by Anne Weale
"I see," he said dully. "Then I wish you success, ma mie. You have the making of a great star — unless someone succeeds where I have failed." He managed a crooked grin. "Well, at least we have made up our quarrel so I can drive you home."
"I — I think, if you don't mind, I'll get a taxi tonight, Yves," Joanna said quickly. She was very much afraid she was going to cry. "Oh… don't forget this." Closing the leather jewel case, she thrust it into his hands. "Goodbye, mon cher. Bonne chance."
His hand gripped hers for an instant and she felt his lips brush her temple. A moment later he had gone.
* * *
It was after noon when Joanna woke up the next day. But since it had been nearly dawn before she had finally fallen asleep, there were still traces of fatigue about her eyes and mouth.
While she was dressing, Madame Dinard came in with hot coffee and croissants.
"So! Now you have finished work and will soon be at leisure, petite," she said cheerfully, having set the tray on the table beside the window. "It will do you good to lead a normal life for a change, and the sea air will give you some color."
"You sound as if you'll be glad to get rid of me," Joanna said teasingly.
Marthe Dinard clicked her tongue reprovingly. "Tck! You know very well that is not so. But I am concerned for your health. It isn't natural for a girl of your age to live this irregular life, and you have not had a holiday since poor Monsieur Allen was taken from us."
Joanna poured some coffee, her eyes shadowed. It was over four years since Michael Allen's death, but there were still times when she missed him almost intolerably. Indeed, if it had not been for the kindness and generosity of the Dinard family, she sometimes wondered if she would have survived herself. Paris, so gay and romantic from the tourists' point of view, was not a city in which to be nineteen years old, alone and practically destitute.
"You are a fussy old hen, Marthe," she said lightly. "There's nothing the matter with me that a few days' sunbathing won't cure. After a week of doing nothing, I shall probably be longing to get back. There certainly won't be much night life in a sleepy Breton fishing village."
"A good thing, too, my little owl," the Frenchwoman said briskly. "What are your plans for today?"
"Nothing strenuous. I have to lunch with Gustave Hugo to discuss my next engagement, and then I shall probably do some shopping."
Half an hour later, having carefully disguised her pallor with skilful make-up, and wearing an extremely chic silk suit, Joanna went down to a cafe. Tomorrow, in Brittany, she could dispense with such artifices. But today, in Paris, she was still Janine Alain, and it was necessary to appear groomed and elegant.
Monsieur Dinard was wiping his zinc-topped counter as she entered the bar. He had once been a promising boxer and might well have equalled Carpentier, but he had lost his left arm in the final advance on the Somme and had been forced to go into partnership with his father-in-law. The old man was still alive, but he was nearly ninety and almost blind, so he spent his days sitting in a basket chair outside the cafe with a tortoiseshell cat on his lap.
"Bonjour, Papa. Can you give me some change?" Joanna asked.
Monsieur Dinard put away his duster and came to the old-fashioned till. In spite of his grizzled hair and the shirtsleeve pinned to his waistcoat, he was still a formidable adversary and, although the quarlier was not a notably respectable one, there were never any disturbances at the Care Bernadine.
"And where are you going in that charming nonsense of a hat?" he asked, with a twinkle. "Ah, the Crillon, eh? You are flying high, my little pigeon."
Outside the cafe Joanna paused to speak to the old grandfather, but both he and the cat were asleep. She stopped to pick up the newspaper he had dropped and glanced at the headlines.
"Good morning, Miss Allen. I was beginning to think I must have missed you," a man said quietly.
Joanna drew in a breath, her whole body stiffening. Standing on the pavement, less than an arm's length away from her, was the man named Carlyon.
"What are you doing here?" she asked sharply, instinctively retreating a couple of steps.
"There's no need to look so alarmed. I only want to talk to you," he said mildly. "Perhaps we can sit down and have a coffee together."
Joanna glared at him. "I am sorry, m'sieur, but your visit to the club last night does not entitle you to pester the members of the cabaret. If you persist in annoying me I shall be forced to call a gendarme."
