‘The police jumped to it that a soldier must have done the job, and after a session with Minnie and me they left us for the night. Their having brought me in for questioning this afternoon would shake most people. But I’m not scared. Why should I be? Even if they find out that the haversack was a phoney, they still won’t have anything on yours truly. I didn’t put it there; Minnie did. The cops may be pretty bright but they won’t get nothing on little Arty.’
. . . . .
Next morning the Inspector informed Arty that he was to be further detained on a charge of murder. That shook Arty pretty badly; but as the Inspector went on to issue the usual caution, he got his wits back sufficiently to stammer out that he would like to see a solicitor.
The Inspector nodded and said: That reminds me. Your wife has been asking if she can have your post office savings book back and your authority for drawing the money towards the expenses of your defence. We have told her that if you will sign the necessary withdrawal form, we will arrange matters with the P.M.G.’s office. But we can’t let her have the book back. We must retain it as Exhibit No. 1 at your trial, as it was found in that old Army haversack and the owner has already proved a cast-iron alibi.’
Arty had never fainted in his life, but he fainted then; and his last conscious thoughts ran: ‘How the hell did my savings book get into that haversack? How did Minnie know it was there? It could only be because she put it there herself. She must have smelt the whiskey on my breath and guessed I done it. By God, she shopped me. She’s not so stupid as I thought her, after all.’
STORY IV
A BOOK called Mediterranean Nights is quite unthinkable without a tale about Monte Carlo in it; and, although the series as originally planned was never completed, this at least was ticked off on my list quite early in the game.
On reading it through after a period of years I am a little disappointed to find that it is mainly about love and gamblers’ luck instead of spies and sinister adventure; and that it makes little attempt to portray Monte Carlo as I first knew it. Those were in the days when something of the glamour which attached to it before the First World War still lingered there. The Grand Dukes who had thrown fantastic parties in the Monte of their youth had returned as ‘elderly’ men not yet accepting their exile as a permanency, and therefore not yet adopting obvious petty economies. The famous Greek syndicate still gambled impassively in thousands each night at the Sporting Club. Monsieur Fleurie, that Emperor among maîtres des hôtels, still dominated the scene at the Hôtel de Paris and dispensed to his most favoured patrons the world-renowned old brandy from his Caves in Burgundy-shaped, crested medallion bottles. The great yachts of the Duke of Westminster and Lord Furness lay with a score of others in the blue bay. The diamonds in the bracelets which flashed upon the arms of the women in the Salle de Jeux at nights were not ersatz, as they afterwards became, but real jewels worth fifty times the price of the gambling plaques scattered upon the green baize of the tables.
I am so glad that I saw it all when I was young; because last time I visited Monte it had fallen into a state of sad decay. Forty years had changed such of the exiled aristocrats as remained into aged seedy folk, many of them haunting the bars with what was pretty clearly the pathetic hope that some ‘old friend’ or even a chance acquaintance would offer them a really enjoyable free meal. Most of the yachts had gone, and with them the millionaires, to playgrounds farther afield—South Africa, Miami, the Bahamas, Santa Catalina, Bali, and the South Seas. The women in the rooms were no longer great ladies or splendid courtesans; they were just respectable middle-class women or shoddy little hussies casting anxious, hopeful glances at each man who entered the door. In the square before the Casino there was a row of ’buses doing a good trade in taking crowds of indifferently clad tourists in and out from Nice and Cannes, to spend a few hours in the golden acre where once the last heirs of a vanished world of nobility and elegance had strolled with leisured peace enjoying the midday sun.
But let us not think of poor Monte Carlo as she is today.
This story was offered to one or two editors, but they displayed no interest in it, so it was thrown aside, and appears here in print for the first time. On re-reading it I make bold to suggest that those editors might have found a better use for their rejection slips. Admittedly the yarn is light, but hangs together well and it possesses that very rare virtue, so difficult to achieve in a short story yet so eminently desirable—a double twist.
BORROWED MONEY
SALLY watched the croupier rake in her last red plaque. She opened her handbag and looked inside, although even as she did so she knew that it was useless. A handkerchief, two lipsticks, and four francs seventy-five centimes. She shut it with a snap.
