Then, last night the mystery had deepened still further. Molly was a light sleeper. A little after one o’clock she had been roused by the sound of a loose stone rattling down the steep slope of a garden path. Getting out of bed she went to the window. The moon was up, its silvery light gleaming in big patches on the cactus between the pine-trees, and there was the girl just going down the short flight of steps that led from her little terrace to the road.
Fully awake now, Molly turned on her bedside light and settled down to read a new William Mole thriller that she had just had sent out from England; but while reading, her curiosity about her neighbour now still further titillated, she kept an ear cocked for sounds of the girl’s return. As a writer she could not help being envious of the way in which Mr Mole used his fine command of English to create striking imagery, so the next hour and a half sped by very quickly. Then in the still night she heard the click of the next-door garden gate, and, getting up again, saw the girl re-enter the house.
Why, Molly wondered, when she never went out in the daytime, should she go out at night? It could hardly be that she was in hiding, because she spent the greater part of each day on the terrace, where she could easily be seen from the road by anyone passing in a car. The obvious answer seemed to be that she had gone out to meet someone in secret; but she had been neither fetched in a car nor returned in one, and she had not been absent quite long enough to have walked into St Raphael and back. Of course, she could have been picked up by a car that had been waiting for her round the next bend of the road, or perhaps she had had an assignation at one of the neighbouring villas. In any case, this midnight sortie added still further to the fascinating conundrum of what lay behind this solitary young woman having taken a villa on the Corniche d’Or.
For the twentieth time that morning Molly’s grey-green eyes wandered from her typewriter to the open window. Just beneath it a mimosa tree was in full bloom and its heavenly scent came in great wafts to her. Beyond it and a little to the left a group of cypresses rose like dark candle-flames, their points just touching the blue horizon. Further away to the right two umbrella pines stood out in stark beauty against the azure sky. Below them on her small, square, balustraded terrace the girl still sat motionless, her hands folded in her lap, gazing out to sea. About the pose of the slim, dark-haired figure there was something infinitely lonely and pathetic.
Molly Fountain knew that she had no right whatever to poke her nose into someone else’s business, but she could bear it no longer. Her new neighbour, although unconscious of it, was playing the very devil with her work, and, worse, she would know no peace of mind until she had at least made an effort to find out if the girl were in trouble. That it was not the sort of trouble which sometimes causes young women to seek seclusion for a while in order to protect their reputations was evident, as the villa had been leased for only a month and the girl showed not the slightest sign of pregnancy. Yet there must be some cause for her abnormal conduct and obvious melancholy. Molly was far from being a motherly soul, but she had her fair share of maternal instinct and, quite apart from her desire to satisfy her curiosity, she now felt an urge that would not be denied to offer her help if it was needed, or at least endeavour to animate this woebegone young creature with something of her own cheerful vitality.
There was only one thing for it. On the Riviera it was not customary to call upon temporary neighbours, but the fact that they were both English would be excuse enough for that. With Molly, to make up her mind was to act. Pushing back her chair from the typing table, she stood up. For once a real-life mystery had been thrust beneath her nose. There and then she decided to go out and attempt to solve it.
Chapter 2
Colonel Crackenthorp’s Technique
Going through into her bedroom, Molly Fountain pulled her linen working smock up over her head. Anyone seeing her at that moment would never have guessed that she was forty-five. Her upstretched arms emphasised the lines of her good figure; her hips had broadened comparatively little since she had reached maturity and her legs were straight and shapely. Only as she jerked off the smock and threw it on a chair did the fact that her youth was past become apparent, from a slight thickening of the muscles in her neck and her grey hair.
From her wardrobe she selected a white, hand-embroidered blouse and a grey coat and skirt. She used very little make-up, yet, even so, the face that looked back at her from the mirror as she quickly tidied her hair would have been judged by most people to be that of a woman still under forty. There were laughter-lines round the mouth and the beginnings of crow’s-feet round the eyes, but not a hint of sagging in the still firm flesh, and it was moulded on that fine bone formation that preserves the basis of youthful good looks right into old age.
Reaching up on tip-toe she pulled a battered hat-box from off the top of the wardrobe and took from it a straw hat bedecked with cornflowers. Molly hated hats and never wore one if she could possibly avoid it, but she felt that on this occasion a hat should be worn in support of her pretence that she was making a formal call.
It was a little before midday and the sun was strong enough now to tan anyone who was not used to it. As she made her way down the garden path that zigzagged among spiky cactus and strange-shaped succulents she saw a little green lizard run up the trunk of a tall palm-tree, and on reaching the terrace at the bottom she made a mental note that enough roses were in bloom in the bed behind it to furnish her with another bowl. Out in the road she walked along under the tall retaining wall of rough-hewn rock that supported both her garden and those of several medium-sized villas situated on the same slope. At intervals along it hung festoons of large-flowered yellow jasmine and purple bougainvillea. The scent of flowers, mingled with that of the primeval pine-wood among which the villas had been built, was delicious. For the ten-thousandth time the thought crossed her mind that never could she bring herself to leave it and face another English winter.
