Toby’s great attractions are his nerve on the race-track and his wealth. He is a bit of a cave man of course, and some women like that sort of thing. He’s not bad looking, either, in a fair-haired English sort of way, but he’s so used to women running after him that he has never cultivated the art of taking trouble—and it seemed to me that the girl was rather bored. However, it looked as if he was well ahead of the Baron, and once again I envied him his luck.
I had reason to change my opinion about the Frenchman an hour or two later though, for when I got back I ran into my friend of the night before—and he suggested a cocktail at the Bar Basque. Directly we arrive I spotted De Sejac sitting at a little table overlooking the sea, and the girl was with him—but Toby was nowhere to be seen!
We were only a few tables away and De Sejac looked straight at me as we sat down, without the slightest sign of recognition. He talked incessantly—and well, as only these foreign fellows can—telling anecdote after anecdote with a wealth of gesture and the most amusing grimaces. He was a different person to the surly brute who had given me the cold shoulder at the du Palais a couple of nights before, but I could see that the girl was thoroughly enjoying the fun. She sat leaning forward, smiling a little all the time, and now and then breaking into the most delicious laughter—it looked now as if De Sejac would beat Toby to that supper every time!
The next day I saw all three again. The smart world of Biarritz is quite tiny. There is the Square—the Golf—the Bathing Beach, I mean the smart one to the South—the Casino and half a dozen bars. Everybody drifts into one or other according to the hour, and after you’ve been there a day or two it is nothing to see the familiar faces of complete strangers half a dozen times a day.
It was the girl and Toby bathing in the morning—then after the siesta, when the whole town goes dead just as if you were in Spain, De Sejac and the girl having tea together at the Miramar, which does a roaring trade. You know how these fat French and Spanish women wolf chocolate, and all those creamy cakes!
When I had been there a little time Toby came in. He looked towards De Sejac’s table as if he had half a mind to join them. The girl threw him a quick smile, and then looked away, so his nerve failed him. Looking round he spotted me, and plumped down into the chair opposite.
‘Well?’ I said casually. ‘All alone?’ Of course it was beastly of me, but frankly I was just a little bit pleased to see that spoilt young man up against it for once.
He frowned across the table, then he grinned suddenly, which made me like him better. ‘I’m being cut out,’ he said quickly. ‘Look at her—isn’t she a peach, but I’m hanged if I can make her laugh the way that bounder De Sejac does! ’
‘Have some chocolate,’ I suggested, warming to him a little—then I lowered my voice. ‘Don’t worry about De Sejac—I think I’ll be able to queer his pitch for you in a day or two.’
He leant forward quickly. ‘Just what do you mean, Brandon?’
‘I don’t quite know,’ I confessed, ‘he may be a Baron perhaps—although I doubt it—but I’m certain about one thing—he does not know much about wine.’
‘So that’s the idea?’ Sinclair’s face broke into a superior grin. ‘Jealous, eh, Brandon?’
‘What the devil do you mean?’ I asked angrily.
‘Easy—isn’t it?’ He picked a cigarette out of his gold and platinum case and lit it carefully. ‘You’re scared you’re going to lose a customer—that’s what I mean—afraid I’ll buy a hogshead or two of Claret from De Sejac, and you want to spike his guns! I’m not a fool, Brandon, so don’t trouble to treat me like one—I buy in the best market—that’s all there is to it; but I like to have someone that I can sling my stuff back on if it’s not right—so don’t you worry your stupid head—I shan’t give him an order, but don’t trouble to be melodramatic about the Baron either—it’s just … not necessary!’
For a moment I had an intense desire to choke that young man with the chocolate éclair that he was eating. The question of orders had simply not entered my head for the last three days—I was just trying to cheer him up in the face of the girl’s obvious preference for the Frenchman. As it was I hit back in the place where I thought it would hurt him most!
‘Pity you’re quite so rich,’ I said, ‘and can’t realise that now and then people forget their bread and butter—if you were capable of that, you might be sitting where De Sejac is now!’
