The Silver Dragon

by Jean S. MacLeod

  Quickly she thumbed through the mail. All the letters were for Dixon, but none of them bore a Swiss stamp.

  London, then? John could have gone back to London for one reason or another. There was a typewritten envelope bearing the London postmark.

  By the time she had reached the villa she was almost out of breath. She had run most of the way.

  “Jean-Paul could have done that,” Dixon said, stepping out of the open windows of his study. “Is there anything from Switzerland?”

  “No.” She could not pretend to hide her disappointment. “I felt sure there would be a letter this morning.”

  His mouth tightened a little.

  “The doctor could have done better than that, I’m sure,” he observed sardonically. “If you sit still till you’ve got your breath back, I’ll go through the rest of these and then we’ll decide what to do.”

  She could not sit still, and when he opened the letter from England and tossed its contents to one side with barely a glance, her heart sank.

  “He promised!” she said aloud.

  “Promises can be difficult things to keep in certain circumstances,” he remarked. “Whatever theory the good doctor had when he left here on the weekend, he could have drawn a complete blank at the Swiss end.”

  “I thought he might have mentioned to you why he went,” she said.

  He shook his head, tossing the remainder of his correspondence into a drawer of his desk.

  “Unfortunately, I wasn’t in the doctor’s confidence,” he answered. “I don’t think he trusted me.”

  She bit her lip.

  “He must have found all this terribly embarrassing,” she said. “He was drawn into it completely against his will, I suppose.”

  “He needn’t have gone on with it ‘against his will,’ ” he pointed out dryly. “He could have handed you over to the authorities without any loss of professional integrity.”

  “That’s true,” she agreed. “But I think you would have to know John a great deal better than you do to appreciate why he brought me here. He would have given up far more than a pleasant holiday tour to follow up a case, if he considered it necessary.”

  “And now he remains silent.” He moved toward the door. “We may be away for a day or two,” he said, “so you’ll need to pack a suitcase. When we go through Nice I think it would be better if you were to report to the prefect of police. He already knows you are here and your amnesia has been explained to him.”

  It was all too confusing, she thought. She felt like a shuttlecock tossed swiftly from one player to another in a breathless game of chance, yet she knew that she must help where she could.

  She packed the suitcase she had brought with her from Switzerland, although there were other suitcases in the cupboard in her room. She also put on the same clothes. If there should be any question of mistaken identity, some of the evidence, at least, would be in her own hands.

  Olivia went downstairs ahead of her and she heard her sharply querulous voice raised in the hall and the deeper tones of Dixon’s calming reply. Olivia had evidently decided to make a scene.

  For fully another ten minutes the voices came up to her as she waited in her room. She heard Jean-Paul ride off on his bicycle, presumably to order one of Domenico’s cars, and still Olivia’s voice was raised in endless complaint.

  Slowly she approached the head of the stairs for a second time and the older woman’s words floated up to her quite clearly.

  “I see no reason for you to go rushing halfway across Europe on such a flimsy pretext, Dixon,” Olivia declared, “but my opinion seems to be worthless to you these days. I’ve noticed your preoccupation with her affairs ever since I came, and now I realize that you have no time for me. But I am still your mother. I still have your best interests at heart...”

  The strident voice seemed to fade away to a great distance and the familiar objects at the head of the staircase merged into a curious, indistinct blur. She put out her hands to grip the banister rail.

  “Oh... !”

  The sound seemed to be no more than a whisper, but it brought Dixon up the stairs two at a time. She had steadied herself by the time he reached her, but he took the suitcase from her and led her back along the corridor to her room.

  “What happened?” he demanded.

  How could she tell him that his mother’s jealous harangue down there in the hall had parted the curtain a little way? There had been something faintly familiar about Olivia’s fretful words, something she had not been quick enough to grasp, but which had left her with an odd conviction.

  Her eyes were dark with conflicting emotion as she turned to face him.

  “If I’m not your wife, Dixon, I must be the other girl—the English girl. The girl who was reported dead...”

  He seemed to think about that for a long time, his mouth grimly set, his eyes remote. It meant that his wife was dead.

  “We have to prove that,” he said at last.

  It was feasible, she told herself as she followed him down to the hall. A mistake at the hotel or the clinic. But the fact that her name had been sewn into her clothes was a stumbling block—Adele Cabot’s name.

  That meant, didn’t it, that there couldn’t have been a mistake? The English girl’s suitcase had been sent back to England, and her family had accepted it and the fact that she had died in the avalanche. Perhaps the others had been found by now, their bodies given up by the snow.

  She couldn’t reason anymore clearly than that, but for a moment she had known about the scene in the hall, about Olivia’s possessiveness and how Dixon had felt. I knew, she thought stubbornly. I knew!

  The taxi drew up outside the door and Domenico got out, bidding them a cheerful “Bonjour!” He was beaming with pride, for he had substituted the Renault for a powerful Mercedes-Benz.

  Dixon went into the dining room to take his leave of Olivia and she followed him out to the hall.

  “So you’re quite determined to go?” Her voice was sharp with chagrin.

  “I’m afraid so,” Dixon said. “This is important, mother.”