By then she had reached the gate to the next garden. Opening it, she went up the steep stone steps set in a narrow cleft of the stonework. As her head emerged above ground level she turned it towards the terrace. The girl had heard her approach and was looking in her direction. Slowly she stood up, but she did not move forward and gave no sign of welcome. Her face had a guarded look and Molly thought she detected just a trace of fear in her dark eyes.
Stepping up on to the terrace, Molly said, ‘I’m Molly Fountain, your nearest neighbour. As we’re both English I thought—’
The girl’s eyes widened and her broad face suddenly became animated as she exclaimed, ‘Not the Molly Fountain?’
Molly smiled. Her name was by no means universally known, but during the past two years it had become sufficiently so for quite a high proportion of English people to whom, for one reason or another, she had to give it to ask if she was the author; yet the question still never failed to arouse in her a slightly bashful pleasure, and she replied with becoming modesty: ‘I don’t know of any other, and if you are thinking of the writer of secret service yarns, that would be me.’
‘Of course!’ said the girl. ‘I’ve read several of them, and they’re awfully thrilling.’
‘That makes things easier, doesn’t it?’ Molly quickly took advantage of the bridge unexpectedly offered by her literary activities. ‘Having read some of my stories will, I hope, make you look on me as a little less like a total stranger. You must forgive me making my first call on you in the morning, but social customs are more elastic here than at home, and I thought you might prefer it to cards left formally on you in the afternoon.’
It was the first time Molly had seen the girl face to face, and while she was speaking she was taking quiet stock of her. Tall above the average, so slim as to be almost gawky, and a slight awkwardness in the control of her long limbs gave her somewhat the appearance of an overgrown schoolgirl. Seen from the distance Molly had put her down as about twenty-three, but now she revised her estimate and decided that nineteen would be nearer the mark. Her fo
rehead was broad and surmounted by thick, wavy, dark-brown hair parted in the middle; her mouth was wide, full and generous. A snub nose robbed her of all pretence to classical beauty, and her complexion was a trifle sallow; but she possessed two excellent features. When her teeth flashed in a smile they were dazzlingly white: more striking still, her brown eyes were huge and extraordinarily luminous.
Molly’s reference to formal calls caused her to remember the duties of hospitality, and with only a fraction of hesitation she said, ‘Won’t you … come up to the house?’
‘Thank you; I should love to,’ Molly replied promptly. Then, as they turned towards it, she added, ‘But, you know, you haven’t told me your name yet.’
‘Oh!’ Again there was a slight hesitation before the answer. ‘It’s Christina Mordant.’
The path between the prickly-pears and oleanders snaked from side to side round a succession of hairpin bends, yet despite that it was still steep enough to require all their breath as they mounted it; so they spoke no more until they reached a small lawn on the level of the villa.
Molly had never been up there before and the lemon-washed house was partly concealed both from her windows and the road by umbrella-pines and palm-trees. She saw now that it was somewhat smaller than her own and probably contained only six or seven rooms including the servants’ quarters. As they crossed the lawn she asked: ‘Is this your first visit to the Riviera?’
‘Yes,’ Christina nodded, leading her guest through a pair of french windows into the sitting-room. ‘But I’ve lived in France for quite a while. I was at a finishing school in Paris until just before Christmas.’
‘I first came to this part of the world in 1927, and have made my home here for the past five years; so you must let me show you something of this lovely coast,’ Molly volunteered.
Christina’s hesitation was much more marked this time. Her underlip trembled slightly, then she stammered, ‘Thank you … awfully; but … but I don’t care much for going out.’
A moment’s awkward pause ensued, then she pulled herself together and added in a rather breathless attempt to atone for what might be taken as rudeness, ‘Do please sit down. Let me get you a drink. I’m afraid we don’t run to cocktails, but Maria could soon make some coffee, or we have delicious orange-juice.’
Molly did not really want a drink, but realised that acceptance would give her an excuse to prolong her call, and the longer they talked the better her chance of winning the girl’s confidence; so she said, ‘I’d love some orange-juice if it’s not too much trouble.’
‘Oh, none at all,’ Christina cried, hurrying to the window. ‘There are masses of oranges in the garden. I’ll pick some. It won’t take me a moment. We’ve lemons, grapefruit and tangerines, too. Would you like it straight, or prefer a mixture?’
‘I always think orange and grapefruit half and half is the nicest out here, where there’s no shortage of sugar,’ Molly replied; and as the girl left the room she began to take detailed stock of it.
The villa belonged to a café proprietor in Cannes who had never occupied it himself, but bought it as an investment and made a good thing out of it by letting it furnished for short periods to a succession of holiday-makers. In consequence it contained only the barest necessities, and its furniture was of that positively hideous variety favoured by the French bourgeoisie. In vain Molly’s glance roved over the monstrosities in cheap wood and chromium for some indication of Christina’s personality, until her eye lit on a manicure-set which lay open on a rickety spindle-legged table half concealed by the chair in which she was sitting. Picking it up she saw that it was comparatively new, bore the mark of a Paris manufacturer, and that its morocco leather cover was stamped with the initials E.B.
When Christina returned she came in by the door from the hallway carrying a tray with a jug of fruit-juice, two glasses and sugar. As she poured out, she asked, ‘Do you live here all the year, Mrs Fountain?’
