“Excuse me,” Wilson said, “I thought I saw a man I knew, a Japanese I met once in Shanghai, but I must have been mistaken. But Japanese look so much alike.”
He was surprised to find the heavy man beside him looking at him curiously. And there was something in the glance which Wilson could not understand. There was no subtlety in that broad dark face. The doorkeeper of Hitchings Plantation looked troubled.
“Yes,” the big man said, “Japanese do look very much alike. I think we had better go to find Miss Eva now.”
4
THE ROULETTE ROOM was in what had probably been the owner’s study. Like all the other rooms in that strange house it was large and well-proportioned and retained a certain dignity. It was finished in some dark wood—from the Island ohia tree, Wilson found out later—with cupboards in the paneling and with high windows opening on another terrace. At one end of the room was a closed door bearing a legend on a brass plaque: DIRECTORS’ ROOM, PRIVATE.
The table with its wheel in the middle of that room was a new and an expensive specimen. It gave the place the same atmosphere which a gaming table gives any room no matter on what end of the earth one may find it. Wilson had been in Monte Carlo once. He remembered the faces of the people who had sat or stood about the green baize tables there. They had represented nearly all the nations of Europe or the Near East, from blue-eyed blondes of Scandinavia to olive-tinted Levantines. The tables at Monte Carlo had each reminded him of an amusing parody of the League of Nations, and the table there at Hitchings Plantation was much the same. The cashier, a pale, sharp-eyed man, sat behind the desk near the door through which he entered. There must have been fifteen persons in the room putting counters on the number and watching the turning of the wheel. A third of them were women and the rest were men, again a congress of nations. Some Europeans, some Eurasians, two Chinese in evening clothes, two Japanese, a young American army or navy officer, a red-fisted Norwegian sea captain, a Russian, and again some tourists, those representatives of some world cruise who crop up perpetually in every Pacific port. The croupier was spinning the wheel as Wilson entered, and oddly enough he was speaking in French—the French of Indochina.
“Faites vos jeux, messieurs, ’dames . . . Rien ne va plus.” The words sounded strangely above the whir and the rattle of the ball in the otherwise silent room—so strangely that the croupier caught Wilson’s attention first, making him wonder what strange chance had brought him to the Islands, for like all croupiers he was an interesting man. He seemed to be part French and part Malay, exotic, muscular and adroit; the swiftness and the accuracy of his eyes were in his fingers. His jaw was square, almost pugnacious; his manners, like all men in his profession, were impeccable. Another man sat beside him whom Wilson imagined was also an employee of the house—a thin, pale man, with an Adam’s apple and watery, sleepy eyes that were riveted on the patrons at the table. He looked up as Wilson entered. Their glances met and immediately he looked away, but in that second there was something startling in those watery eyes, yes something that was icily cold, unhealthy and deliberate, something which told Wilson instinctively that the man was not good company.
The wheel had stopped and the croupier was speaking. “Rouge impair,” he said.
There was a decorous clattering of chips and low even voices. A girl in a red silk dress with a pattern of white flowers on it who was seated near the head of the table rose and walked toward them, a tall girl with dark eyes, short wavy auburn hair, and a mouth that was bent upward in a fixed sort of expression of cynical amusement. There was the same amusement in her eyes and an odd sort of nervous vitality which was close to laughter. Her face and her bare arms were brown, she walked toward Wilson with the careless, athletic grace of a dancer, and looked at him squarely.
“Good evening,” she was saying.
There was no doubt who she was—she was the head of the house. She had the air of being able to cope with any situation.
“Miss Eva,” Wilson’s guide said, “this is Mr. Hitchings.” Wilson bowed and she nodded to him curtly, but did not hold out her hand.
“Yes,” she said: “of course, I’ve been expecting you. Moku, you may go back to the door now. I’ll look after Mr. Hitchings.”
Wilson bowed again.
“I’m sure you will,” he said, and she nodded in cool agreement.
“Yes,” she said, “I’m sure I will. Uncle Joe Wilkie said you were coming. He said you wanted to come incognito, but that was rather silly, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” agreed Wilson, “very silly.”
“You see,” she said, “the Hitchingses are such an important family that everybody knows the name. That’s why it’s such a help to have it on the house. Shall we go into the directors’ room? It will be more quiet there. I suppose you want to talk.”
“Thanks,” said Wilson, “it might be better. I don’t want to disturb your guests.”
“I wonder—” she said. “Are you always as considerate as that? This way, please.” He followed her toward the door marked PRIVATE, and the croupier was saying, “Messieurs et mesdames-faites vos jeux!”—and when the door closed behind them, they were in a smaller room, with bare walls and an oval mahogany table, with Chippendale chairs around it, and windows that looked out into breezy, rustling darkness.
Wilson looked about the room courteously and noticed that there was a second door marked OFFICE. That distant relative of his seated herself at the head of the table.
“Well,” she said, “sit down, Mr. Wilson Hitchings, anywhere at all. And if I don’t seem polite, it’s only because I’m surprised. Few of the family have ever called on us; none, as far as I remember.”
