Rogue's Holiday

by Maxwell March

  “That’s right.” The waiter glanced speculatively across the lounge. “Doctors and nurses and specialists and a car, and I don’t know what else. That’s the sort of thing that doesn’t do us any good. People never think of us, trying to make an honest living while the sun shines.”

  “So Miss Ferney’s going, is she?” remarked David, anxious to keep the conversation going and excited by this new piece of information. “Where to?”

  “That I couldn’t say,” said his informant with a strong suggestion that he did not care either. “To hospital, I should think. Or a private lunatic asylum per’aps. There’s nothing wrong with her, sir, nothing wrong at all. Now, if the flower pot ’ad ’it ’er,” he continued with grim relish, “that’d be a different story, that would. ‘Ullo,” he added, “ ’ere they come. Right through the main ’all. As public as you please. Parading ’erself, that’s what she’s doing.”

  David glanced across the room as the lift slowly descended. The brass gates swung apart, and quite an important little procession emerged.

  David was puzzled by the whole business. Marguerite Ferney had not struck him as the sort of person to make a fuss about nothing, but making a fuss she certainly was. She had disdained the manager’s offer of a departure through a side door and had evidently insisted upon making her exit as public as possible.

  Two black-coated figures emerged first; doctors, David supposed. And then Marguerite Ferney herself, looking pale and even more lovely than usual in a long buff coat of summer ermine. She was walking very unsteadily, supporting herself with an arm around the shoulders of two other women, one a little nurse whose face was completely hidden by the great folds of Miss Ferney’s enormous fur collar, the other a bigger, black-suited woman, obviously a lady’s maid. Two hotel porters walked behind with masses of luggage.

  It was really a very impressive exit, and David watched the slow progress of the group as they passed out of the foyer and down the steps into the enormous limousine which awaited them.

  From where he sat David could just see the door of the car held open by a liveried chauffeur.

  The maid entered first and drew her mistress in after her, while the nurse helped her from the pavement and finally slipped in after her.

  There was something vaguely familiar about the turn of the girl’s shoulders under the long blue cloak. David wondered where he had seen her before. But the thought slipped from his mind as the door slammed behind the girl and the car drove away.

  He had been seated there for perhaps ten minutes after the car had gone when an extraordinary incident occurred. Sir Leo Thyn had rushed down the staircase and reached the desk before David noticed him, and it was his words, uttered in a shrill hysterical tone that cut through the buzz of conversation in the lounge, which first caught and held the young man’s attention.

  “Have you seen my ward, Miss Wellington? Has she gone out of here?”

  David saw the desk clerk put out his hand to quiet the excitable old man, but Sir Leo repulsed the gesture.

  “I tell you this is a question of life and death,” he said, his voice rising in spite of himself.

  David sprang to his feet and hurried over to the other man’s side. As he came up he saw that Sir Leo’s face was quivering with suppressed alarm and heard the question which he put so anxiously.

  “Tell me, my man, you saw Miss Ferney leave this hotel. Was my ward with her? Tell me, yes or no?”

  David stiffened. The nurse! The little turn of the shoulders that had been so vaguely familiar. He caught his breath.

  “Yes, Sir Leo,” he said, “she was. Tell me, what does it mean?”

  Sir Leo turned upon him. He seemed suddenly to have become a very old man, and it dawned upon David that he hardly realized to whom he was speaking.

  “It means,” he said hoarsely, “that Miss Wellington is in danger, in danger of death.”

  The next moment recognition had leapt into his eyes, and he pulled himself together as best he could.

  “Oh, Inspector, it’s you, is it?” he said with a piteous attempt to speak normally. “You must forgive me. I am—er—a little put out. You mustn’t pay attention to what I’ve been saying.”

  But David had seen the terror in his eyes and knew that for once in his life Sir Leo Thyn had spoken no less than the simple truth.

  CHAPTER XI

  A Fortune at Stake

  “MY DEAR MARGUERITE, you’re a genius. The whole thing has been done so neatly, so smoothly. I couldn’t have handled it better myself.”

