It took him a moment or two to recapture his enthusiastic stride. “I know you Americans have all the space in the world. Still, it’s relative, you know. Once you’re out of London, really in the country, you feel you’re miles from anywhere. And anyhow, I can’t live there all the time. I have to go to the office, and I’ll only get down for week-ends at first, though I hope afterwards they’ll let me do some of my work down there. You see, right at the top, I’ll have my own work-room—drawing-table, books, everything. A bedroom underneath for myself. Then two guest-rooms there—you see. I’ll put a hard court in—you can make one quite cheaply if you know the tricks—and a squash court, if I can run to it. One big sitting- and dining-room combined, of course. You see the idea? Look, here’s a rough plan.”
“It might be a cunning little place,” she admitted, with, he thought, quite unnecessary reluctance.
“You wait!” he cried triumphantly, almost as if he had an invitation to his house-warming party in his pocket for her. “It’ll be a grand little job. Something to work for, too. And when they see it, other people will want one——”
“Have you lots of friends?” she asked sharply.
“Well, I don’t go in for lots of friends, y’know, but I have some good friends—fellows I was at Oxford with—and—oh!—some of my sister’s pals—you know? I suppose you’ve plenty of friends, haven’t you? Must have.”
“No, I haven’t.” She said it without any particular expression, just announced it.
He looked his surprise. She met his glance calmly. He said nothing for a moment, then, with an attempt at a lightness he did not feel, he ventured: “I can’t understand that. In fact, I can’t understand you at all, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
She showed none of the usual feminine pleasure at being hard to understand, inscrutable, unfathomable, mysterious, older-than-the-rocks-among-which-she-sits; no Mona Lisa reaction at all. She merely accepted his lack of understanding, then coolly dismissed it with “Go on.”
“Go on? With what?”
“About your house and what you’re going to do.”
“Oh—that! Well, there really isn’t a lot more to say, unless you want some technical details—and I don’t suppose you do. But, believe me—” and now he lit up again “—I’m going to have some fun with it in a quiet way. Three years and——”
But she cut him short, though not rudely. “You’re happy, aren’t you?” And she eyed him strangely.
He found this embarrassing. Was he happy? He had never thought much about it. “Well—I think I’ve been pretty lucky, really. I’ve a job I like, and I’m not doing too badly at it. I have”—he caricatured it—“me ’ealth an’ strength, y’know. I’ve some good friends——”
“No,” she cried sharply, “can’t you see it’s not really like that at all?”
He stared at the surprising girl. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” she went on, harshly and with a vehemence he had never expected, “it just isn’t like that. You’ve never looked at things properly. You’re talking like a child. This job of yours—what does it amount to? How long are you going to keep your health and strength, as you call them? How do you know these people are really good friends? Have you tried them out? Have you tried anything out yet? You know you haven’t. You’re just talking a lot of pipe-dreams, that’s all. You don’t know yet—you’ve never tried even to think—what life’s really like——”
“Here, wait a minute,” he stammered, beginning to recover from this astonishing outburst and onslaught. “How old are you?”
“Oh—what does that matter?” she returned impatiently. “Don’t tell me I’m not as old as you. I know I’m not, though I’ll bet I’m only four years younger. But that’s nothing to do with it.”
“What has, then?”
“Oh!——” then she checked herself, and suddenly pulled her wrap over her golden shoulders. “Let’s go.”
Reluctantly he stood up. “It’s quite early, y’know.”
She hesitated a moment. “I know it. But I’d like some air. If you like, I’ll drive you to the top where we can see something.”
That was very different. Happily he paid the bill, which was unreasonable but not completely monstrous, and then joined her in the car, which she was driving herself to-night. This was certainly a very odd girl. He gave her a glance or two as they moved off, saw she was now sunk inside herself, not wanting to talk, so he did not break the silence. She drove at a frightful speed up the steeply curving road, but there was nothing about her to suggest that she was aware of the fact. As the night swirled about them, and lights flashed and then fled out of sight, and destruction seemed to wait round every corner, he felt very uneasy. This she sensed, without so much as a look at him.