“I’m sorry for that,” said Wilson, and he sat down in the chair beside her. Her lips curled up but her eyes were cool and unfriendly.
“Well,” she said, “on the whole I don’t think I’m sorry, because I dislike you all very much.” They looked at each other for a moment without speaking, and Wilson tried to imagine what sort of girl she was, and he found it difficult because he had never seen anyone just like her. There was only one thing that he was sure of in that silence which fell between them, and that was that she did not like the Hitchingses. There was something deep, almost venomous in her dislike.
“Would you mind telling me why you don’t like us?” he inquired.
“Not in the least,” she said; “but there’s something I must ask you first. . . . We’ve always been hospitable to strangers in this house. My father taught me that. Let me order you something to drink, Mr. Hitchings.”
Still looking at her, Wilson shook his head.
“No,” he said, “thank you just as much.”
“I suppose,” she replied, and her tone was acidly polite, “that you don’t want anything to disturb your logic. The Hitchings were always so cold-blooded.”
“No,” said Wilson, “it isn’t that. I’ve always made it a rule only to drink with friends, that’s all. Why is it you don’t like us, Miss Hitchings? It might help if I could find that out.”
Her hands were lying on the table and they closed and opened as he spoke and her lips were pressed together more tightly. For the first time it occurred to Wilson that the girl beside him had a temper and that she was having difficulty in maintaining her cool poise. He could see a glint of anger in her eyes which made him add another statement quite deliberately.
“When I am sitting with a pretty girl,” he said, “I don’t need to drink. You are fortunate that you don’t resemble the Hitchingses. You don’t resemble us at all.”
She leaned toward him and there was a catch in her voice as she answered.
“That’s the nicest thing you could possibly say. It makes me feel better than I have for a long while. Thank Heaven! I don’t resemble them at all.”
“Yes, it is a relief,” said Wilson easily. “I was afraid you would have our nose, and that’s a drawback. You have got our jaw, though, and that is your very worst feature—a stubborn jaw. Do you min
d if I smoke?”
“Don’t be foolish,” she said, “I don’t mind anything you do.”
“That makes everything easier,” said Wilson, and he took out a cigarette case and laid it on the table. “And, of course, you won’t mind anything I say, either?”
“No,” she answered, “not a bit. Why should I?” Wilson pushed the cigarette case toward her and she shook her head.
“Then you won’t mind if I say that I like you,” he said. “I like you so much that I haven’t the slightest intention of saying or doing anything that may offend you. You know why I am here, I suppose? I may as well come to the point.” He smiled and lighted his cigarette. “I like this place so much that I’d like to buy it. Can you think of me as a stranger who is making you a business proposal? That might be the easiest way for everyone.”
She raised her head a trifle and that flicker of amusement which he had observed the first moment that he saw her came over her face again reminding him of wind rippling over placid water. He could believe that she was pleased that he asked the question and that the whole moment pleased her. Her smile grew more pronounced as she sat there considering his suggestion and the smile took away some of the hardness from her face, making her look younger and less experienced. It made Wilson realize that she was younger than he was. It made him think for the first time that she might be an agreeable person under agreeable circumstances. For the first time he realized that there was a warmth and charm in Eva Hitchings. In some way, without his being able to explain why, she had ceased to be an abstraction, a purely business problem, and had become an attractive girl who did not belong in that environment. She even appealed to his protective instinct, although he put the thought away from him at once. He examined her more attentively; she had none of the attributes of a hostess at a gambling house, her red and white dress was simple and in perfect taste, and her color was natural and she wore no jewelry. Her hands, as they lay before her on the table, were beautiful. They were a lady’s hands, sensitive, indicative of breeding. He suddenly suspected that her hardness and her control were purely make-believe. More the product of a strong will than character.
“Well,” she asked him, “suppose you begin by telling me why do you want to buy my house? Do you want to run it, Mr. Hitchings?”
“I wonder why you ask me,” Wilson inquired, “when you know the reasons very well already.”
“Because I want to hear you give those reasons,” she answered. “You can, can’t you?”
If Wilson had never believed that there was something in inheritance he would have believed it then, because he was almost surprised at the clarity and the order of his thoughts. Now that he sat there at the table he knew that he had the family ability for negotiations and for estimating a situation. All the details, all the things that he had seen and heard, came accurately together in his mind by a curious sort of instinct. His mind moved easily toward a number of truths, even while he was speaking.
“Please don’t forget that I’m not here for myself,” he said. “I was sent here by the family. I rather like this place. Personally I rather admire you for running it, because it can’t be such a pleasant thing for you to do. It must take a great deal of experience and a great deal of ability. And I don’t believe you like it very much, do you, Miss Hitchings? I don’t believe you like being cordial to all the riffraff I’ve seen in this house tonight. It can’t be pleasant to combine hospitality with business. It made me think you’d be a different sort of person, and I see you’re not. You can’t like that croupier of yours, and that man behind him, very much.”
Eva Hitchings shrugged her shoulders.
“Don’t preach,” she said. “I asked you why you wanted to buy this place.”
