Danger Calling

by Patricia Wentworth

  “Perhaps it wasn’t him,” said Rosa. “Perhaps it was the other one.”

  “Charles?” said Madame Paravicini. She took the snake behind the head with a firm grip and drew it out of the box. It was about five feet long and beautifully marked. She began to talk to it in a low voice, and presently had it coiling about her arm, darting its head this way and that at her golden net and the jewels in her hair.

  “It might be Algy,” she said.

  “Well, it might—but I should say he was mad with you, and if he was mad with you, why should he be sending you a snake?”

  Gloria Paravicini flung across to the telephone and demanded Restow’s number. The snake, passing behind the plaits of her hair, looked down beside her cheek and watched the mouthpiece as she spoke into it.

  “That Algy?”

  “It’s Trevor Fothering,” said Lindsay at the other end—“Mr Restow’s secretary.”

  “I don’t want any secretaries—I want Algy, and I want him right away.”

  Lindsay retired. He had no need to ask who was speaking.

  “It’s Madame Paravicini,” he said, and saw Restow get up smiling from a chair beside the stove.

  He took the telephone, winked solemnly at Lindsay, and spoke into it.

  “That you, Gloria? … What’s that? … You speak too close to the telephone—I have told you a hundred times! ‘Bzz—bzz—bzz’—that is all that comes through, instead of your beautiful voice. … Oh, go on speaking! I love to hear your voice, as the song says—but how can I hear it when nothing but a ‘Bzz’ comes through? If you say ‘Adored one’ to me, my heart cannot beat with rapture when I hear only ‘Bzz.’ It is those fine mezzo notes of yours—there is no room for them inside one poor little wire—they fight with one another and are strangled. … What do you say?” He paused, and for a moment the mezzo alluded to could be heard doing its best. Restow showed all his teeth in a grin. “Six inches farther away, and you will roar as gently as a sucking-pig—as Shakespeare says in his Midsummer Night’s Dream. Say Gloria, it isn’t often I know where they come from and when I do, I find I’m looking round for a bouquet. … All right, all right—you shall speak. I am listening—I am all attention.”

  Lindsay, bidden by a gesture to remain, now caught the ghost of Madame Paravicini’s voice. It appeared to be a very angry ghost.

  “Algy Restow—will you quit fooling and tell me whether you’ve just sent me a snake!”

  “What would I do that for?” said Restow after a brief stupefied pause. Then, recovering himself, “By Jing! A snake! Someone has sent you a snake? That would not be sweets to the sweet—would it? No, by Jing!

  “Again that ghost of a full, angry voice:

  “Did you send it—or didn’t you?”

  “Does one send snakes to the woman one is in love with? A bouquet of cobras—a shower of vipers—a python—for a gage d’amour? And scorpions for billets doux?”

  “Cut all that out! Did you send it?”

  “I would rather die!”

  A determined click announced the close of the interview.

  Restow struck himself on the side of the head, swore volubly in Turkish, and demanded to be reconnected with Madame Paravicini’s suite.

  It was not Madame Paravicini but Rosalie who answered him.

  “Is that you, Mr Restow? … Yes, it’s Rosa speaking. … No, she won’t come, Mr Restow. She says you’ve been insulting her. She says if you want to insult someone, it’s just got to be someone else. … No, it’s no use my telling her that, Mr Restow. She won’t come—she’s real mad. … Yes, someone did send her a snake. … Oh yes, she’d have been real pleased if you had sent it. … Oh yes, Mr Restow, she’s real mad with you now.”

  Restow, who had been making a series of horrible faces at the telephone, here brought down his fist upon the table with a resounding bang.

  “And why haven’t I murdered that woman when I have had the chance?” he declaimed rhetorically. Then, in a slow, malignant voice, “Woman—be silent! You have a tongue like a Persian wheel! Are you there? Are you silent? Are you listening? Here is a message for my wife. I have been challenged to a duel by that precious M. Arêsne of hers, and if to-morrow she has no husband and no little yellow puppy-dog, it is not I who am going to be sorry for her—no, by Jing!”