  “And I am not important?”

  “Yes,” he said patiently, “in a different way. In your own place—your particular place in my life—but this, also, is my life.”

  Adele turned away. She supposed she would have to go on thinking of herself as Adele until she discovered her real name. The stirring of memory was there again because, somewhere, she had heard Olivia’s words before. At some time she had been an unwilling witness to just such a plaintive scene as this, but the circumstances and the exact background still eluded her. That both experiences were tangled up with people she loved might be no more than an illusion on her part, but it was very strong. Almost a conviction, in fact.

  Olivia followed her out to the car. She had thrown a coat loosely around her shoulders and managed to look very forlorn.

  “If you’re not back before the weekend, I shall go to Paris,” she informed her son, managing to ignore Adele. “I really can’t stay here alone.”

  “If you go,” Dixon said, “take Jean-Paul. He’ll look after you.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Olivia declared. “I’ve always had to look after myself and I’m still quite capable of getting from here to Paris on my own.”

  Dixon got into the driver’s seat and Domenico held the other door open for Adele. She put out her hand to Olivia.

  “Perhaps I should say goodbye, Mrs. Cabot,” she ventured. “I may have to stay in Switzerland—at the clinic.”

  Olivia did not take her proffered hand.

  “Goodbye,” she said icily.

  Domenico got into the back of the car and they drove away. At Villefranche they dropped him at his office and Dixon turned the powerful Mercedes back onto the Comiche road.

  “Are we going all the way by road?” Adele asked.

  He nodded.

  “We’ll take the route des Alpes.” He hesitated. “I want to take you back step by step. You spent th
e night, didn’t you, somewhere on the way?”

  Just north of Briancon.” She sat forward in her seat. “We turned off the main road to a place called Sancey-le-Bas, then up the mountain road to the higher village of Sancey-le-Haut.”

  “Can you remember anything unusual about the setup?” he asked unexpectedly.

  “I remember that at one time John thought we were being followed. We noticed the car, I think, in Chamonix, and we felt that we were definitely being tailed when it turned off the main route when we did.”

  “But nothing came of it,” he suggested.

  “No. The car was a Dauphine and it could have followed us up the mountain road, but instead it stayed in Sancey-le-Bas.”

  “Why were you suspicious?” he asked, guiding the Mercedes through the intricacies of the Nice traffic.

  “I don’t think we were, really. It just seemed rather odd. Probably it was no more than a coincidence,” she decided. “Unless...”

  “Yes?”

  “Unless it had anything to do with my room being searched.”

  “When was this?”

  “While we were having a meal at the inn, I think. When I went up to bed everything had been turned upside down and my suitcase had been emptied.”

  “What was missing?” he asked.

  “I didn’t discover anything at the time. I expect I was rather upset,” she admitted. “Later I missed my jewel case. I told you about it that first evening at the villa, you remember? I suppose I should have said your wife’s jewel case,” she amended unsteadily. “It was in her suitcase, the one I have with me in the car now. You wouldn’t believe me when I told you about it, would you? You accused me of pretending about that, too,” she went on relentlessly. “Well, I wasn’t pretending. The jewel case was missing when I reached the villa, and I think it was taken at Sancey-le-Haut.”

  He did not say whether he believed her now or not. All he said was, “We’ll have a look at Sancey, shall we? It will be as good a place to stop as anywhere else.” The Mercedes ate up the miles. Spring had come to the mountains in its full beauty and the Maritime Alps were an earthly paradise on this day of clear blue skies and little wind. High sun-washed peaks reared their snowy heads on every side, so ethereal in their loveliness, so delicate, so suffused with hazy light, that they seemed no more than a vision that would vanish even as they looked.

  They drove through vast forests where the road was edged and arched with pines, the stillness broken only by the muffled drumming of their tires, but soon they began to climb and the scene took on a new magnificence. The heavens deepened to a richer blue and the shadows fled away. On every side the vast cathedral peaks stood vaulted with unfathomable sky, and mile by mile the silences deepened.

  They reached Briancon and passed on. Dixon did not refer to their destination again, but she knew he was watching for the signpost that would point their way into the mountains.

  They came to it at last, turned and began the immediate ascent. Adele gazed steadily ahead. Somehow the road seemed different, shorter and more swiftly covered than when she had traveled it with John, but that, too, could be imagination.

  The incline steepened and became difficult and Dixon gave all his attention to his driving. Gaunt pines and weather-beaten larches screened the view, outposts of the forest they had left behind, but suddenly, through their foliage, she caught a glimpse of verdure and the gleam of water in the sunshine. They were over the pass and the valley lay far below, with trees and clustered houses scattered over its meadows and the bell tower of a little church red against the distant green.

  After they had passed Sancey-le-Bas the road climbed between cow pastures starred with flowers, and tiny summer chalets clung like limpets to the gray rock that formed the valley walls. The scene had changed vastly in the course of a single week and many chalets were now occupied.

  The sight of the cascade of the waterfall tumbling, veil-like, from its pinnacle of rock far ahead of them made her think of John again and their walk up the valley under the stars.

  “There is only the one inn, I suppose?” Dixon asked.