“Don’t worry,” she said, with a touch of scorn. “I can drive. You won’t be killed.”
“Thanks very much,” he returned tartly.
“Sore?”
“Sore? No, I ache a bit after this afternoon——”
She laughed, it seemed for the first time. “I meant, sore at me. Mad. Angry.”
“Oh—no, not at all.” But even to himself he sounded rather stiff. And a bit pompous. Very English, no doubt.
She said nothing more until she had brought him, by a series of heart-shaking miracles, to the high top road, along which they roared until at last they arrived at a place that showed them miles of the Riviera coastline glittering below. It was a clear but moonless night, rather cold, and below the immense darkness in which they now came to a halt the promenades and casinos and hotels far below were picked out in twinkling light. The scene had a certain hard beauty typical of the region, like that of some handsome woman of the world wearing all her diamonds. They got out, and looked down at it all, silently, for some moments.
“Like Southern California,” Andrea announced at last, “only not so good.”
“I’ve never been there.”
“And don’t want to go, eh?”
“Yes, I’d like to. As a matter of fact, there’s a chance—just a faint chance—I might. One of our clients—he’s one of these film magnates who came to England, and now he’s in Hollywood, but he’s coming to England again—and wants to build a house near the English studio—and he’s very impatient, wants to discuss plans and all that—so one of us might have to go—don’t suppose I’ll nab it though, no such luck.” As she made no reply, he felt compelled to go rambling on. “Don’t much care for this part of the world, though. Too faked and dolled up. No real atmosphere. Not real at all. Like most of the people who come here—they’re not real either. I only came for the tennis.”
“Well,” she said, softly, slowly, “you’ve had that. Even if your partner wasn’t so hot.”
“My partner,” he replied firmly, “was good, very good. Also, my partner, besides being shatteringly handsome, is a very puzzling, mysterious young woman. Nobody seems to know anything about her. Some people say Baker isn’t her real name. I have a feeling myself it isn’t, though I don’t know why.” He turned to look at her in the darkness, and could just see her face, mysteriously illuminated by the distant lights, a dim enchantment of a face. She did not return his look.
“If you must know,” she replied, “it isn’t.”
“I hope Andrea’s all right. I like Andrea.”
“Yes.”
“And the other?”
“What does that matter?” She sounded impatient.
He hesitated a moment, then replied quietly: “It matters rather a lot, I think, to me.” She did not reply but made an impatient little sound and a restless movement or two. These did not deter him. He moved closer, so that their shoulders were touching. “You see,” he began, “I seem to have done a very silly thing this week. I seem to have spent most of the week, when we weren’t playing tog
ether, thinking about you——”
“Oh, don’t start that,” she cried, and moved sharply away from him. “Don’t think because I haven’t been around all the time, I haven’t had plenty of that stuff handed to me, specially on dark nights. If you thought I brought you here for that, you’ve got me all wrong.” She stared away from him.
He felt as if she had hit him in the face. “I can’t walk back to my hotel in thin dress shoes,” he explained carefully, “so would you mind driving me back?”
She turned without a word, and he followed her into the car. Their descent was even more terrifying than the climb had been, and the girl appeared to care little if she should kill the pair of them. But this time he did not show his uneasiness. He sat there rigidly, ready to make a polite reply to any remark she might make. But she made none. It was a most unpleasant half-hour.
Within sight of the hotel, she was compelled to slow down, and finally she stopped altogether, close to the entrance. Then she looked at him, it appeared reproachfully.
“Well?” he enquired.
“Oh—why did you?”
“Did I what?”
“You know—start that stuff. I hoped——” but she did not tell him what she had hoped.
What he said now surprised himself, being entirely unrehearsed. “I think,” he began slowly, quietly, “you’ve got me all wrong too. I’m going to say something important—I mean, important to me —so if you really don’t want to listen and are going to lose your temper again, please stop me now.” He waited.