  He flung the receiver back upon the hook and came striding across the room laughing, with his head back and his long teeth showing.

  “And now we dine! Mademoiselle Ursule honours us. Is she not the perfect type that I described to you? Is it possible to be more blonde, more fade, more amiable—more damnably amiable? Aha! We shall see! Qui vivra verra! We will wait upon the hind leg of opportunity. Perhaps it will kick us—perhaps not. Also I present Mademoiselle Ursule with an offering of flowers. Now I give you three guesses what they are, these flowers that I present to this blonde young girl!” He waved a hand towards a florist’s carton which reposed on the sofa. The half open lid showed nothing but a crinkle of tissue-paper.

  “Forget-me-nots,” suggested Lindsay.

  Restow made an indescribable grimace.

  “Jamais de la vie! To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die—kein? What a fate! What an immortality! The pale, cold, insipid thoughts of an Ursule Grandier for all eternity—mais!” He blew out his lips on the word and let it go with a loud plop.

  “Lilies,” said Lindsay with a spice of malice.

  Restow shook his head vigorously.

  “My good Fothering—” he began, and then stopped short with his head cocked on one side listening.

  Lindsay listened too.

  There was undoubtedly a row going on in the corridor. Somebody banged against the wall. There was a reverberation of voices, a scuffling of feet. Somebody banged hard against the door. The door burst open. Gloria Paravicini appeared upon the threshold. She looked extremely handsome and she was in a towering passion. She held M. Charles Arêsne by the shoulders, and she had opened the door by the simple process of banging him violently against it. His collar had burst from its stud, his hair fell dishevelled over one eye, and a long scratch which ran down his nose and cheek testified to the well-known cutting powers of a diamond ring.

  “My angel!” said Restow.

  Madame Gloria propelled her puppy-dog into the room, banged the door behind her, and turned a furiously commanding gaze upon Lindsay.

  “Send for the police!” she said in a deep booming voice.

  “What has it done?” said Restow.

  “But I have done nothing!” said the unfortunate Charles. “Messieurs—I call you to witness—she has attacked me—she has torn my collar—she has scratched my face—she has lacerated my nerves—she has outraged my feelings!”

  As he spoke, he placed Restow between himself and the indignant lady.

  Madame Paravicini put her back against the door and glared at him.

  “You little murderous thug!” she said. Then, with a sudden change to unbelievably bad French, “Will you deny that you had the atrocious intention of assassinating my husband? Will you deny that? Will you say that you didn’t challenge him to a duel? Little apache! Do you think that you will be safe from the vengeance of Gloria Paravicini? Do you imagine that my Algerius has no one to protect him? Do you think that you can murder him with impunity?” She dropped back into American. “If that’s what you think, you gotter think on the other side of your head!”

  “Gloria—” said the unhappy Charles.

  “Don’t you call me Gloria! I’m Madame Paravicini to murderers, and don’t you forget it! Algy Restow, do you call yourself a man—standing there and letting me be insulted by an assassinating apache?”

  Restow made her a deep bow and stepped aside.

  “It’s seconds out of the ring, I guess.”

  The wretched Charles exhibited a good deal of terror.

  “Ma
dame, I do not insult Monsieur Restow. I wish to leave this apartment.”

  Gloria Paravicini stamped her foot.

  “If Algy was a man, he’d beat you!” she said in a voice choked with fury. She whirled round upon Restow. “Do you know who sent me that snake? Well then, it was him!” She pointed at the uncomfortable Charles. “And didn’t you say yourself that a man that sent snakes to a woman would be all out to insult her? And what are you going to do about it? That’s what I want to know.”

  Charles Arêsne burst into a propitiatory stammer.

  “But—you say you like a snake—you adore a snake—you are lonely without your snakes—you weep for them. I wish to please you—I buy a fine, large, expensive snake—I send him to you. Gloria!”

  “Algy Restow,” said Madame Paravicini in a voice like the lower notes of an angry harmonium, “are you going to stand there and let another man make love to me under your very eyes?”

  Restow produced a bland smile.

  “And why not—if it amuses you?” he said.

