Rogue's Holiday

by Maxwell March

  Mr. Birch made him write down the name on the back of an envelope, although the young man could have told him that the chances of his forgetting that name of all names were the most remote in the world.

  David took the case and caught a glimpse of the booking clerk looking at him dubiously, and after a moment the man beckoned Bloomer and had a moment’s whispered conversation with him.

  David was amused. If Mr. Lionel Birch were peculiarly trusting towards total strangers, officials of the Empress Hotel were not so ingenuous.

  Bloomer evidently stood surety for him, however, for the clerk seemed satisfied and even favoured him with a gracious nod.

  Birch was very grateful and managed to convey to David without ever appearing overeffusive that he was doing him a great service.

  Bloomer accompanied the inspector to the door.

  “On to something, sir?” he whispered with such childlike eagerness that David had not the heart to disappoint him.

  “I don’t know, Bloomer,” he said darkly. “I don’t know. Keep an eye on Deane for me, will you? I shall be back in about an hour or less. I shall hope to have a word with him.”

  “Right you are, Captain,” said Bloomer, permitting himself the familiar form of address. “Right you are. I’ll have him all spread out for you.”

  In a louder tone he said: “Good-night, Mr. Blest. Good-night, sir.”

  David strode off down the road, clutching the case as though it were his one hope of salvation.

  He was so engrossed in his thoughts, so oddly perturbed at the prospect of the interview in front of him, that his usually acute observation failed him for once, and he did not notice the emaciated figure in the black coat who drew into the shadows as he passed and stood for some moments looking after him, a strange expression in his pale, deep-set eyes.

  CHAPTER V

  White Lady

  THE FIRST PERSON David saw as he turned out of the dark side street and stepped into the flood of light which bathed the whole of the ornate façade of the Arcadian Hotel was, curiously enough, the devil himself, complete in crimson tights, black imperial, and mask.

  The fact that he was joined almost immediately by the Queen of Hearts reminded the startled inspector that the great carnival ball which he had seen advertised all over the town was taking place that evening.

  The Arcadian was doing its best to live up to its reputation as the gayest spot on the south coast, and its enormous Louis XV ballroom was a blaze of light and excitement.

  Gay figures in fancy dress thronged the whole of the ground floor. The big windows leading onto the terrace were thrown wide, and Harlequins and Columbines, pirates and Anne Boleyns wandered among the ornamental shrubberies and trod the thick lawns and the wide stone steps leading down to the sea.

  David was grateful for all this excitement downstairs. It gave him just the opportunity he sought, and with the lizard-skin case under his arm he set out through the lounge towards the lifts.

  Here progress was not quite so easy as he had hoped. The revellers who, earlier in the evening, had kept religiously to the ballroom, had now appropriated the lounge, and the whole place was crowded to suffocation.

  Amid such a throng of decorated beauty it was difficult for anyone to make a sensation, but just as David pressed his way among the tables he had an excellent view of one of the minor excitements of the evening.

  On the wide staircase which rose up between the two giant lifts, a glistening, ornate structure of white marble and thick red turkey carpet, a woman appeared.

  Hers was an unusual beauty, so striking and exotic that even the most disinterested spectator could hardly forbear a second glance at her.

  As most of the guests at the Arcadian Carnival were anything but disinterested where beauty was concerned, the newcomer had the satisfaction of a fascinated audience.

  The babel of chatter died down for a second before a buzz of excited comment ran round the enormous room.

  Even David, whose thoughts were centred on a very different person of a very different type of loveliness, found himself glancing at the woman with interest.

  She was not very tall, but she held herself with such arrogant grace that her height appeared to be increased. Nor was she very young. He judged her to be a little over thirty. Her platinum blond hair was waved sleekly against her small head.

  Its effect was increased by the dark, provocative eyes, arched with narrow black brows. Her mouth was small and scarlet, and her tiny chin pointed and delicate.

  She wore a white dress whose gleaming bodice fitted her incredibly slender body like a second skin and whose enormous skirt swept out round her tiny ankles in a profusion of satin and lace.

  In one small hand she carried a little black mask.

  She came down the staircase very slowly, obviously enjoying the sensation she was creating.

  Old Charlie, the waiter, who had paused beside David, uttered a subdued exclamation as he caught sight of her, and as he turned and recognized David he smiled.

  “Still not interested in ladies, sir?” he ventured softly. “She’s lovely, isn’t she? I never saw anything like her, not in all my born days.”

  The old man’s enthusiasm brought a smile to David’s lips.

  “Still not very interested,” he murmured. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  David, who had no desire to make himself conspicuous, waited until the lady in white had completed her leisurely entrance, and then slipped into the lift.

  As he stepped out of the lift into the cool wide corridor on the first floor the scene of hectic gaiety which he had just witnessed seemed to belong to another world.

  But then so also did the whole day’s fantastic business. He was only aware that he was going to speak to Judy, that he was going to hear her voice again, and, if he was lucky, convince her that he was her friend.

  Inspector David Blest was a man used to awkward interviews. During the past eight or nine years he had experienced every variety of difficult conversation, or at least, so he had thought until that morning.