But this, after all, was a girl, however strangely she might behave. “Go on then. I’ll be quiet.”
“I want to say something I’ve never said to a girl before. I didn’t intend to say it, didn’t know, in fact, that I could say it, and if you think I’m a bit barmy—all right. But it’s this. We’ve done nothing but play some tennis together—and, after all, I’ve had plenty of good tennis partners in my time—and I don’t know anything about you, and apparently you don’t want me to know—and, if you like, it’s all crazy—but the fact is, I seem to have fallen in love with you. I know now—it’s the real, genuine thing. It’s never happened before like this, and I have a feeling it won’t happen again. It looks to me as if I’ll go on thinking about you for a long, long time. I don’t want to, but it looks as if I’ll have to. And I don’t know why. You’re beautiful, I think—really beautiful—but I’ve met beautiful girls before, and this didn’t happen. There’s something about you—and I’ll be hanged if it’s the way you behave—that does something very strange to me. I wish to God it didn’t. And now I’ve said what I wanted to say—just some more of the old stuff you’ve had so much of——”
“No!” She was vehement again, but now with a very different tone. “I didn’t mean—this. This is different.”
“I see. Well—you know now how I feel. And, I suppose, that’s that.” He made a movement, as if to get out, but she stopped him, and then remained, leaning towards him a little, looking at him with great dark eyes. He could see her face now, for the light from the lamps along the curved roadway to the hotel found its way into the car. He was not to forget the look on her face for a long time. But having stopped him, she did not speak.
“It’s all—quite hopeless, I gather.” He tried to be easy.
She nodded, tragically. “Yes. But not—in the way you think——”
“Why, then?”
“I can’t explain.”
“I see,” he replied shortly, for he felt he deserved a little more confidence from her than this.
“No, you don’t—and it’s no use getting mad at me again—specially now—after what you’ve said.” Her voice trailed off as she looked, at once searchingly and sadly, at him again. Then she said, almost to herself, and almost as if about to repeat something memorised carefully already: “Malcolm Darbyshire.”
“That,” he observed, rather bitterly, “is the name.”
“Don’t talk to me that way now,” she said hastily. “I’ve got to go in a minute—and go for good.” She seemed to study him again. “I like you,” she added slowly. “I like you a whole lot, Malcolm Darbyshire. More than you think.”
“And yet—it’s hopeless.”
“Yes, it’s hopeless—because everything’s hopeless.”
“Now that’s just nonsense,” he cried angrily. “And you’re not playing fair. You know very well everything isn’t hopeless.”
“I don’t. But it’s no use talking.”
“Why not? I can’t see——”
“I know you can’t,” she cut in, sharply but miserably, “and I can’t make you see—so what’s the use? I must go now.”
“No—please—Andrea!”
“Yes. And listen!” She came closer still, and took his hand in a fierce little grip. “Forget what you’ve just told me. Forget me. Don’t worry the least little bit again about me. It’s all useless. And I do like you a whole lot. You’re sweet. So it isn’t that. Good-bye!”
There was a glitter of tears in the face so close to his. He stared at her dumbly, then suddenly stirred to action, turned a little and put his free hand on her shoulder.
“Really good-bye?” He was hugely incredulous.
“Yes,” she replied, very simply now and solemnly, like a small child. “And—for ever.”
And then the astonishing girl kissed him, warmly, passionately, despairingly kissed him, but as his arms tightened round her, she pushed him away, made no reply to his incoherent protestations, sat blindly at the wheel until he had reluctantly climbed out; and then she drove away at full speed, leaving him standing there, bewildered, wildly oscillating between misery and joy, still feeling her lips on his, and yet watching her go rocketing clean out of his life. In this whirlpool he remained, to be twisted and tossed round endlessly, until nearly daybreak, by which time he began to sleep fitfully on his wreck of a bed.