"So you still deny that you are Joanna Allen — in spite of that bracelet you are wearing?"
"My bracelet?" Joanna said blankly. "I — I don't know what you're talking about."
He smiled slightly. "It's a very unusual design, isn't it?" he went on, in a conversational tone. "As a matter of fact, it's unique. You may not know it, but it was made to a special order for a seventeenth birthday present. The girl's name was Nina Carlyon. She had red hair and some freckles on her nose. She was very like you, in fact."
For a moment longer Joanna continued to glower at him. Then with a shrug of resignation, she said coldly, "All right, Mr. Carlyon — so my name is Joanna Allen. That still doesn't give you the right to pester me."
"I have not the least desire to pester you," he replied smoothly. "All I want is ten minutes of your time."
Joanna glanced at her watch. "You'll have to come back later," she said frostily. "I have an important luncheon engagement at one o'clock."
"In that case, we can kill two birds with one stone. I can drive you to your date, and we can talk on the way. My car is just across the square."
Joanna hesitated. To be honest, now that she had been forced to admit her true identity, she was extremely curious to know how the Englishman had found her, and what his object could be.
"Oh, very well," she said ungraciuosly. "But I hope you can cope with Paris traffic. I'd like to arrive in one piece."
His car was a dark grey saloon, not a new model but in excellent condition, Joanna noticed. "A pretty good auto, but much too sedate for me," Yves had once remarked of a similar English car.
Yet there was nothing particularly sedate about this Carlyon man, thought Joanna, as he slid behind the steering wheel. It was possible that, meeting him without prejudice, she might even have found him attractive.
"Where do you want me to drop you?" he asked, when they had left the square and were heading towards the river.
"The Crillon, please." Joanna began to give him directions.
He cut her short. "I know where it is, thanks."
"You've been to Paris before?"
He nodded, his attention on the road. "You know," he said presently, "I expected a certain amount of hostility; but not that you would refuse to admit who you were. Why all the denials?"
"Why not?" Joanna said coldly. "For all practical purposes I am Janine Alain."
"Is that how you think of yourself when you are alone? As Janine — a French girl ?"
His percipience nettled her. "We've only a few minutes. You'd better state your business, Mr. Carlyon," she said curtly.
They had stopped at some traffic lights, and she felt him watching her. "You puzzle me," he said speculatively. "I thought you would be interested in us. Isn't it rather intriguing to have a family you've never even met?"
Joanna shrugged. "I've been told all I want to know, thanks."
"But not everything, I fancy," he retorted. "For instance, how much do you know about your grandmother?"
"Not a great deal," Joanna admitted, in a bored tone. "She was the only one who didn't loathe my father, wasn't she?"
"So presumably you bear her less of a grudge."
"I don't bear a grudge against any of you. I've scarcely ever thought of you."
He let that pass. "You know that it was your grandfather who forced the break with your parents?"
"Yes. He must have been a most detestable man," she said scathingly.
"Your grandmother never saw your mother after her marriage," Carlyon continued, again ignor
ing her comment. "But she knew that you had been born, and she has always hoped to see you. Naturally, during the war years and as long as her husband was alive, any contact was impossible. But he has been dead for nearly two years now, and since she was widowed she had made every effort to trace you. She's in her seventies now, and she has a serious heart condition. It would mean a great deal to her to see you before she dies."
Joanna gaped at him. "You mean you expect me to visit her?" she demanded incredulously.
"I think it would be a charitable thing to do," he said gravely.
For a moment she was too staggered by his effrontery to be capable of speech. Then all her surprised resentment erupted into words.
"Charitable!" she burst out violently. "Why should I be charitable, Mr. Carlyon? Was it charitable to disown my mother because she was so wicked as to fall in love with an artist? Was it charitable to return my father's letter when he was left with a tiny baby on his hands and a war coming? Don't talk to me about charity! You don't know the meaning of the word."