  Yet now he was conscious of pure apprehension such as he had not felt since his childhood.

  The sound of music and occasional laughter floating up on gusts of warm air reached him faintly, but the atmosphere in the corridor was cool and peaceful and remote.

  He turned off the main passage and went down the darker corridor where his own and Judy’s rooms were situated.

  Outside her door he paused, his heart thumping. He had raised his hand to knock when a faint movement down the far end of the passage caught his attention, and he turned and saw her.

  She was standing on the little balcony which led up from the hall window and overlooked the terrace below. He was sure it was she. He recognized her petite figure, and the lights from below glinted on her honey-coloured hair.

  She looked very small and very pathetic, standing there like a Cinderella peering wistfully down at the dancers in their bright clothes as they passed the open ballroom windows or came out into the dimly lit garden below.

  David’s shyness vanished and he went forward soberly.

  He was almost level with her when she started and swung round. It was with a thrill of delight that he saw the dawning apprehension vanish from her eyes as she recognized him, but her greeting was not encouraging.

  “What is it, Inspector Blest?”

  The emphasis on “Inspector” was slight, but it was there. David looked at her helplessly.

  “I’m sorry about that,” he said. “I ought to have told you this afternoon, but I didn’t think it mattered.”

  The girl stiffened. “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “But I told you very definitely, Inspector, and I hoped that I’d made you understand, although I’m very grateful for your drive this afternoon, our acquaintance cannot possibly continue.”

  She delivered the formal little speech in a rush and stood very stiff and pale, looking at him coldly.

  A wave of despair passed over David.


  “I’m sorry,” he said lamely. “I only wanted to explain that if I’d known that it would have made any difference either way that I was attached to the police, I should have told you about it at our first meeting. I’m sorry to be so insistent about this, but it was the suggestion that I’d made friends, or at least got to meet you, by false pretences which made me so anxious to put things straight.”

  The girl turned to him impulsively, her assumed frigidity vanishing in the old disconcerting way which had given him so many tremors earlier in the day.

  “I do understand,” she said gently. “Really I do. But it isn’t only that. You must go away. You mustn’t try to see me again. You must leave me alone. Don’t you see it’s dreadfully important? I can’t explain. I would if I could—honestly I would.”

  She paused, her face raised to his, and it became evident that she found the expression in his eyes disturbing, for she suddenly drew back abruptly and glanced down at the ballroom windows again.

  “You mustn’t come and look for me like this,” she went on without looking at him. “I’m not supposed to be here. It was only that I heard the music and I—well, I just sneaked out to watch for a moment or two before I went to bed. Please go away.”

  David sighed. “All right,” he said wearily. “I’m sorry. As a matter of fact, though, I had a perfectly legitimate excuse for coming up to see you. Here it is. You’ll need this, won’t you?”

  He put the little case into her hand. She stared at it for a moment, and the change in her expression was extraordinary. He heard her catch her breath, but he was completely unprepared for the terror in her voice when she spoke at last.

  “Where did you get this?”

  The words were uttered in a husky whisper.

  “Where did you get it? I thought——”

  She broke off and turned wide, horror-stricken grey eyes upon him.

  “What are you doing here? What have you found out?”

  He did not answer, and she went on with sudden energy:

  “I think I understand! I might have known you would try to make friends with me. You’re a police officer. This is all part of your work, isn’t it? Don’t you think it’s rather mean? Don’t you think it’s rather despicable of you? It’s all very well to collect evidence—I suppose you’ve got to—but you needn’t go about it quite in this way, need you?”

  David’s good temper, common sense, and natural restraint suddenly snapped. The bitterness and contempt in her voice was more than he could bear, and moved by a force completely outside himself he caught her by the shoulders.

  “Don’t talk like that,” he said, his voice unnaturally calm. “You’re making an absurd mistake. That case was given me by a stranger whom I met at the Empress Hotel. He tried to get a boy to bring it over to you, and I heard his request refused. It was such a wonderful opportunity to get a word with you that I jumped at it. I told him I was coming back and asked if I could bring it along.

  “My dear girl,” he went on earnestly, his eyes on her own, “don’t you see I don’t care what sort of mess you’re in? I want to help you. You’ve got to let me help if I can.”

  The girl was standing very still. Her face was pale in the faint light, and he saw her wide grey eyes staring at him with something more than mere surprise in their depths.

  After he had finished speaking he stood where he was, looking down at her. He was breathless and very sincere.

  Judy sighed. It was the ghost of a sound and barely reached him.

  “Oh, I believe you,” she said simply.

  He bent towards her, but she pushed him away gently.

  “Oh please,” she said. “Please go away. It’s no use. Don’t you see it’s no use?”

  Her voice was trembling, and he could feel her hand quiver as she touched his sleeve.

  David pulled himself together and became at least a semblance of his old practical self.

  “Look here,” he said, “you’ve got to let me help you. For heaven’s sake, don’t be afraid of me. I wouldn’t do anything to hurt you for the world. But I can’t stand aside and see you mixed up in this extraordinary business without doing something. There is one thing I’ve got to know. Who is the man who gave me this bag? Who is the man whom you took to the Empress Hotel in a cab less than half an hour ago?”