  “A very small one,” she told him. “Right at the end of the village.”

  The proprietor remembered her immediately. They were shown into the musty little parlor and he said apologetically, “Madame’s jewel case. It was discovered the very next day. In the garden. It was thrown away—quite empty.”

  Before Adele could make any comment Dixon asked briskly, “You have it here? May we see it?”

  “I shall return it to you, m’sieur, at once.” The man hesitated, but his eagerness to do business was too much for him. “You wish for something to eat, n’est-ce pas! You have come a long way?” He looked through the window at the Mercedes.

  “Yes.” Dixon was preoccupied. “We’ll take whatever you have ready.”

  The proprietor puffed out his cheeks.

  “Always there is la selle de mouton or une escalope de veau,” he announced with dignity, jealous of the honor of the house. “If you are able to wait a short time there could also be rognons sautés.”

  “The mutton will be excellent, I’m sure,” Dixon said. “If that is what madame would like?”

  A sudden smile whipped the concentration from his brow and Adele thought how attractive he could be when he chose.

  “I’m going to be awkward and ask for the kidneys,” she said. “Then we might have time to walk as far as the waterfall.”

  “I think we ought to take a look at the jewel case first,” he advised, “although it appears to be ‘quite empty.’ ” He turned to the beaming little proprietor. “Would it be too much trouble for you to bring it right away?” he asked.

  “Pas du tout!”

  The man hurried out, returning almost immediately with the green morocco case in his hands.

  Dixon took it from him. When they were alone again he turned it over, examining it closely. Then, quickly, he pressed all around the rather thick case of the box till a shallow secret drawer slid open.

  “It was too elementary,” he observed in disgust, tossing the case aside. “No one could have missed it.” He shrugged as he added, “Even the artificial jewelry has gone.”

  Adele crossed to his side.

  “What were you looking for?” she asked.

  His eyes held hers.

  “Fifty thousand pounds’ worth of diamonds,” he said almost casually.

  She drew a long quivering breath, realizing that he was still doubtful about her.

  “You believe that I took them?” she said.

  “I believe that you had them in your possession when you left Switzerland; in this jewel case,” he told her coolly.

  “Then you’ve got to believe that I didn’t know they were there!” She was determined to make him trust her. “I accepted everything as it was. I had to. I was told that the suitcase was mine, together with its contents.I was even given a name that I had to accept, although now I know that it doesn’t belong to me. Can’t you understand, Dixon, how awful it is not to know who you are? I ... thought I belonged at Les Rochers Blanches and I accepted the fact. I wanted to belong somewhere. I wanted it desperately—subconsciously, if you like—and I suppose I accepted a great deal without question. The most important thing to me seemed to be that I had a home and ... people who cared about me. I think that was my main reason for letting John take me to the villa so soon. I could have waited at the clinic, but I wanted to know. I had to make sure right away.”

  He continued to look down at her for a second or two longer, searching her eyes for the truth, and then he snapped the case shut and handed it to her.

  “We’d better take it with us,” he decided.

  He had not answered her impassioned appeal and she was hurt and disappointed, but neither had he said that he still suspected her of concealing the truth deliberately.

  In a way they were both faced with the same sort of dilemma. She still knew so very little about him. How did he know about the diamonds, for ins
tance? And it had taken him no more than a second to find the secret hiding place in the jewel case. If the diamonds had been stolen it was strange, wasn’t it, that he should be aware of their exact value?

  And he knew about diamonds! There was the slim volume among his other books with his name on the spine. It had nothing to do with voyaging in a small boat across the seven seas. It had to do with diamonds, the cutting and setting of precious stones. And Lee Tong knew about these things, too. He also was an expert in such matters.

  Then there was the bay and the yacht coming in, and the signal the Frenchman had sent to the villa that night Dixon had intercepted it and pretended to be angry, but he had also been able to decode it, and he had followed her to The Silver Dragon!

  What did it all mean? And if she wasn’t Adele Cabot, had she any part in it?

  “Do you really want to walk to the waterfall?” Dixon asked, as if they were on nothing more important than a sightseeing tour. “It must be a fairly stiff climb.”

  “I thought it would be a good way of stretching our legs,” she answered automatically. “John and I walked up there.”

  He grunted, holding open the parlor door.

  “It will revive pleasant memories then,” he suggested.

  The waterfall excursion was a failure. He walked most of the way without speaking, deep in thought, and when they reached the narrow gully where the silver flood cascaded to a rocky trough hundreds of feet below the road he allowed her to drink in its beauty and its memories without comment.

  The roar of the falling cataract pursued them halfway back to the inn, and when they had finished their meal he suggested that they push on immediately.

  Adele began to wonder about John. The visit to Sancey-le-Haut had brought back the most vivid memories of his kindness and ready understanding. There had been nothing complex or cynical about John. He was the sort of person who makes the ideal friend.

  It was growing dark before they reached the Swiss border and they were held up for an hour while exhaustive inquiries were made about the police permits which Dixon had arranged for them in Nice. In the end, however, they were ushered through the road barrier with the utmost courtesy and it was dropped silently behind them.