  Madame Gloria sprang away from the door, wrenching it open as she did so. She banged it back against the wall with all her might, and the next instant she had taken the unfortunate Charles by the shoulders and hurled him into the corridor.

  “Git!” she said succinctly.

  Charles now asked nothing better of fate. His goddess was no longer a woman, she was a cataclysm of nature. He would as soon have aspired to a volcano in eruption.

  She slammed the door upon him and stood panting before Restow.

  “Are you going to fight him?” she said.

  “No,” said Restow.

  “And why not? Don’t you want to kill him?”

  Restow threw back his head and laughed.

  “He made love tome!”

  Restow shrugged his shoulders.

  “He kissed me!” cried Gloria. Her bosom heaved tumultuously.

  “What has it to do with me?”

  She said “Oh!” her voice all fallen away to a whisper. Her whole big magnificence winced.

  Lindsay saw Restow’s large hairy hand clench upon itself so hard that the knuckles went white. He spoke, however, with an effect of pleasant ease. ,

  “By Jing!” he said. “He has a curious idea in presents, that puppy-dog of yours! Now, for me, when I wish to offer my respectful homage to a lady, I do not send her reptiles—pfui!—no! I offer—yes, by Jing, I offer her the flowers of love.”

  He turned magnificently to the florist’s box, ripped off the lid, and plunging into the silver paper, drew out a long sheaf of velvety crimson roses. The scent came out into the room and filled it.

  “That is better, is it not?” said Restow.

  Madame Gloria looked at the roses, then she looked at Restow. Then she said, “For me, Algy?”

  Restow smiled diabolically. He held the roses up and rolled his little eyes at them.

  “By Jing—no!” he said. “They are for a very beautiful young girl who dines with me. You have seen her—hein? Is she not blonde? Is she not beautiful? Is she not a rose? Oh, no, no, no—a rosebud—she is too young to be a rose. And youth’s the sort of stuff that don’t endure, as Shakespeare says—hein, Madame Paravicini?”

  She threw back her head and laughed quite softly.

  “Skim milk!” she said. “If you think you’re going to get me all worked up over skim milk, you’d better think again.”

  She looked at him, the amazingly long dark lashes just veiling the amazingly large dark eyes.

  “Algy, I guess those roses are for me.”

  Restow brought his nose to them and sniffed.

  “They smell good—nicht? You would like to dine with me and wear my roses, which suit your dress à merveille—and go to the Folies Bergères and have a good time—hein?”

  “I guess I would, Algy.”

  He sniffed the roses again. His face took on a malicious grin.

  “Then what a pity I should have a previous engagement! Schmerzliches Zeug—hein?”

  Lindsay began to feel very much de trop. On the other hand, something violent seemed due to occur at any moment. Due? It was overdue. And as the thought went through his mind, Gloria Paravicini snatched at the roses.

  Restow sprang back, but not in time. Her hand grasped at the stems—grasped and slipped. Restow wrenched free, and Madame Gloria with a piercing scream collapsed upon the floor, wringing a wounded hand. The rose had had its thorn, and the thorn had ripped a long scratch across the lady’s wrist and palm. Large drops of blood welled up upon it, the very colour of the roses. Gloria Paravicini gazed at them in horror. Then she began to cry exactly as if she were five years old. She screwed up her eyes, contorted her face, and sobbed passionately, while a really remarkable flow of tears poured down her cheeks.

  In a moment Restow had cast the roses upon the carpet and was on his knees beside her.

  “My angel! My little one! My Gloria! Herzens-allerliebste! I love but thee! Querida! Carissima!”

  “You love that whey-faced doll!” sobbed Madame Gloria.

  Restow, with his arms round her, struggled for prudence, but as the weeping lady’s head declined upon his shirt-front and a large white arm encircled his neck, he abandoned the contest.

  Lindsay slipped out of the room. He closed the door upon a love duet in half a dozen languages.

  CHAPTER XXX

  AS LINDSAY UNDRESSED THAT night, he considered that he had earned his salary. He had dined alone with Madame Grandier and Mademoiselle Ursule, conversing with them carefully in a style modelled upon the simplest French exercises. When you know a language perfectly it is not at all easy to talk it as if you do not know it at all.