It was a cheap retort, and anyhow it missed its point, because young Sinclair simply did not understand. He looked at me stupidly for a moment, then he turned the conversation to the polo of the afternoon. Later on he insisted on paying for both our teas, and we walked out into the sunshine.
‘Where are you off to?’ he inquired.
‘My hotel,’ I replied promptly. He really was a vulgar little brute, and I saw no point in remaining in his company—so we parted on the Place.
At the hotel I found a letter waiting for me. It was a reply from Dubaudin, and several sheets were covered with his thin, spidery writing. The gist of it was that he would be delighted to see me later on in September when the vintage was in full swing—there was a Baron de Sejac and a château of that name quite near his own property, but the owner was a young man who had been in Martinique for several years. The person whom I had met in Biarritz was obviously a fraud.
Dubaudin then went on to say that he had been sufficiently intrigued to take my letter to the Préfecture de Police—they had telephoned to Paris and the result was interesting.
A man resembling the one I had described was wanted for certain offences committed on the Riviera in June and July. He always stayed at expensive hotels, and worked with a chauffeur and a car. If I had mentioned the hotel at which he was staying the police could have investigated the matter at once. As I had omitted to do so, would I communicate with the Biarritz police immediately—because the pseudo Baron was quite possibly the man they wanted. I bathed and changed, and came down to dinner in a much more lively frame of mind.
IV
Of course it was not really my affair. De Sejac, or whoever he was, had done me no harm, but if he was wanted by the police it was obviously my job to give information. Besides, he might be plotting all sorts of mischief to lighten the pockets of the millionaires at the du Palais, and quite frankly, I wasn’t sorry to have the opportunity of showing young Sinclair that I hadn’t been talking through my hat.
I wrote a brief note to the Prefect of Police, and, enclosing Dubaudin’s letter with it, sent it off immediately after dinner.
Then it occurred to me that it might be rather fun to see the end of the affair. If I hurried, it was just possible that I might see the spurious Baron sent for by the management of the hotel and quietly removed by the police.
It was nearly eleven when I reached the du Palais and the guests were drifting out from dinner. Everyone dines late in Biarritz, you know, just as they do in Spain. I had not been in the lounge more than five minutes when De Sejac passed my table with Sinclair. Toby was not looking in my direction, but the Baron was, and he looked right through me with a cold, insolent stare, just as he had two afternoons before at the Bar Basque.
I couldn’t help chuckling when I thought of what was coming to him! My messenger must just about have reached the Préfecture, and as the two of them sat down at a table only twenty feet away I was pretty certain to see the fun.
A few minutes later the girl joined them. She was looking more lovely than ever, if that was possible, and she smiled equally upon Toby and De Sejac. It seemed for the moment that honours were even—but not for long.
After they had had coffee and liqueurs the Baron said something to her and they both stood up. He helped her deftly with her coat, and Toby, looking pretty sullen I thought, got to his feet and evidently said good-night. The others moved off together towards the hotel entrance.
‘What does A do now?’ I wondered—they were probably off to the Casino—well, Monsieur le Baron would get a nasty jar when he returne
d to the hotel—the police would be waiting for him!
But then a sudden thought occurred to me: what if De Sejac had beaten Toby at the post, and was taking the girl off to supper at one of those dance places outside the town?—and what if the police followed him and pinched him while he was supping with her?—that would be a rotten business.
For a second I thought of going over to Toby and warning him what might happen so that he could follow them up and be on hand in the event of trouble, but on second thoughts I decided against that. Why should I?—he’d been devilish rude to me that afternoon—I would go myself. Of course I didn’t know the girl, but I could tell her that I was a friend of Toby’s and see her safely back to the hotel—that is, if the need arose, and I suppose it was a bit selfish of me, but I had begun to hope it would. Anyhow, I flung the waiter a note and dashed out of the lounge.
I was just in time to see De Sejac disappear into his car, and as the commissionaire slammed the door it set off at a good pace.
