had deceived him in any way, he always beat her severely.
She very much hoped that he had noticed how, at Monte Carlo, she had spent practically the whole day with Olwen Morgan and Patrick Romayne. It had not really been much fun, because they had talked much more to one another than to her, and in any case she thought Olwen very stupid and childish for her age. And Captain Morgan had taken no notice of her whatever. He had, however, paid for her meals — which was, after all, much more important.
Dulcie had done her best to angle for an invitation to dinner, as soon as she had discovered that Captain Morgan did not intend to remain with the rest of the party, but she had been greatly relieved when it was not forthcoming. She thought it much more amusing to join in the rowdy celebrations instituted by Buckland, and she had besides an underlying wish to remain near Denis Waller.
It was the strange, undeniable fact that to Dulcie Courteney, bred in an atmosphere of cocktails, intrigue, and the cinema, romance had elected to wear, temporarily, the meagre form and nervous mannerisms of the little secretary.
His unvarying politeness impressed her, and she took at their surface value all his hinted references to his own superiority. But most of all she was drawn towards Denis because she felt that there was a certain similarity in their respective positions. She felt sure that he was afraid of Mr. Bolham — as indeed she was herself — and that people “took advantage” of his subordinate position to humiliate him.
Nothing could have been much more innocent than Dulcie’s eroticism. With every opportunity for learning vice she had actually remained childishly simple, partly because she had, so far, developed no sexual magnetism whatever, and partly because fear of her father was the dominant factor in her life. It inhibited even curiosity, so that she had no inclination towards experiments, and was satisfied by the long, recurrent saga, told to herself nightly, of which she was always the heroine, and the hero was the latest film-star to have captured her admiration.
Since the disaster to the Hirondelle, and indeed a little before, Denis Waller had replaced the film-star.
She had been deeply moved by the unjust and cruel treatment that she imagined him to have suffered at the time of the accident, and still more by the remembrance that he had turned to her for sympathy afterwards. Such imagination as Dulcie possessed had no outlet except the schoolgirl one of day-dreaming, and the inclusion of Denis in her more recent fantasies had helped to foster in her the illusion that he was as much attracted by her as she was by him.
She deliberately man[oe]uvred for a place in the car that held Denis, for the drive back from Monte Carlo to the Hôtel d’Azur, and obtained it without difficulty.
Her father had not only given her no orders, he was apparently indifferent as to the organisation of the return journey, and devoted his attention to steering Hilary Moon — more than a little drunk — to a safe place.
Denis Waller was standing motionless on the pavement. He had been very silent all through dinner, and had taken very little champagne.
Mrs. Wolverton-Gush, extraordinarily flushed and holding herself more erect even than usual, came up to him.
“Shall we go back as we came, Mr. Waller?”
“Miss Challoner has already gone,” said Denis in an unnaturally deep voice. “She’s in the front car.”
“We may as well get into this one, then.”
Dulcie edged a little nearer.
“Is anyone else — would anybody — —” began Denis.
“Oh, Mr. Waller, may I come too? Would it be all right, I mean?”
“Of course, Dulcie. There’ll be plenty of room, Moon is going next the driver.”
Dulcie climbed in, followed by Denis.
She thought how romantic the night was, and wished that they had been by themselves. But the large and stately Mrs. Wolverton-Gush occupied rather more than two-thirds of the back seat. Dulcie politely compressed herself into the remaining third.
Denis sat morosely humped upon the front seat. Dulcie felt certain that he was very unhappy, and longed to console him.
She made one or two timid observations and Denis replied as gently as usual, but with no attempt to prolong the conversation.
Mrs. Wolverton-Gush ejaculated several times on the subject of Buckland’s luck at the roulette table a
nd then became silent. Quite soon Dulcie perceived that she was on the verge of falling asleep. Every now and then her head fell forward with a fearful jerk.
Dulcie watched her anxiously.
At last Mrs. Wolverton-Gush slept.
Dulcie pushed her foot against that of Denis and directed his attention to their companion.
A daring idea crossed her mind.
“I think I’ll move,” she said softly. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Waller. It’ll give her more room.”
Moving very carefully, she took the seat next to Denis. They could talk now, in lowered voices, and the atmosphere became immediately intimate.
“Hasn’t it been a lovely day, Mr. Waller? I’ve so enjoyed it.”
“Have you? I’m very glad,” Denis returned in a tone of profound melancholy.
“Have you enjoyed it too? I do hope you have.”
“That’s very sweet of you.”
“But I do really. I wish you’d tell me.”
Denis turned at that, and looked at her, with the smile that from time to time redeemed his sallow face from the utterly commonplace.
“Tell you what, Dulcie?”
“Why you’ve been so unhappy all day,” Dulcie said, feeling her heart beat faster at this approach to intimacy.
Denis made no immediate answer, and she was afraid that she must have offended him, and pressed her hands together in a nervous agony.
When at last he spoke, a rush of relief nearly overwhelmed her.
“I didn’t know anyone had noticed anything. In fact, I did everything I could to prevent anyone noticing. It’s very nice of you to care enough to — to see that I’m not very happy, Dulcie.”
“Oh, Mr. Waller!” she gasped breathlessly. “Of course I do. You’ve always been so terribly nice to me. I only wish there was anything I could do for you — I do really, Mr. Waller.”
“Thank you,” said Denis. And after a moment’s hesitation he added: “I’m a very lonely sort of person, and just lately one or two things have happened to make me rather acutely aware of it. So you see, I can’t afford to turn down any offer of friendship.”
Collected Works of E M Delafield Page 403