  Madame Grandier, who in ordinary circumstances possessed an unfailing flow of conversation, was disappointed at Restow’s absence and devoted herself sulkily to her dinner.

  If Mademoiselle Ursule was disappointed, she dissembled very well. She toyed prettily with the prettier courses and cast glances of an almost aggressive modesty at Restow’s deputy. Her foot touched Lindsay’s foot beneath the table. Her hand lingered against his—purely by accident. She succeeded, in fact in putting him very much on his guard. Altogether an arduous evening.

  He put out the light and lay watching the darkness until the oblong of the open window snowed against the black outer wall. A dark night, a cold night—cold without frost, and dark without rain. He lay on his back, his hands clasped behind his head, divesting his thoughts of all the speculations and theories of the day. He made it a rule to put such things away and plunge into sleep with a consciousness ready for new impressions. He let go of Restow, of Gloria Paravicini, of Madame Grandier, and Mademoiselle Ursule. He let go of Marie Marnier and Gogo, of the Vulture, and of Drayton. He would not let go of Marian, but only of his anxieties for her. Marian might come with him into the even fields of sleep. He began to, drift towards them pleasantly.

  The window hung like a picture on the black wall—a secret picture hung with veil upon veil of dusk. Then the first veil rose, and he saw— He could never remember what he saw, because all at once he was vividly awake. Something had waked him. He had not the slightest idea what the something was. He had not been here. He had taken the first step over the borderland of sleep, and something had put out a touch and brought him back. He frowned intently in the dark. That was it—a touch. Something had touched him. Something had moved.

  He stiffened, every muscle rigid; not with the fixed rigidity of fear, but with the strung rigidity that waits for action. He waited. There was nothing. A most interminable minute passed.

  He had begun very slightly to relax, when something moved under his hand, under his head. His head rested upon his hands, and his hands upon the pillow. Under the pillow something moved like a muscle moving under the skin.

  Lindsay shot out of bed. There was apparently no interval betwe
en that sensation of movement and his finding himself barefooted on the floor feeling for the switch of the electric light. The light in the ceiling came on. Lindsay, a yard away from the bed, stared at the rumpled pillow and the hastily cast off bedclothes. He saw a pillow-case, white sheets, the corner of a blanket bound with blue. There was nothing else.

  And then, with the faintest rippling motion, the broad hem-stitched edge of the pillow-case lifted and something thin and dark showed like the loop of a leather lead—one of those round leads which old ladies attach by one end to a wrist and by the other to some plump, surfeited lap-dog. This lead moved along the edge of the pillow-case, and all at once it had a little flat head which came darting out and hung in the air, questing, on the self-same spot where Lindsay’s head had been not half a minute before.

  By the time he had snatched up a stick, the creature had left the shelter of the pillow. It was a small, active snake of a dull brownish colour. Lindsay broke its back with one blow and finished it with a couple more. Then he picked up the pillow gingerly. There appeared to be no more snakes.

  He sat down on the stiff hotel chair and contemplated the corpse. He thought it was a Ķarait. He had seen karaits in the reptile house of the Zoo. He recalled that they had a fancy for getting into houses and that the majority of deaths from snake-bite in India were laid to their account. If this had happened in India, it would be so easy. But Ķaraits don’t wander about Paris looking for an hotel under whose hospitable pillows they may find shelter.

  His thoughts slid to Gloria Paravicini. Someone had sent her a snake. There had been a snake under his pillow. But Gloria Paravicini’s snake was certainly not a Ķarait. He did not see Charles Arêsne selecting that little mud-coloured death as a gage d’amour. Gloria had displayed the creature after dinner, detaining him from his duties as escort to Madame Grandier and Mademoiselle Ursule. Her snake was a large, handsome, and perfectly harmless rock snake. Now that M. Arêsne had been demolished, she was taking a good deal of pride in his gift. She wished to display both her snake and her husband. Lindsay had been put to it to get away.