Dennis Wheatley - Duke de Richleau 07

by The Second Seal

  At eight-fifteen he alighted from his taxi at the far end of the Strand, his glossy topper at a slightly rakish angle; his white waistcoat, tails, and the star-shaped orchid he wore in his button-hole, hidden by a long evening cloak with a high velvet collar fastened by a gold clasp at the neck. In his left eye he wore a plain glass monocle, without gallery or ribbon, and in one kid-gloved hand he carried a fine malacca cane, at the top of which sparkled a topaz the size of a pigeon’s egg, set in a circle of small diamonds.

  The show was After the Girl, with pretty Isobel Elsom as leading lady, and the catchy music of Paul Rubens. Its plot was of the slenderest, a mere framework on which to hang sentimental duets, dialogues of rather childish humour and rollicking choruses; but its setting, costumes and crowded, colourful, stage were typical of the lavish expenditure of the period. The audience was carefree, easy to please, and added much to the gaiety of the scene for, even as far back as the front rows of the upper circle, everyone was in evening dress, and feminine fashion still dictated low neck-lines and bright colours.

  De Richleau was a man who had a great appetite for life. He loved gay music and pretty faces as much as fighting, and hated to waste a single day of his youth without savouring some new experience. So, although his sight was excellent, he was soon using his opera glasses to get a close-up view of the ladies of the chorus. He had decided, almost subconsciously, that he would take one of them out to supper. But which, was now the question.

  The female chorus was thirty strong, and chosen for their looks rather than their voices. The management counted on their personal charms to fill a good portion of the stalls each night with rich young men, who came several times every week to admire the graces of individual girls to whom they vowed themselves devoted.

  After a careful survey the Duke settled on a slim but well-made blonde who was fifth from the left in the front row. He knew that he might prove unlucky if she was already engaged for the evening to some wealthy young spark whom she hoped to hook in marriage. But, short of that, he thought his prospects fair. Experience in a dozen capitals had shown him that the title on his card usually possessed the magic to induce such fickle beauties to wriggle out of previous engagements, rather than forgo the chance of counting a Duke among their admirers.

  At the end of a rousing song by the male chorus, he slipped from his seat, went out to the foyer, and ascertained from an attendant that the lady’s name was Lottie de Vaux. Then, still hatless, as the night was warm and fine, he left the theatre. The Strand was a blaze of light, and although it was just on nine o’clock most of the shops were still open. A little way along it he found a florist, where, for a sovereign, he bought a double armful of tall pink roses. On a card he gave the position of his stall, and asked the honour of Miss de Vaux’s company at supper. The florist’s boy gladly accepted a shilling to convey the bouquet to its destination without delay, and the Duke returned to the theatre.

  In the interval an attendant brought him a message that Miss de Vaux would be delighted to sup with him, and would he please meet her at the stage door after the show. In consequence, when the time came, he secured a hansom, and sat in it until he saw the members of the company begin to emerge from the side entrance of the theatre; then he alighted and joined the group of top-hatted young amorists who had assembled there with a similar object to himself.

  When Miss de Vaux appeared, her mass of fluffed-out golden hair now half-hidden under a coquettishly-draped lace scarf, he at once bowed over the plump little hand she gave him, and kissed it.

  “Oh, my!” she exclaimed, with a giggle, and added as they walked towards the waiting cab: “Of course, I knew from your card you were a foreigner, but I wasn’t expecting anything quite so dashing. Acting like that with all those people looking on was enough to make any girl blush. Though it’s a pretty custom all the same, and I’m not saying I didn’t like it.”

  “It was no more than a proper tribute to your beauty;” the Duke smiled, “and from your name I thought you might quite possibly be French yourself.”

  “Me! Oh yes, but only on my mother’s side,” declared Miss de Vaux hastily, illogically, and untruthfully. Her real name was Emily Stiggins, and her family had originally come from Yorkshire.