“I’m not preaching,” Wilson answered. “As a matter of fact I think you’re a rather brave girl to be doing this. I wish you could think I was speaking to you as a member of your family, however distant. I don’t like to think of any of our family having to be in your position. I really think, although no one has said so, that this is what disturbs my father and my uncle more than anything else.”
“Oh,” said Eva Hitchings. “You mean it rather shocks you?”
“No,” said Wilson, “I know you’d like to have it shock me, but it doesn’t. Nothing shocks me very much, because we’re living in a rather shock-proof time. I know plenty of girls at home running teashops and working in department stores. There’s nothing you could do that could shock me because you’re not the kind.”
“Really?” said Eva Hitchings. “You might be very much surprised.”
“I doubt it,” said Wilson. “I doubt it very much. But of course there’s another aspect which you know as well as I do. Our name on your house is not good for a banking business. Then there’s a second reason why I’m here to buy your house. It’s a beautiful place, and of course you must be fond of it. I don’t want to speak too much about money because you’re in the family, but I’d like to have you live in this house as you’d like to live. How would it be if you still owned it and took the sign off the gate? And had it as a place for your own friends the way it used to be? Would you like that, Miss Hitchings?”
“Well,” she said, “go on, what else?”
“If you agree,” Wilson added, “we will talk about a sum in trust, the income of which will keep you comfortably. Things can’t go on like this, you must see that.”
Eva Hitchings leaned toward him. “Why not?” she asked.
Wilson lowered his voice and spoke more slowly.
“Because sooner or later you’ll get into trouble,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I think you’re in trouble now.”
He could tell that she was startled when he said it, more from instinct than from any change in her. She was smiling but her eyes were wider.
“Why do you think that?” she asked. Although her voice was level and pleasant he knew that she was startled. He could feel it in the room and in the rustling of the wind outside.
“Do you really want me to tell you why?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. Her voice was too casual, too easy. “I shall be delighted, Mr. Hitchings.” Wilson took a paper from his pocket—it was the typewritten sheet which he had found in the room of his hotel.
“Read it,” he said. “I wonder who sent me this? I don’t think you are the kind of person who would do it. You’re not so stupid as all that.”
He watched her as she read the paper and he had to admire her composure. She read it and she laughed. It was the first time he had heard her laugh—her laughter was easy and pleasant and there was a ring of intimacy in it which seemed to bring them nearer together.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’m not such a fool as that.”
“And now,” said Wilson, “I’ll tell you what I think. You needn’t tell me if I’m right or wrong. You’re not running this place all yourself, Miss Hitchings! You’re not the kind to do it. You have some people running it for you. I have watched everything outside; everything is smooth and very professional, as professional as a New York night club. You’re the front, Miss Hitchings, but there is someone else behind you. Whoever that may be, and I don’t care who it is, because it’s none of my business, is afraid that you may sell out. Whoever it may be is trying to stop you; that’s why I got this note. And that’s exactly why I think you’d better sell out. There’s nothing for you to gain by not selling.” There was a silence when he had finished. He could hear the sound of music and the sound of the trade wind, and she was looking at him as other people had looked at him sometimes—half surprised, almost with respect.
“You’re rather clever, aren’t you, Mr. Hitchings?” she said. “I didn’t know you could be so clever with your environment and background!”
Wilson nodded. Her eyes and her voice were almost friendly, and it was as though they were playing some sort of a game, and he rather enjoyed the game because there were so many imponderables in it and because he and she were alone together. Some barrier bet
ween them had dropped down after he had spoken and he found himself telling her exactly what he thought.
“You know I’m a little surprised at myself,” he said; “because all this is new to me; this is the first time I’ve ever been entirely on my own. I suppose I may be clever, as you say. I never thought of it exactly that way before, but it suddenly came over me, now that I have seen you and now that I have talked to you, that you are in trouble. After all, we’re both in the family. I hope that you’ll remember that. I have come here for a definite purpose, but I really hope you’ll believe that I want to help you. I thought you’d be quite a different person. I don’t like seeing you here alone.” She did not answer for a moment. She only sat looking at him, puzzled and seemingly undecided what to say.
“You’re different than you look,” she said. “You’re different than I thought you would be, too. I wonder if you’re frank or if this is just an act. I suppose it’s just an act.”
“No,” said Wilson. “I’m being frank. I’ve only said exactly what I think. I’m not tricky; actually I’m rather a guileless person.”
She sat up straighter, still looking at him, and then she spoke carefully as though she had made up her mind exactly what to say, and he knew that she was saying something which had been on her mind for a long while.
“You’d make a very good gambler, Mr. Hitchings,” she said. “I ought to know because I’ve seen plenty of them in the last few years. I never knew it until just this moment. You have a gambler’s face, you have a gambler’s coolness; you’ve played your cards exactly like a professional. I don’t believe you are guileless because everything you have said has been so perfectly balanced. You have appealed to me in every possible way and you’ve really done it very well—so much better than I thought you would. You’ve been frank, and now it’s my turn. And now I’ll say my little piece.”
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