“Please – do not – speak to – me! There is – somebody – watching.”
Another man might have stared at her in astonishment, or even expostulated, but Craig had been trained in a school where one unwary movement, one slip of the tongue, could mean, if not certain death, discovery.
For the moment he did not move, then, as if his prayer was over, he rose from his seat and without even looking at the Countess, genuflected in the aisle, then walked deliberately slowly to where the effigy in wax of St. Dévoté, to whom the Chapel was dedicated, lay against the North wall.
St. Dévoté, the Patron Saint of Monaco, was born in Corsica in AD 283. Her parents were pagan, but her Christian name brought her the new faith.
In the great persecution that followed, she was tortured which she endured, praying and smiling. As she died her soul flew up to Heaven in the form of a dove.
The same dove piloted the barque, which carried her body to Monaco, where it settled on a rock and there the Chapel dedicated to her was ultimately built.
Few people who came to Monte Carlo to worship the green tables in the Casino knew of the Chapel, but, as he did in everything with which he had any contact, Craig learnt the history and stored all he learnt away in his mind.
He stood for a moment looking at the wax figure of a very young girl with the dove resting on her head.
Then he saw, as he expected, that there was a wreath laid in front of it, obviously commemorating the death of somebody who believed the Saint would pray in Heaven for those who had died on earth.
The green vine leaves, the faded pink and white carnations and the ribbon, which tied the wreath at its base, were all too familiar even to be noticed.
As Craig knelt, as if in reverence, in front of the Patron Saint of the Chapel, he slipped an envelope beneath the wreath so quickly that it was doubtful if anybody watching him would have been aware of his action.
Then he rose to his feet and deliberately moved very slowly down the Church.
As he had expected, while he was engaged in looking at the statue of St. Dévoté and leaving a considerable amount of francs for Father Augustin, the Countess had left.
He was sure it had been a move on her part so that those of whom she had spoken as watching would not have seen him or, if they had done so, would have been aware only of his back.
It was something he would have thought of himself, but he was surprised that the Countess had been so astute.
Again at the door of the Church he lingered, picking up some prayer books, flicking over the pages and pretending to read a leaflet that gave the times of the Services.
Only when he was quite certain that the Countess had driven away, if she had come by carriage or was out of sight if she had walked, did he leave the Chapel.
He now had a great deal to think about.
It was obvious last night when she had left him so hastily that she must have heard the Russian servant come into the room behind her.
He imagined now that either the maid, who would have been usual, had accompanied her to the Church or perhaps she had another bodyguard of some sort.
It was so intriguing that Craig found it impossible to think of anything else for the rest of the afternoon.
It was only when he had puzzled over what had been said and found himself wondering how soon he could see the Countess again, that he remembered that the Grand Duke Boris was giving a party that evening and had been determined to invite her with Lord Neasdon.
As by this time it was after four o’clock, Craig was certain the Grand Duke would be in the Casino.
The place was filling up as it inevitably did before dinner and he walked quickly into the Salle Touzet and was relieved to see, as he expected, the Grand Duke sitting at the baccarat table, playing with what to any other man would have been a fortune.
As Craig watched, speaking to one or two of the spectators whom he knew, the Grand Duke lost the pile of notes and gold in front of him and rose to his feet without any expression of annoyance or disappointment on his handsome face.
Then, as he moved away from the table, he saw Craig and put out his hand.
“Come and have a drink with me, Craig,” he said. “I need it.”
Craig was too wise to commiserate with him over his losses, knowing it was something a gambler hated more than anything else, just as they thought it unlucky to be congratulated on their wins.
“It’s rather early for me to drink,” he replied, “I am keeping myself for your party tonight, if it is still taking place.”
“Of course it is taking place.” the Grand Duke said, “and Zsi-Zsi has asked all your special friends to meet you, although I expect most of them know already that you are here amongst us.”
“You make me sound as if like Lucifer I dropped from the sky!” Craig smiled.
“A good simile,” the Grand Duke joked. “I think the mere fact that you are so rich, Craig, brings out the devil in those who know you and especially in the women who love you.”
“I disagree,” Craig replied, “but never mind, and thank you in anticipation of tonight. Have you persuaded Neasdon to accept your invitation?”
He thought it would be a mistake to sound too eager. At the same time he had to know.
The Grand Duke laughed.
“He jumped at it like a hungry salmon. I have never invited him before and I am damned if I would do so now unless I had a good reason for it.”
“Is he actually bringing the Countess?”
“He said so, but the strange thing is he sounded so sure that he would do so that I had the feeling her opinion would not be asked.”
“Obviously,” Craig said with a cynical note in his voice, “Neasdon has some hidden charms of which we are not aware.”
“If he has, all I can say is that I am a bad judge of men and women,” the Grand Duke replied, “something I never imagined I would be. Anyway, tonight you shall see her for yourself and how she clings to Neasdon. Believe it or not, I have never seen her talking to anybody else since she has been here and it seems to me extraordinary.”