She looked at the double tier of faces round the table, and noticed with a little shock how hard the eyes of the women had become, how abrupt and almost rude the manners of the men. Monte Carlo madness was upon them—the veneer of courtesy and kindness with which they conducted their daily lives had dropped away; the naked lust of gain showed openly as they watched the spin of the roulette wheel, or lay beneath lowered lids as they sat with assumed placidity. Not one of the players evinced the slightest interest in her ill-fortune—only the dark young man, who had stood looking on for the last hour from the other side of the table, displayed any understanding. She caught his eyes—he was smiling at her now.
Sally was just a little bewildered; everything seemed to have happened so quickly. At half past nine she had had before her piles and piles of plaques, of different shapes and various colours, representing several hundred pounds. It was now barely eleven, and every one of them had disappeared. In ordinary circumstances she would have looked quickly away from that young man; half-dazed as she now was she found herself looking straight into his brown eyes. Then she realised that her schoolgirl habit of making faces had betrayed her. Her eyebrows slipped up and her mouth slipped down into a half-rueful, half-humorous smile.
‘Pardon, Mademoiselle, you play no more?—I may then ’ave your chair.’ It was a Frenchman behind her speaking. As she stood up he settled himself eagerly—it was his lucky seat, and he had been waiting for it for an hour.
Sally moved away from the table. The dark young man stood before her. ‘A glass of champagne and a breath of fresh air on the terrace is the only thing,’ he said, smiling into her eyes.
She regarded him gravely, she had recovered herself a little now. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know you,’ she said coldly.
‘Of course not,’ he laughed, ‘but unlucky at cards … you know.’ He suddenly went scarlet. ‘I say—I didn’t mean that—I meant the other way on—lucky for me!—no, I didn’t, I mean… hang it all I don’t know what I do mean—you must think I’m an utter fool, but honestly I didn’t mean to be impertinent—just thought I might be able to cheer you up a bit.’
He was so obviously embarrassed that Sally could not help feeling sorry for him. But for his blunder she would most certainly have given him an admirable view of her charming back; as it was, her sense of humour got the better of her. ‘All right,’ she smiled, ‘don’t distress yourself—good night.’
‘But I say,’ he pleaded, ‘if I really am forgiven won’t you let me give you a drink—it’s early yet.’
Sally considered; it was early, she would not be able to sleep if she went back to her hotel—the thought of standing round the tables to watch the other people win was unendurable. After all, why not?—he looked a very nice young man with his brown eyes and pugnacious chin. ‘Oh, well,’ she said, ‘if you really want to.’
‘That’s splendid.’ His face lit up. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here, the atmosphere in this place is just frightful. How I’ve stood it these last few nights I can’t think, but I suppose you don’t notice it if you play.’
‘Why do you come then?’ she inquired.
‘Well—er—I suppose you haven’t noticed me, but as a matter of fact—I come to look at you—I say,’ he added anxiously, ‘that
’s not another brick, is it?’
Sally laughed; she had noticed him, but she was not going to admit it. ‘There is another proverb,’ she said, ‘about cats and kings.’
They had left the Salle de Jeux and ensconced themselves at a little table with a bottle of Bollinger in an ice bucket between them.
He offered her a cigarette as he remarked: ‘You must have lost a packet in the last few nights.’
‘Two thousand in a fortnight,’ remarked Sally bitterly.
‘My hat! That’s an awful lot of money—you must be jolly rich.’
‘I’m not, I’ve just behaved like an idiot—that’s all.’
‘Well, please don’t think I mean to be rude or anything—but why not stop now? You’ll never win it back.’
She made a grimace. ‘I’m going home the day after tomorrow, so I’ve no choice, and anyhow I’ve no money left.’
They sat silent for a while, then she said: ‘I made up my mind to win five thousand pounds when I came out here; instead I’ve lost every bean I’ve got.’
‘Are you on your own?’ he hazarded.
‘Oh no—I came with Aged Aunt—she’ll pay the hotel bill and see me safely home.’