Next morning he knew at once that she had gone and that the Riviera was a mere empty shell, the whole witchery and glamour of life having departed for Paris and further mysterious destinations. He enquired eagerly at the desk for letters, hoping that she might have left one of those little notes of farewell that few women can resist leaving. But there was nothing for him. He did not know where she had been staying. He did not know where she was going, though he imagined that she lived in California and was probably returning there. He did not know her real name. There he was, left hopelessly and idiotically in love with a girl about whom he knew next to nothing, a girl who either was not quite right in her head—and this he did not believe for a moment—or was deeply unhappy and compelled to appear remote and mysterious. He spent the day, his last there, moodily hanging about and doing a little listless packing and occasionally trying to find out if anybody knew anything about Andrea, and not succeeding. She was not in the tennis world nor in smart society, just one of those good-looking American girls who sometimes blow in to compete, and usually have a good forehand wallop. It was like enquiring about a comet among the members of a planetary system. He knew no more about her by five o’clock than when he had wakened that morning.
Just after five, however, a telegram arrived for him, with all the dramatic unexpectedness of telegrams. It had been sent from Lyons, and ran: No dont forget all about me but goodbye Malcolm—Andrea. Forget her? He was in for a hell of a time trying to keep her out of his mind for five minutes together. He read this telegram at least eighteen times before dinner, looking at it again and again as if there might, idiotically, be some word he had missed, or that she herself might somehow miraculously peep out at him between the now familiar words. A new feeling of tenderness for her now overcame him, because of this deeply feminine last message, which brought her back to him as a real breathing girl and not as a mysterious departed figure. Yet there was precious little consolation in it; all the glamour of the world h
ad gone; and he was left—though making ready to depart himself—in a Riviera that was a weary emptiness. Thank God he too had to go!
It came, that precious little piece of information, that blessed light in darkness, as such things so often do, when he was least expecting it. In the dining-car of the Paris express he found himself sharing a table with old Bellowby-Sayers, a wheezy fat old snob and gossip, who had come over from Cannes several days to watch the tennis, not because he really cared about the game but because he liked to be in at everything when the spotlight was on it. As the spotlight had been on Malcolm too for at least one afternoon, old Bellowby-Sayers was glad to notice his existence, though Malcolm would have preferred being left alone. Afterwards he thanked his stars for that seat, none too comfortable, next to the snobbish old gasbag.
“Had a good tournament, didn’t you, my boy?” said Bellowby-Sayers, after pulling a face at the fish set before him. “Let’s see—semi-final in the Singles, wasn’t it? Ah—yes—that Austrian lad was a bit too quick for you. Don’t get the practice most of these regular fellas do, I suppose? Good show, though. And, of course, the Mixed Couples. Played a great game that last set, I thought. How did you like your partner? Fine gal, eh?”
Malcolm admitted she was, and said to himself, “Yes, the finest gal you’ve ever seen, you old chump.”
Then it came, a gift from the gods. Old Bellowby-Sayers chuckled. “Bet you don’t know who she is!”
This time Malcolm did not talk to himself. “No,” he replied eagerly. “Nobody seemed to know. I was wondering if you did. You meet a lot of people.”
“Yes, I get about a bit. Matter of fact, I recognised her at Cannes. She was staying there. She’s the only daughter of a fella who played merry hell in Wall Street a few years ago, and then cleared out, with a colossal pile. One of these American metal men—copper, silver, all that. The real thing—multi-millionaire—but a queer, miserable sort of fella, I thought—probably no digestion left, like most of these fellas. Met him several times, and the gal with him once. Yes, she’s his only daughter—and coming in for a packet, believe me. Fancy he’s made one of his quick trips over here—though he’s out of the market now—and she came with him and rushed down for a bit of tennis. Heard she played a good game. Fine-looking gal, but not very lively—not like some of these American gals you see about—gay little devils!”
The Doomsday Men Page 3