Craig agreed with him, but, because he thought it would be a mistake to talk too much about the Countess, he changed the conversation to other subjects, then making the excuse that he had an appointment, he went back to the hotel.
In his own suite he resisted an impulse to go out onto the balcony that adjoined that of the Countess.
Firstly, he knew he had no wish for any of his staff to be aware that he had even entered the empty bedroom and secondly, he suspected that if the Countess was in her suite her Russian maid might be with her.
But why she should be frightened of her maid and why it had been so important not to speak to her in the Chapel or appear to know her was a mystery.
They were questions to which he could find no answer and whilst dressing for dinner he had the feeling that he was on the verge of an exciting adventure, and one that seemed so unpredictable that he had no idea of what the outcome might be.
Because it was a feeling he had not had for some time, but which he had known in the past and therefore recognised, Craig felt as if there was a new pulsation of power flowing through him.
It was something he had always felt when he was in danger or when he was engaged on some of the strange missions with which he had been entrusted by the Marquis.
Because it was so utterly different from his life as a rich, carefree young man, both in New York and in London, he cherished and enjoyed the challenge these missions gave him.
He knew now that if he was to be successful he would need all the mysterious, mystic power that he had always called on in an emergency.
He had not forgotten that he wished to know more about the Russian yachts and, on returning from the Casino, before he went upstairs to his suite, he had gone to the manager’s office.
The manager of the Hotel de Paris was one of the best-informed men in the whole of the Principality.
It was his business not only to be aware of th
e background of every person who stayed in the hotel, but because it was so closely allied with the Casino the habitués of the green tables also came under his surveillance.
If there was one thing the authorities detested it was a scandal or a suicide. Every possible precaution was taken to see that anything that could reflect badly upon the reputation of Monte Carlo as a whole was prevented from taking place.
If unfortunately that was impossible, then what occurred was soon swept out of sight as quickly and as discreetly as possible.
Monsieur Bleuet, the hotel manager, was therefore a man of discretion besides having a sharp and intelligent brain that missed very little. Because it was almost certain that to Monsieur Bleuet, Craig was exactly what he appeared, a wealthy American in search of amusement, Craig knew he must phrase what he had to say as carefully as possible.
“I hope, Monsieur Vandervelt,” the manager said, “that you are comfortable. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I came to tell you that I am very comfortable,” Craig answered, “and it was exceedingly kind of you to let me have the same suite that I had last year and the year before that.”
Monsieur Bleuet smiled.
“We try always, monsieur, to make our favourite clients feel at home, and to do that it is important they occupy the same rooms they have used before and have if possible the same room service.”
“I appreciate that,” Craig said, “but I also want to ask you what you know about the two Russian yachts in the harbour.”
He smiled and continued,
“It may sound like idle curiosity but, as it happens, I am anxious, if they are new, to compare them with my own yacht, which I like to think is more advanced than any other vessel afloat.”
“I have always heard, Monsieur Vandervelt, that The Mermaid is the envy of every yachtsman in the harbour and quite exceptional as regards its engine, its steering and the new gadgets you have installed.”
Craig smiled complacently and knew that what Monsieur Bleuet was saying was what he might have expected him to know.
“I went over the Duke of Westminster’s yacht last year,” he replied, “and I know it does not compare with The Mermaid. The same applies to Mr. Pierpont Morgan’s boat which is old – actually it is high time he bought a new one!”
Monsieur Bleuet laughed.
“It is something he can certainly afford.”
“I suppose when one gets older, one becomes more attached to one’s possessions,” Craig remarked. “I can understand that, as I am sure you can, when it concerns something like a picture, but for me where yachts and motor cars are concerned, the newer the better.”
Monsieur Bleuet laughed again.
“I might almost say the same, monsieur, in the case of les femmes!”
“Now that is a different subject altogether,” Craig said, “but we were speaking of the Russian yachts.”
“Yes, of course,” the manager agreed. “But I regret to say that I have never been aboard either of them and in fact I don’t know anyone who has.”
“Do you mean to say that their owners do not entertain?”
“Their owner, monsieur.”
“Only one?”
“Yes, Baron Strogoloff is his name and he is an invalid.”
“Oh, that explains everything!”
“Not exactly,” the manager said. “The Baron has some affliction of the legs, I understand, which necessitates his being always in a wheelchair. He is pushed around the deck of his yacht, but he also comes to the Casino.”
“To gamble?”
The manager shook his head.
“No, monsieur. They tell me he is fond of music, so he attends the concerts and the operas that take place in the theatre.”
“He does not gamble at all?”
“Monsieur Le Baron has not yet entered the Salle Touzet, which you will understand is very sad for us since he is, I believe, amazingly rich.”
“And when he leaves, he will take it all with him!” Craig laughed before he added, “that of course is a tragedy, but he must be very eccentric to need two yachts.”