‘I’ve never seen her with you.’
‘Aged Aunt doesn’t play. She likes her bridge in the evening with the other old trout, and her walk in the morning—otherwise she sleeps all day. Why she ever comes to Monte I can’t think.’
‘Does she know about…?’ He hesitated, not quite sure how to describe the débâcle of the evening without offence.
‘Good gracious no! She’d have a fit if she did—but I’ll take good care she doesn’t. It’s my own stupid funeral.’
He sat looking at her intently, admiring the long eyelashes that veiled her grey eyes—the well-marked brows and the curve of her cheek; suddenly she spoke abruptly: ‘I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve been such a fool—and you’re too polite to ask? Well, I’ll tell you if you like.’
He smiled. ‘I don’t want to pry, but it is a bit staggering for a girl to drop two thousand pounds in ten days. In any case I’d awfully like to know your name.’
Sally had not the least desire to find this strange young man on the doorstep of her hotel next morning, so she replied without hesitation: ‘My name is Julia Markham, and we’re staying at the Metropole,’ both of which statements were quite untrue. Yet, although she had no wish to continue this chance acquaintance she wished intensely to pour out her woes to some sympathetic ear. Aged Aunt was out of the question—she knew no one of her own age in Monte Carlo, and this young man had brought it on himself, so she leant forward with both arms on the little table, cupped her little, firm, round chin in her hands and continued.
‘It’s like this. Father died when I was quite young, and I never knew my mother. Aged Aunt brought me up. We’ve got a place in Gloucestershire; it’s rather lovely really; not very big, you know—but it’s been in the family for three hundred years. Father was frightfully keen that it should not go to anyone with another name, and, poor darling, he never had a son. He put the property in trust with enough money to keep it up, and in addition to that he put aside a further thirty thousand pounds. I was to live there until I was twenty-one—after that I was to have a year to make up my mind. If I decided to marry my cousin, I was to have the property and he was to have the thirty thousand pounds. If I didn’t he got the place and the thirty thousand went to the hospitals. You see, Father wanted him to keep the name going, but he wanted me to have the place—the money was the bait to make Cousin Henry marry me.’
The young man’s eyes widened. ‘Bait’ he was thinking, ‘the father must have died when his daughter was very young indeed to think that bait would be necessary to entice a man to marry her,’ but he kept his thoughts discreetly to himself and merely said: ‘Seems a bit hard on you, doesn’t it—what’s Cousin Henry like?’
‘I don’t know; he lives in Canada. Last time he was in England I was at school in Paris—he’s coming over again next week.’ An angry light came into Sally’s grey eyes. ‘But whatever he’s like I won’t marry him—I’ve made up my mind about that.’
‘I must say I think it was rather rotten of your father to cut you off like that.’
‘Not really.’ She shook her head. ‘He didn’t mean to, he was awfully rich when he made that will, and he left me the residue of his estate. I shouldn’t have missed the thirty thousand if it hadn’t been for the war, but all his investments were in Russia and he was nearly ruined. It was the shock that killed him, I think. Of course, they couldn’t touch the place or the thirty thousand, but by the time everything was cleared up there was only a little over two thousand for me.’
‘What appalling luck—wills are tricky things, they often pan out quite differently to their maker’s intentions. But what’s all this got to do with your mighty flutter—is it that two thousand that you’ve just done in?’
Sally nodded gravely, it really was a comfort to talk to this nice young man. That’s it,’ she said. ‘You see I’m nearly twenty-two and I had to make some arrangements for the future—you can’t live on a hundred a year—at least I can’t, but two-fifty is different. There’s a little cottage outside the Park that’s going quite cheap, and I’ve got an idea that I could write a bit. If I could have turned my two thousand into five I could have managed, but that’s impossible now. I suppose it’s charity with Aged Aunt, or some rotten job in London.’
‘You’ve quite made up your mind not to marry Cousin Henry then?’
‘Quite.’ Sally viciously jabbed the butt of her cigarette in the ash-tray. ‘I’ve never seen him and I don’t want to. I’ve hated the idea ever since I was old enough to think. What makes me so furious is that I had such marvellous luck in my first week, by the fourth night I was up seven hundred pounds.’