Carlyon swung the car into a side-street and braked. Then, switching off the engine, he turned to face her.
"So you aren't as detached as you pretended," he said drily.
Joanna reached for the door, but before she could turn the handle he had caught her other arm and was holding her back.
"Now don't lose your temper," he said quietly. "I agree that your grandfather behaved with extraordinary harshness and that you're bound to feel bitter, even vindictive. But it wasn't your grandmother's fault, and she has suffered as much as anyone."
"Then why didn't she do something about it?" Joanna countered angrily. "She could have written to my mother. She could have answered Michael's letters."
"Could she?" he said wryly. "I don't think you really understand the matter. She was married to a man of an unusually despotic temperament, and there were certain reasons why she felt she must always be loyal to him — even if it meant denying her deepest convictions. Don't judge her too arbitrarily, Joanna. It was a damnable situation and she had to make the best of it."
He had relaxed his hold on her wrist, and Joanna shook off his hand and rubbed the reddened skin.
"You're a persuasive advocate, Mr. Carlyon, but you're wasting your breath. Even if I wanted to meet your family, it wouldn't be possible. You seem to forget that I have a living to earn. I can't jaunt off to England at a moment's notice."
"But I was told that the Cordiale was closing down for a spell and that the artists were going on holiday. I should have thought it was a singularly suitable moment for me to have found you," he said reasonably.
Joanna was unable to repress her curiosity. "How did you find me?" she asked distantly.
"Purely by chance, as it happens. Some friends took me to the Cordiale, and I was struck by your likeness to a painting of your mother. She was wearing that bracelet when she sat for the portrait, so when you came near our table and I recognized the design — well, it was fairly obvious, wasn't it? Especially as your stage name is so like your real one."
Joanna looked down at the broad gold band on her wrist. It was set wth three square-cut amethysts and very beautifully engraved, with an intricate clasp and safety chain. Her father had given it to her on her fifteenth birthday, with her mother's pearls and a valuable sapphire brooch. In the dark days after his death, she had been forced to sell both the pearls and the brooch, but she had clung to the bracelet as a kind of talisman. She wore it always.
"I see," she said slowly. "You must be very observant. Most men don't notice such details." Then, with a level glance, "Now, may we get on, please? It's almost one o'clock."
He frowned. "You mean you refuse even to consider the idea?"
"That's right," she said negligently. "The past is past, Mr. Carlyon. There's nothing to be gained by raking over the ashes. As you see, I've made a new life for myself, and I mean to stick to it. As far as I'm concerned, your family doesn't exist."
Carlyon put his hand on the ignition key, but he did not turn it. "Are you really so hard-boiled?" he asked drily.
She shrugged. "It's no use being soft when one has a living to make — particularly in my job."
"I suppose not. Still, you seem to be pretty successful."
Joanna's mouth tightened. "Success doesn't come easily, I'm afraid. There's no time for sentiment if one wants to get to the top."
"And when you get there? What then?" he asked curiously.
"Then I'll find myself a rich husband and relax for the rest of my life," she retorted in a brittle tone. "I don't think Mrs. Carlyon would like me, you know. I'm not one of your sweet docile English girls."
Carlyon's face hardened. "All right, since it's obviously no use appealing to your human instincts, I'll put it in terms that might move you," he said curtly. 'How much do you want?" Then, since she appeared not to understand him: "What is your price, mademoiselle? How much money would make it worth your while to come to England with me?"
The scorn in his voice brought a flush of indignant color to her cheeks. But, on the verge of snapping back a furious repudiation, she checked herself. How typical of a Carlyon to think that, when other means failed, there was the offer of their money to achieve an object. Her grandfather had tried to buy Michael off.
"How much can you afford?" she said disdainfully.
"You name it — I'll pay it."
Joanna's temper flared. No wonder her father had hated them, she thought contemptuously. But her face was without expression as she said, "How long would you expect me to stay ?"