I jumped into a long-nosed taxi as they turned the corner—‘Quick,’ I yelled to the driver—‘follow that car!’
We sped through the Place de la Republic, and up the hill past my modest caravanserai. Obviously my second surmise had been correct. We had already left the Casino far behind us and were off to one of the all-night dance places which are such a feature of the Spanish Season in Biarritz.
They lie anything from three to ten miles outside the town, set like glow-worms in the isolation of the pine woods. Tiny places for the most part, with a floor the size of a pocket handkerchief.
A jazz band blares unceasingly at one end, while the wealthy holiday crowd, jammed like sardines in a tin, moves slowly round and round, forgetful of the spacious scented woods beyond the matchboard walls. It’s queer, that—but the type which frequents them seems only happy in a stifling crush, and it is always the small places that do well, whether it is in London, Paris, or New York.
I took out my pocket-book and counted my money; fortunately I was well supplied as I knew that I had let myself in for a horribly expensive evening. The car alone would be five hundred francs—champagne at two pounds a bottle—supper and tips! I should be the poorer by a mille at least.
I leant forward, peering into the darkness as I wondered for which of the night haunts we were making. Not ‘Chez Casanova’ evidently, the ‘Florida’ perhaps. I had been lucky in my choice of taxis—it fairly rocked as the fellow took the bends, but we never lost sight of De Sejac’s tail lamp for more than a moment.
Another few miles, and we rattled down into what I knew to be one of the loveliest of valleys. A good-sized lake lay shimmering in the moonlight, and at one corner of it among the stunted pines showed the bright lights of the ‘Florida’ streaming out on to the water. Clear on the night air above the noise of the slowing engine came the rhythmic cadence of the negro band, and as I left the taxi I could hear the tinkle of the plates and glasses from the three-sided shed behind the little restaurant, which served for a scullery.
It was barely midnight, and few people had arrived as yet. Those places don’t get really busy until about two o’clock, and I wondered rather how I should manage to pass the time, as I was alone. As it turned out I had no need to worry, for I had hardly seated myself at a table in a quiet corner from which I could watch the Baron without seeming too inquisitive, when Toby Sinclair walked in.
He came over to me at once. ‘Hullo, Brandon—mind if I join you if you’re on your own?’
‘Of course not.’ I replied, ‘sit down.’
Then he laughed a little ruefully. ‘I say—I’m sorry about this afternoon—’fraid I wasn’t too polite.’
‘You were not,’ I answered him. ‘However, let’s forget it.’
‘Fact is,’ he went on, ‘I’m a bit worried—I’ve got it pretty badly this time, and you see the situation!’
I followed his glance in the direction of De Sejac and the girl. ‘Yes, I thought as much—but if I may say so, are you really improving your chances by trailing her like this?’
‘Good Lord!—why not?—shows I’m keen, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ I agreed slowly, ‘but some women might resent it.’
‘Don’t you believe it!’ he gave a hard little laugh. ‘What I don’t know about women isn’t worth knowing—they always fall for you if you show ’em you mean business.’
He wasn’t more than about twenty-five—but if half the stories one hears about him are true, I could well believe him. If you are a millionaire, a famous racing motorist, and a healthy-looking six foot into the bargain, you can very soon acquire a knowledge of women if your predilections lie that way—that is, of a certain type of woman. But somehow I didn’t feel that this girl would prove quite such an easy nut for Master Toby to crack—even when the police had removed the Baron.
‘Did you come in a taxi?’ he asked suddenly. ‘If you did you’d better go and sack him; they charge you the earth waiting about all night at these places—I’ll run you home.’
‘Thanks,’ I said, and left him to do as he suggested—wondering rather at this sudden thoughtfulness. Still, it’s millionaires’ economies that keeps them millionaires, I suppose, and although it wasn’t saving his pocket—it’s in the blood!
When I got back I found that he had ordered a magnum of the best champagne, at least as far as the label went—but that doesn’t mean much on the Continent; and a supper for which I thanked my gods I hadn’t got to pay.