‘Most of it. I usually spend June in London and have a fortnight in Paris in the autumn; but the cost of living has become so high both in France and England that I can’t afford to live for more than about six weeks in hotels.’
Christina raised her dark eyebrows. ‘Really! I should have thought you were terribly rich. Your books must bring you in thousands.’
‘That’s a popular illusion that the public have about all authors,’ Molly smiled. ‘Except for a handful of best-sellers, writing is one of the worst-paid jobs in the world; and even in France, these days, a big part of one’s earnings is taken away by taxation.’
For ten minutes or so she went on talking about books and authors, as Christina was obviously interested, and it seemed a good line for tuning in on the girl’s mind without arousing her suspicions. Then, having learnt that she had a liking for historical novels, Molly said: ‘In that case it surprises me all the more that you don’t make some excursions. This coast is full of history right back to Phoenician times. When I was your age I would have given anything for the chance to visit all these places.’
Christina gave her an uncomfortable look, then averted her eyes and muttered, ‘I’m quite happy lazing in the garden.’
‘How long are you here for?’
‘About another three weeks. The villa is taken for a month.’
‘Are you quite on your own?’
‘Yes.’
‘Surely you find it very lonely? Have you no friends you could go to visit, or who could come to see you?’
‘No. I don’t know anyone at all down here. But … but I like being on my own.’
‘In that you are lucky,’ Molly commented quietly. ‘It is a great blessing to be content with one’s own company and not be driven constantly to seek some new distraction from one’s own thoughts. But all the same I should have thought you would have sometimes liked a change of scene. Don’t you ever go out at all?’
Christina shook her head.
‘An exciting book kept me reading very late last night, and when I got out of bed to get one of my sleeping pills I thought I saw you coming in through the garden.’
For a moment the girl’s face remained closed and secretive, then she replied, ‘Yes. I had been for a walk. I sleep most of the afternoon and go for a walk every night. I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt listless after midday; then, as darkness falls, I seem to wake up and want to do things.’
‘Some people are like that. The astrologers say that we are influenced all our lives by the hour of our birth, and that people born in the evening are always at their best at night.’
‘Really! That seems to fit my case. I was born at nine forty-five in the evening.’ After a second Christina volunteered the additional information, ‘My birthday is March the sixth, and I’ll be twenty-one next month.’
‘You will be here for it, then. It seems an awful shame that you should be deprived of the chance to celebrate. But perhaps you have relatives or friends who will be joining you before that?’
‘No; I expect still to be quite alone.’
There fell a pause while Molly considered this new evidence of the girl’s complete isolation. A twenty-first birthday is such a landmark in any young person’s life that it seemed quite extraordinary that she had not a single person in the world who wished to make it a happy day for her. Then, after a moment, Molly realised that so far she had got nowhere; she had not succeeded in getting the faintest clue to this mystery.
Swiftly she began to consider what line the favourite hero of her own creation, Colonel Crackenthorp, would take on having reached such an impasse. She knew this fiction character of hers as well as she knew herself; so the answer came automatically. The debonair and resourceful ‘Crack’ would employ shock tactics. Shock tactics it should be then. Looking the girl straight in the eye, she said suddenly: ‘Christina Mordant is not your real name, is it?’
Caught off her guard, the girl winced as if she had been struck, and gasped, ‘How … how did you know?’
Then she recovered h
erself. Her face had gone white, but she slowly rose to her feet. As she did so her big brown eyes narrowed and filled with an angry light. Her whole body was trembling as she burst out: ‘What has it to do with you? I didn’t ask you to come here! What right have you to pry into my affairs? How dare you spy upon me and come here to catechise me? Get out! D’you hear me? Get out at once!’
This was not at all the sort of response that the shock tactics of the gallant ‘Crack’ would have met with in one of Molly’s books. The girl would have broken down, wept upon his broad shoulder and confessed all. But then ‘Crack’ was a handsome fellow who had the devil of a way with women, whereas his creator was only a middle-aged lady novelist. No doubt, thought Molly, that explained why his Technique had failed so lamentably in this real-life try-out. Anyhow, it was clear that she had botched the whole business beyond repair; so she stood up and said: ‘I do apologise. My inquisitiveness was quite unjustified and I’m afraid I was very rude. I’m not either usually, and in the ordinary way I’d never dream of forcing myself on anyone. My work keeps me far too busy to waste time calling on strangers. But I couldn’t help being worried by seeing you sitting on your terrace hour after hour doing absolutely nothing. And you looked so terribly unhappy that I felt sure you must be in some sort of trouble. Had other people come to see you I would never have come here; but you’re very young and seemed to have no one you could turn to. I’m old enough to be your mother, and I was hoping that you might care to confide in me, because I would willingly have helped you if I could. As it is I can only ask you to forgive my unwarranted intrusion.’
Mustering the remnants of her shattered dignity, Molly squared her shoulders then, with a brief inclination of her head, walked past the tall, now stony-faced, girl, through the french windows and out on to the lawn. She was only halfway across it when she was halted by a despairing cry behind her.
To the Devil, a Daughter Page 2