"That depends on how long you can hide your true colors. I don't want your grandmother to realize that she's been wasting her anxiety over you."
"Oh, I'm quite a good actress, you know. Would a fortnight do?"
"I suppose so," he said tersely.
"Then, for a two-week engagement, my fee would be two hundred pounds — apart from expenses, of course."
Even then, she didn't really believe that he would take her seriously. Two hundred pounds to spend two weeks in England was sheer fantasy. Even if he could afford it, that ice-cold Carlyon pride would never submit to such extortion. With secret derision, she waited for him to start blustering.
Carlyon switched on the engine. "Very well," he said calmly. "Two hundred, and all expenses. We'll leave first thing tomorrow."
Joanna gasped. "Oh, now, wait a moment—————" she began defensively.
The car slid forward, gathering speed. 'You'll be five minutes late for your appointment, but I don't think the time has been wasted," he said mockingly. "I'll ring you up this evening and let you know what time I can collect you. Your passport is in order, I suppose?"
"Why, yes, but——— "
"Good, I'm afraid you won't be able to bring more than a couple of suitcases, but then you won't need a large wardrobe in Merefield. It's quite a prosperous place these days, but the women are pretty conservative in their dress."
"But I haven't agreed to come," Joanna burst out urgently.
Carlyon glanced at her, and his smile was not pleasant.
"No — but with two hundred pounds at stake, I don't think you'll hesitate for long. You can think it over while you're lunching."
Almost before Joanna realized they had reached her destination, the car was at a standstill and a liveried doorman was waiting to hand her on to the pavement.
"Off you go. I'll telephone you at eight," Carlyon said crisply.
And before she had time to utter any further protests, the saloon was sliding away from her.
* * *
To a casual observer Gustave Hugo was so unprepossessing as to be almost repulsive. The first time Janine had seen him staring at her — she had been working in one of the more dubious Left Bank caves, and despairing of ever escaping from it — she had felt an involuntary shiver of repugnance. Even when she had verified that he was indeed the Gustave Hugo and that, unbelievably, he was willing to help her, she had had to suppress an instinctive aversion to him
. It was only gradually that she came to understand that his gross physique and coarse features were utterly at variance with his character. He was not only the best theatrical agent in Paris, with a sixth sense that enabled him to detect latent talent where none was apparent to others, but he was also a most charming and cultivated man.
As she grew to know him — and to be even more grateful for his expert advice and encouragement — Joanna was reminded of the harmless but horrifying Beast in the old fairy-tale. Only there could never be any magical transformation for Gustave Hugo, and a woman would have to love him with an extraordinary passion to be unconscious of his ugliness.
He was waiting for her in a corner of the cocktail bar as Joanna entered the Crillon; a bull-shouldered hulk of a man with one hairy hand knotted round a thick Havana cigar and the other thrust into his pocket. Although he went to London for his suits, the most expert tailor could never disguise the ungainliness of his girth, and his pockets were always misshapen by cigars and pens and other impedimenta. Grotesquely magnified by the specially thick lenses of his spectacles, his shrewd dark eyes ranged over the other occupants of the lounge.
"Ah, Janine — tu es arrivee!" Seeing her approach, Hugo heaved himself out of his chair and kissed her hand. "Now what will you take before lunch? No, no — not one of your insipid fruit juices today, ma petite. Today is an occasion — a milestone! Let me consider — ah yes, a champagne cocktail would be most appropriate. I am sure one glass will not impair that charming complexion of which you take so much care, and one cannot toast the future in a grenadine."
"I'm sorry I'm late, Gustave," Joanna apologized, when he had given the order.
She leaned back against the luxurious silk upholstery of the couch to which he ushered her, and slowly stripped off her gloves. She had been so unnerved by her encounter with the Englishman that she had only half heard the agent's effusive greeting and was still preoccupied.
Indeed it was not until she had smoothed out her gloves and laid them on the seat beside her, and the waiter was setting down her drink, that she realized that Gustave had been explaining something.