  The man who spoke paused at the end of the chaise-longue and looked down at the woman who lay upon it among a mass of lace-covered cushions. After a moment’s contemplation he nodded approvingly.

  Charles Carlton Webber, or Webb as he preferred to call himself, was still in his early thirties. Of medium height, he was spare and spruce, with a sharp-featured, clever face in which only a certain narrowness about the eyes was in any way unpleasant.

  Marguerite Ferney stirred languidly among her cushions and smiled at him.

  “Don’t flatter yourself, darling,” she said. “You wouldn’t have done it at all. This young woman is not at all the sort of kid to be taken in by your fascinating manner. It was very fortunate that we decided upon this way of handling it. We might have made a very awkward mistake. She’s an odd little person, simply absorbed in her father, or her uncle Jim as she calls him. I shouldn’t have had any difficulty if it had been only her that I had to deal with, but it wasn’t easy with Sir Leo, to say nothing of a Scotland Yard man in attendance—an extraordinarily handsome young inspector, Charles. I quite lost my heart to him.”

  The man swung round upon her, a gleam of jealousy appearing in his eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  Marguerite Ferney laughed. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I hardly spoke to him. My dear, I was much too busy to have any time for flirtation.

  “You don’t seem to realize,” she went on, a faintly plaintive note creeping into her voice, “I’ve run a tremendous risk in bringing her here.”

  Webb smiled, and the narrowness of his eyes became more apparent.

  “Are you afraid of Sir Leo?”

  The faint sneer was not lost upon the woman, and her eyes flickered dangerously.

  “Of Sir Leo, no,” she said. “But of Saxon Marsh I think perhaps I am a little. You must realize, Charles, we’re up against a very powerful enemy. There’s something uncanny about that man, something terrifying. We must be very careful.”

  He came and sat down on the edge of the couch and took her hands in his.

  “I’ll be careful. Don’t worry. I’m not a complete fool, Marguerite, whatever you think of me.”

  The room in which the two people sat was a long low apartment with big windows leading onto a balcony which overlooked a garden. At the end of the garden was a natural beach, over which the waves of the estuary swept every high tide.

  In many ways it was an extraordinary place. Chalk cliffs rose on either side of the garden, and the house itself was built on a plateau of high ground set in a fold of the cliffs.

  From where he sat Webb could look out over the balcony and see Judy walking about in the garden. She made a lonely, pathetic figure walking up and down among the flowering shrubs, her chin on her breast and her hands clasped behind her.

  This fact was not lost upon the man.

  “Rather a pretty kid,” he remarked. “Oh, don’t worry, my dear, she hasn’t got your exotic beauty. But she’s not a bad-looking little creature. It seems almost a pity, in view of everything.”

  Marguerite Ferney sat up sharply and with surprising vigour for one who was supposed to be suffering from acute nervous exhaustion.

  “What do you mean? You’re not going to do anything silly—anything dangerous—promise me! After all, remember I’m in this too. I brought her here, and I’m the legal beneficiary under the will. They’ll go after me, not you. Oh, Charles, be careful, be careful.”

  He laug
hed at her fears but made no promise, a fact which the woman realized and was quick to seize upon.

  Webb rose to his feet.

  “Look here, Marguerite,” he said. “I want you to realize that there’s a fortune at stake. I’ve examined the will most carefully, and I know what I’m doing. If that girl out there is alive and married on the evening of her twenty-fourth birthday, that is to say in a few months’ time, the whole of Silas Gillimot’s fortune will go to her husband. If on that date she is alive but unmarried, she will receive a large income from the fortune, but the bulk of it will go to the heirs of Richard Ferney, your father.”

  He paused and laughed.

  “Sir Silas, with his disapproval of women holding large sums of money in their own names, didn’t think that your father’s two elder sons might get wiped out in the same flying accident. I’m afraid he may turn in his grave, but we can’t help that. The fact is, Marguerite, that you and I want that three hundred thousand pounds, or what there is left of it after that old embezzler, Sir Leo, has finished with it.