He opened his mouth to speak, but she broke in quickly: ‘If you say “beginner’s luck” I shall cry—or go home to bed!’
‘All right, I won’t,’ he smiled, ‘but all the same, if I played I’d always follow anyone who was new to it.’
‘It must have been just about the time when you turned up that I started to lose,’ she said, then mentally kicked herself as she realised that she had admitted noticing him in the rooms.
Sally knew that he had seen her slip, but he did not charge her with it. Instead he leant across the table and said earnestly:
‘Look here, if my presence has been responsible for your bad luck, it’s in my power to change it yet.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Let me lend you a few milles.’
Sally turned away her head. ‘No thank you,’ she said, a trifle coldly.
‘Please,’ he begged. ‘I don’t mean a big sum, nothing that you couldn’t repay by selling an odd piece of jewellery or something.’
‘I thought you were urging me just now not to gamble any more?’
‘I was—I should be still if you had any money left. In any case you can’t hope to get your two thousand back, but you might pick up a bit—borrowed money always brings luck.’
Sally was thinking quickly. She had been so certain somehow that tonight she was going to make a pile. Not tomorrow night, which would be her last in Monte Carlo, but tonight. There was that old ring her godmother had left her—it must be worth quite a lot. During her stay in Monte Carlo she had unconsciously absorbed the atmosphere of superstition with its talk of ‘lucky days—unlucky seats—charms, systems, and amulets’—it was not the first time that she had heard that saying, ‘Borrowed money is lucky’. What if there was something in it after all?
‘One mille? she declared suddenly, ‘one mille and no more. If I lose it I’ll send you the money from England, if you don’t mind that?’
‘Of course not.’ He finished his champagne and stood up. ‘Come along and get some chips.’ They changed the thousand-franc note at the caisse, and he handed her the plaques. Sally chose a table that she had never played at before and secured a va
cant place near the croupier. The rooms were crowded now, but there was little noise, only the quiet calling of the croupiers, and the click—click—click as the ivory ball rattled in the wheel of fortune. The cigar smoke hung heavily in the close, still air—the covered lights threw their brilliance on the baize-covered table.
At first Sally played carefully, and as is usually the case when care is brought into the game, found her capital diminishing in driblets. Then she came home on a number—that heartened her and she began to play more freely. The game swung first one way—then the other; but whenever she got up to a mille in addition to her borrowed money she went down again; then, when she had been playing for about half an hour a long run on her slender resources began—she found herself reduced to a bare nine plaques.
‘Go for a number,’ he advised, leaning over her shoulder, ‘it is your only chance.’
‘All right,’ Sally agreed, smiling, ‘neck or nothing this time.’ She chose the number seven and covered it—one in the centre, one on each side, and one on every corner.
‘Rien ne va plus, Messieurs, Mesdames,’ came the soft call of the croupier; the little white ball was jumping from slot to slot in the slowing wheel—it hesitated, then dropped into number seven.
Where Sally’s nine plaques had been were now the equivalent of one hundred and forty-five. Unsmiling, the croupier flicked them towards her with his rake. She drew them in, setting aside the ones of higher value. Again she covered the seven—again it won: the croupier threw her two big plaques and a number of smaller ones. She shifted to number eleven, but ten turned up—her cheval brought her seventeen and her corners eight apiece. With her loss of six, she was twenty-six to the good on the turn. Next time eleven turned up, she was on it still and had won again. A little murmur of excitement ran round the table. For the next two spins a higher number won, but with the third the luck came back to the lower figures once more; she was on six, and two was called. After that the luck seemed to settle in the lower dozen—in half an hour she won six times on her numbers, and every second spin her cheval and corners more than covered her bets. She had increased her stakes now and was putting on maximums every time. A little crowd had gathered to watch her play—her stacks of plaques were growing rapidly. She had a bad period after that first brilliant run of fortune for about twenty minutes, but it made no serious inroad on her winnings. The luck came back to the lower numbers and she won three times on number six.
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