The place had begun to fill up a bit, and the floor already seemed as full as it could be, although I knew that twice the number would get on it somehow in an hour or so. Toby was glowering resentfully at the girl.
‘What the devil is she doing on her own in Biarritz—that is what I can’t make out,’ he said suddenly.
‘Why didn’t you ask her when you had the chance?’ I inquired.
‘I did—but she wouldn’t tell me. She must have money to stay at the Palais, and I thought at first she must be on the stage. Actresses and what we used to call ladies are so much alike these days, you can’t tell t’other from which by their dresses or their morals—but I don’t think she is. Anyhow, a girl who travels on her own is fair game for any man, and I’ll pull it off somehow—you see if I don’t!’
I noticed a queer mixture of spoilt child and elderly roué in Sinclair’s expression as he spoke—it was not a pleasant look.
He took a big gulp of champagne and then put down his glass with an impatient gesture. ‘Heavens! What muck this is—why is it that you can never get champagne fit to drink outside England?’
‘I’ll show you a trick that will make it drinkable anyhow,’ I volunteered. ‘Send for some lump sugar and some Angostura Bitters.’
When the waiter brought them I sprinkled a few drops of Angostura on two lumps of sugar and dropped one into each glass. It’s a thing I often do abroad, and it converts the most inferior champagne into a quite palatable champagne cocktail—besides which the Angostura lessens the chance of a bad head in the morning.
Toby had another swig at it and grinned approval. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Really, Brandon, you’re a jolly useful chap to have around.’
‘Thanks,’ I said dryly. I don’t know if I’m over touchy, but honestly, he is an ill-mannered little brute.
A cabaret of sorts came on at one o’clock, and after that the place got pretty hectic—streamers, paper hats and all the rest of it, while the band worked themselves into a perfect frenzy.
De Sejac did not dance, but sat there with the girl, obviously keeping her well amused with his chatter. Toby had done more than his fair share of the magnum after my intervention with the Angostura, and ordered up another. He was looking pretty flushed, but I had no fears about his driving on the way home; handling a car is second nature to him—drunk or sober.
After the cabaret he began dancing with one of the filles du Maison—a little French girl, and brought her back to our table with her friend. They were a cheerful couple,
and infinitely more presentable than their counterparts in the dreary London night clubs of Kate Meyrick’s day. They made the time pass quickly, and Toby temporarily forgot his jealousy in a fit of boisterous good humour.
It must have been after three when I saw De Sejac and the girl preparing to depart. There had been no sign of the police after all, but they were probably waiting for him at the hotel. I drew Toby’s attention, and he nodded.
‘Right oh! We’ll follow; you slip out and see if they take the road to Biarritz or along the Lake—I know which it would be if she were with me—and no damned nonsense either! Still, if he tries any funny business that’s different—it would just suit my book to step in as the noble rescuer. I’d give that black-eyed Baron a mouthful of teeth too. Quick! Off you go while I settle the bill.’
I left him, but I didn’t hurry, because I felt that his hopes—or fears, whichever you like to call them—were quite unjustified. Of course he himself was just the type to run the girl off into the woods and try a little rough stuff—threaten to leave her to walk home too, if she turned unpleasant. He was quite capable of it—but not the Baron. He might be a crook and was probably a cad as well, but foreigners view these things differently. They like their comforts, and half measures in cars are regarded by them as queer, and barbarous.
When I got outside I found De Sejac’s car already on the road. The engine was running and the chauffeur was sitting quietly at the wheel. Immediately behind it stood Toby’s long Bentley.
The Baron and the girl stood talking beside his limousine, and as I approached I could see him casting furtive glances over his shoulder towards the restaurant.
The cars were a little outside the angle of the arc lamps, and directly De Sejac caught sight of my white shirt-front through the trees he looked away. I passed behind a little hedge, then, just as I came out beside Toby’s car, I heard a smothered scream. There were the girl and De Sejac struggling in the roadway. There was no one else about and it was all over in a second. He had one arm round her waist, and his other hand clasped firmly over her mouth.
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