  “And that’s what I want to talk to you about,” he went on persuasively. “Three hundred thousand pounds! Think of it, Marguerite. Think of what it would mean to us: freedom from our creditors, and all the luxuries we both need and enjoy so much. I hope you’re not going to let any silly scruples stand in my way or yours.”

  Marguerite Ferney rose from her couch. Her fair loveliness was enhanced by the long ivory lace robe which swathed her from head to foot.

  She moved over to the window and looked down at Judy as the girl paced up and down the garden of the small natural fortress which enclosed her.

  A faint twisted smile spread over the woman’s lips.

  “We must keep her hidden,” she said. “We must keep her hidden until after her birthday. Surely it isn’t difficult. With your ingenuity you can think of something.”

  Webb shook his head.

  “It’s no good, Marguerite. While you’ve been away I’ve been thinking it out. We don’t want half a fortune, my dear. I imagine the original sum has been depleted considerably already. But that’s not the point. This girl knows us now. If she came forward in a court of law and told her story at any future date, then there’s a very reasonable chance that she might get away with it.”

  His voice trailed away, and the woman turned and looked at him.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  “I’m not suggesting,” he said. “I’ve made up my mind. There’s only one course which means absolute safety for us.”

  “And that?” she said faintly.

  Webb smiled and looked out of the window.

  “Our little friend must meet with some accident,” he said. “Unfortunately fatal.”

  The woman stood very still. Every touch of colour had vanished from her face, and she stared at her companion, striving to read what lay behind the odd, masklike smile.

  “No,” she said suddenly. “No, you can’t. It’s too dangerous.”

  “That’s where you’re quite wrong, my dear,” he said placidly. “Besides, don’t bother your head about it. This is going to happen so simply and naturally that the police will be able to hold the fullest inquiries, if they wish to, without coming to any unpleasant conclusions.”

  He threw himself down in one of the big tapestry-covered easy chairs, and his smile was broad and complacent. Marguerite Ferney shuddered. She knew him in this mood. She was not a squeamish woman, but there were times when he appalled her.

  Hers was not a moral objection. Marguerite was the last person in the world to worry about ethics. It was the risks he took, and the ruthlessness of his methods. She knew him for the man he was, a man for whom pity had no existence and for whom the affairs of other people had no meaning save where they crossed his own.

  Meanwhile Judy Wellington walked idly round the garden and congratulated herself upon the turn events had taken. She dared not think of David, but apart from him and the thought of his worried, anxious face she felt happier than she had been for a considerable time.

  The kindness of Marguerite Ferney took her breath away. All through the long drive in the big car, whose blinds had been drawn against the inquisitive glance of passers-by, Marguerite had been the soul of kindness itself, despite the fact that she was only just recovering from a terrible shock.

  It did occur to the girl that she had no idea at all where she was or what was the name of the queer house with its extraordinary cliff-enclosed garden, but the fact held no alarm for her and she merely made a mental note to ask Marguerite at some future time.

  She stood on the terrace and looked out beyond the beach and estuary to the lonely piece of mainland beyond. It was a very clear day, and she could just see the outlines of a single house among the greenery, but apart from that there seemed to be nothing but an expanse of grey-green marsh and salting.

  She had been standing there, looking out across the dancing water, for some time when a light step behind her made her start and swing round.

  Charles Webb stood behind her, the most charming of smiles upon his face.

  “I’m so sorry if I startled you,” he said, “but Marguerite wondered if you’d come up to her room. It’s getting late, and it’s rather cold out here. You must be very tired after your long journey.”

  He had a pleasant, easy way of talking, and an odd sort of familiarity which was not offensive.

  “Why, yes, of course, I’ll come up at once.”

  As they turned to go in he grinned at her.

  “I’m afraid I ought to have introduced myself,” he said. “I’m Marguerite’s cousin. I keep an eye on her affairs. My name’s Webb.”