  She shot him a startled glance, some of her old terror returning.

  “You know that?” she said.

  He nodded. “Yes, I saw you. Who is Lionel Birch, Judy?”

  She looked at him searchingly. “I don’t know why I trust you,” she said suddenly, “but I do. Lionel Birch is my uncle—Uncle Jim. He’s no relation really, but he brought me up and has looked after me nearly all my life, and I am very fond of him. My mother died before I can remember, and then for a time I think I had a nurse, but after I was five years old I went down to the country to live with Uncle Jim. He’s been so kind to me. He educated me, taught me everything I know, and until—well, until three weeks ago he managed to keep me down there away from my guardian.”

  A light of understanding broke over David.

  “Is that the reason for your extraordinary disguise?” he said.

  She nodded. “Yes. It started years ago when Sir Leo wanted to take me away from Uncle Jim. We hit on this scheme. Whenever Sir Leo came down I was too ill to be moved and taken to London to live. Gradually he got to believe that I was a helpless invalid. Then, three weeks ago, he put his foot down, and I had to promise to meet him here, ill or not. Now you understand everything.”

  David took her hands.

  “Why do you have to obey Sir Leo so implicitly?” he asked. “Is that because of Uncle Jim too?”

  She nodded. “Don’t ask me about it,” she said. “Please. I ought not to have told you so much. You can’t help me. You can’t do anything. You——”

  She stopped abruptly. Someone was coming down the passage. The girl clutched his arm.

  “Sir Leo mustn’t know Uncle Jim followed me to Westbourne, and he mustn’t see you with me,” she whispered, panic-stricken.

  David stepped back into the shadow made by the curtain and drew the girl in beside him. His movement had been as silent as a cat’s, and he was convinced that they were unnoticed.

  The footsteps came closer, and Judy heaved a sigh of relief as she heard the click of high-heeled shoes. Whoever the newcomer might be, it was certainly not Sir Leo.

  The footsteps ceased, and the young people peered out of their hiding place to catch a glimpse of the stranger. What David saw was not the least surprising thing in a surprising day.

  Standing before Judy’s own door, her ear against the panel, was the woman who had made a sensational entrance into the lounge such a short while before.

  He recognized her instantly, of course. It would have been impossible not to do so, since her appearance was unforgettable.

  Having listened in silence for some moments, the woman raised her hand and, glancing furtively down the corridor, tapped softly on the wood.

  Receiving no response, she opened the white evening bag she carried and extracted a key. She had just fitted it in the lock when Judy touched David’s arm.

  “I’ve never seen her before in my life,” she whispered. “What’s she doing there?” Moved by a common impulse they both stepped forward.

  It was Judy who spoke.

  “Can I help you?” she said quietly. “That’s my door.”

  The woman started back, and just for a moment a flicker of alarm crept into her eyes. But it was only for a moment, and David found himself admiring the extraordinary aplomb with which she carried off a very awkward situation.

  “Oh, is it?” she said. “I’m so sorry. I only arrived this afternoon, and I’m afraid I must have got confused. Perhaps my room is a hundred and forty-nine. I really can’t remember. I must go down and inquire.”

  It occurred to David that he could have pointed out that the number of her room would be stamped upon her key had she not been attempting to o
pen the door with an entirely different sort of implement from any used in the hotel.

  As though she feared he might put some such question, the woman hurriedly slipped the key back in her bag and stood surveying them.

  Somewhat to their surprise, she did not show any inclination to hurry away. On the contrary, she seemed inclined to stay and chat.

  David was puzzled. This was no ordinary type of hotel thief, but even if she had belonged to that particular sisterhood, why on earth should she pick on Judy’s room?—Judy, the one person in the hotel, probably, who was supposed by everyone to be in bed asleep?

  “I suppose you’ve been watching the dancing?” The woman glanced towards the window. “It’s great fun downstairs. Why aren’t you two young people joining in?”

  The question was put without direct impertinence, and had it not been for the shrewd, intelligent gleam in the dark eyes David would have put it down as a desire to pass off an awkward moment.

  But after seeing those eyes he knew that here was a woman who was not troubled by shyness or gaucherie.

  “You really ought to be dancing,” she went on, looking at Judy.

  She looked very charming, standing there in her billowy white gown, and Judy seemed to respond to her friendliness.

  “I—I’m an invalid,” she said. “I don’t dance.”

  “An invalid? You poor child!” The sympathy was extraordinarily well done, and David’s curiosity increased.

  The newcomer eyed him covertly.

  “Are you two brother and sister?” she demanded unexpectedly. “You’re awfully alike.”

  This suggestion was so obviously unlikely that David wondered at her daring to try so audacious an opening.

  Again it was Judy who answered.

  “Oh no, no relation at all.”

  In spite of herself the vehemence in her tone was noticeable, and the other woman made the most of it. She laughed.

  “Oh, I see,” she said. “Just friends. Well, I must go downstairs to interview the office and try to discover where my room is. Are you coming?”

  She spoke as though she had known them for years, and Judy, like most ingenuous people, responded by replying in the same strain.