“Monsieur Le Baron uses one himself and the other is for his guests and those who wait on him.”
“That is certainly luxury,” Craig remarked. “And what are his guests like?”
“You will hardly credit this, monsieur,” the manager confided, “but in Monte Carlo, of all places, they stay on board and never come ashore.”
“I don’t believe it,” Craig exclaimed. “It seems incredible!”
“That is what we all feel,” the manager said, “and our discussions about the Baron have taken up a great deal of time when we meet officially.”
“I am quite sure about that,” Craig smiled. “And what does Prince Albert think about it?”
“We have not yet had the privilege of discussing it with His Royal Highness,” the manager answered, “but now you mention it, perhaps he, and he alone, could persuade the Baron to be a little more sociable.”
“I doubt it,” Craig said. “These Russians are always unpredictable, but thank goodness you have people like the charming and very extravagant Grand Dukes.”
“There I agree with you, Monsieur Vandervelt, we are very very lucky. As the Grand Duke Michael was saying to me only yesterday, when he goes back to Russia, he counts the days until he can return to us and what he refers to as his home from home.”
The complacency in the manager’s voice told Craig how much the Russian Grand Duke contributed to the huge profits the Casino was making every year.
Because such details interested him, he was well aware that the shareholders were becoming millionaires and the other resorts were grinding their teeth in fury at the success achieved by Monaco.
They talked for a little longer, but Craig deliberately did not mention the Countess.
Then, because he knew it would please the manager and even increase his own prestige, he spoke of his delight in finding so many distinguished visitors in Monte Carlo, including Prince Radziwell, who had brought his own polo ponies, the Duke of Montrose and the beautiful Duchess of Marlborough, who was an American.
The manager had something to say about each one of them, but Craig, having learnt what he had come to find out, was not really listening.
When he reached his own suite, he stood for a long time at the window looking at the two Russian yachts side by side in the harbour below.
*
The Grand Duke’s villa was a dream of Oriental magnificence – a mixture of Russian taste, which ran to copulas and domes and an endless profusion of gold.
It also combined every possible Western comfort that involved huge over-padded sofas and armchairs, velvet hangings and pictures, which any connoisseur of art would have given his right arm to possess.
Each Oriental rug on the floor was a poem in needlework and the gold ornaments that decorated the dinner table were priceless not only in their antiquity, but because they were ornamented with the most magnificent precious stones that the Siberian mines could produce.
There were orchids everywhere and yet, because his guests were so glamorous, they were not overshadowed by their surroundings.
As usual before one of his parties the Grand Duke gave a dinner party for about fifty of his personal friends and then acquaintances arrived afterwards from midnight until dawn.
Looking down the long table set with the gold plate off which they were to eat, and crystal glasses that shone like diamonds and were emblazoned with the Grand Duke’s insignia, Craig was aware that neither the Countess nor Lord Neasdon were there.
It was what he had expected, but nevertheless he was disappointed. He had wanted to look at her, perhaps to re-affirm that she was as beautiful as she had appeared the night before.
It seemed incredible that he had not seen her during the day, except for when she had been praying in the Church and he wondered where she hid herself when she was not with Neasdon.
It was then, as he looked more closely at the
other guests, that he realised the Grand Duke had finally made up his mind into which category she belonged.
The other men were all of great importance, aristocrats to their fingertips and, Craig thought a little cynically, with the exception of himself entirely European or Russian. The women were extremely beautifully dressed but undoubtedly belonged to the Demi-Monde.
This was not to say that they were not delightful companions in public as well as in private.
Because of their profession they had manners as beautiful as their faces and it was an unwritten law that they never embarrassed their protector by trying to meet his family.
Craig knew from past experiences that their behaviour at the gaming tables was exemplary and they never created scenes as Society ladies were sometimes prone to do.
The cocottes wore, as might have been expected, the most superb jewellery. Their gowns, which came from the most famous fashion houses in Paris, including designs by Frederick Worth, would have graced any Royal palace.
But even in Monte Carlo where everything from a Social point of view was far more lax than anywhere else, les femmes de joie never attempted to cross the dividing line between the Beau Monde and the Demi-Monde.
The only additions to the famous cocottes like La Belle Otero and Gaby Delys at the party were a few women of blue blood who had thrown away for love, their position in Society.
Craig recognised a Marchioness who had run away from a drunken and brutal husband to live in what the world called ‘sin’ with a French Duc, who already had a wife and a large number of children whom he left in a château in the country and seldom saw.
There was also the daughter of a well known British Earl, who had been twice divorced, but was still lovely and attractive enough to be considering taking a third husband, who was sitting beside her gazing adoringly into her eyes completely oblivious to anybody else in the room.
It all seemed somewhat familiar, a scene Craig had witnessed a dozen times before, but which he enjoyed aesthetically and would have enjoyed even more if a new face in the shape of the Countess Aloya Zladamir had been there.
Mission to Monte Carlo Page 6