  As they went into the house together he continued to chat, and Judy was bewildered and a little shy of him. In her innocence she summed him up as a pleasant, rather foolish person, probably not half so clever as he looked.

  Marguerite was leaning back among her pillows as they entered, and now she stretched out her hand languidly towards the girl.

  “Do sit down and make yourself as comfortable as you can. I do hope you don’t mind: I’ve been talking about you to Charles. Oh, we can trust him absolutely,” she added quickly as a scared expression crept into the girl’s eyes. “He knows all my affairs. He studied medicine before he took up the law, and I’ve been talking to him about your illness. He’s tremendously interested.”

  Judy looked uncomfortable. The time had come, she felt, to confess the truth to her new friends.

  She told her story shyly, and they listened to her in silence, but although Charles laughed heartily when she confessed her deception, she had the uncomfortable feeling that Marguerite had not been wholly amused.

  “I had to do it, you see,” she said, “for Uncle Jim’s sake. Uncle Jim couldn’t bear me to be without him. And that’s why I’m so anxious now. That’s why I’ve jumped at your kind invitation. When do you think he’ll be here?”

  “Oh, quite soon now. My agent is in touch with him.”

  Marguerite spoke glibly. She had used Lionel Birch as a bait and had steeled herself to hear a good many such requests from the girl.

  Judy shuddered. “Of course he didn’t do it. I assured you of that in the beginning, didn’t I? But I know he’ll go anywhere to find me. He doesn’t like me to be out of his sight even for a moment.”

  Charles Webb rose to his feet.

  “It’s all incredibly interesting,” he said. “Do you mean to tell me that Sir Leo really believes that you’re a permanent invalid?”

  Judy nodded. “It’s terrible, isn’t it? But I’m afraid everybody at the Arcadian was convinced of it. You were completely taken in, weren’t you, Marguerite?”

  Marguerite Ferney hesitated.

  “I thought you might not be quite so ill as you looked, my dear,” she said at last, “but I had no idea that the whole thing was part of a carefully arranged plot. In fact, Charles, I must apologize,” she went on, turning to him with a light laugh. “Your medical services won’t be nee
ded after all, you see.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “I shan’t despair.” And although he spoke lightly there was an underlying note in his voice which made Judy look at him sharply, and for the first time some of the risk she was running in placing herself so entirely in her new friend’s hands occurred to her.

  After all, she had known Marguerite Ferney but a short time, and yet so great had been the other girl’s charm that she had seen nothing extraordinary in her offer of assistance.

  “We’re all going to bed early,” said Marguerite, breaking in upon her thoughts. “You look worn out, you poor child. I’ll ring for Anna to take you to your room. It’s rather a queer old house. You might not find it alone. You didn’t mind having dinner on your own, did you?”

  She stretched out her hand to the bell, but a sign from the man stopped her.

  “Oh, don’t send Miss Wellington away yet,” he said. “I want to hear some more about this sham illness. It’s quite the most extraordinary story I’ve ever heard. Tell me, Miss Wellington, there wasn’t anyone except your uncle in your confidence? Wasn’t there anyone, anyone at all?”

  There was an odd urgency in his tone as he spoke, something that was not quite ordinary curiosity, but as Judy looked at him and saw the frank, open expression on his not unhandsome face she reproached herself for what seemed to be an altogether unwarrantable fit of nerves.

  “No. No one at all,” she said, and paused. She was going to say “except David,” but thought better of it. After all, the story would need some explanation, and she did not want to be forced into talking about David or even thinking about him. Even now she was regretting that she had not trusted him more thoroughly.

  “Well, that’s amazing,” Webb said softly. “Everyone at the Arcadian, waiters, chambermaids, bellboys, lift attendants, everyone, as well as your guardian, believe you to have been a permanent invalid. Tell me, Miss Wellington, did you discuss your malady with anybody? Forgive my interest, but it’s such a wonderful hoax for you to have played upon everyone.”

  Judy flushed. There was an odd brightness in his eyes which she did not quite like and was at a loss to understand. He saw her hesitation and hurried on.