  With her foot on the step of the hansom she paused, the foreignness of her new acquaintance occurring to her again, and asked a trifle suspiciously, “Where are you taking me?”

  “To Romanos,” replied the Duke. “Unless there is anywhere else that you prefer.”

  “Oh fine! I love it there.” She flashed him a bright smile as she stepped in, her momentary qualms now at rest. She had feared that, being a foreign nobleman, he might have intended to take her to Claridges or the Ritz, and Emily Stiggins knew her station. Such haunts of the aristocracy were not for chorus girls, until and unless they had the luck to marry into it. On the other hand, it had been equally possible that he had planned to give her supper in a private room at Kettners. The self-styled Miss Lottie de Vaux was no prude and had more than once risked her reputation to retain a wealthy admirer, but experience had soon taught her that it never paid for a girl like herself to let a man suppose her easy game to begin with.

  As she settled herself in the cab, she wondered whether the Duke was as rich as he looked, and how long she would be able to keep him dangling before she had to let him take her somewhere less public than Romanos. She decided that he looked the sort who would soon come out with a straight offer, and give her little chance to shilly-shally. She had had plenty of practice in handling men, but she already doubted her ability to make this one dance to her usual tune.

  It was now just on midnight, but the pavements of the Strand were still crowded. The pubs were closing, and from them issued small knots of people, quite a number of whom were a little tipsy. Whisky was only three shillings a bottle, gin half a crown, and beer a penny a pint. Here and there groups of three and four, walking arm-in-arm. were singing lustily the catch tunes of the day, as they set off on their way home after a jolly evening of talk and laughter. From Benoists?, Gows and Gattis, other more subdued groups emerged—mainly family parties who had come up to the West End for an evening out, and now, as they waited for the horse-drawn or new motor buses to take them back to the suburbs, were a little breathless from the big Dover soles and juicy steaks they had consumed, with hors d’œuvres and ices thrown in, all for a modest five shillings. But it would be hours yet before the great thoroughfare emptied, as the theatre crowds were pressing in to occupy the vacant tables of the fish shops and restaurants, where mountains of chips were still being fried, thousands of oysters being opened, hams and sides of smoked salmon being sliced unceasingly and torrents of stout, iced lager, and champagne flowing.

  At Romanos, as soon as they had been relieved of their wraps, the Duke escorted the glamorous Lottie de Vaux down the stairs. The d’hôtel recognized her at once and proceeded to bow them to a table; but De Richleau held up a slim hand and said quietly: “I desire a table in one of the alcoves.”

  The man hesitated only a second. All the alcoves were already booked, but it was his profession to know a good customer when he saw one and, with a lower bow than he had accorded Lottie, he led them to the side of the room where, on a long raised dais, a row of Moorish arches with partitions between them enabled favoured guests to dine in semi-privacy.

  De Richleau fully justified the maître d’hôtel’s appreciation of him. “You must be tired, so I propose to suggest a supper for you,” he told his companion. “But if there is anything you prefer when I have done, you have only to name it and it shall be served, even if they have to send out to get it for you.”

  He then proceeded to order caviare, lobster cardinal, quail in aspic and omelette surprise, with a magnum of Cliquot 1904 and two glasses of vodka to drink while the champagne was being iced.

  Lottie’s blue eyes shone. There had been no matinee that day, and her strong young body felt no fatigue from the high-kicking to which she was well accustom
ed. But it was nice to meet a fellow who was so considerate: she was never quite at home pronouncing the names on the menu, either. She would really have preferred steak and onions, but onions were taboo anyhow when out with a toff, and this one was certainly doing her proud. Her only comment was, “If we drink a whole magnum between us we shall both be tiddly.”

  The Duke shook his head. “Surely you have heard the saying: ‘The only trouble with a magnum is that it’s too much for one and not enough for two’? And, anyhow, champagne should never be sipped: it should be drunk like lemonade if one is to get the full flavour of it.”

  She smiled at him archly. “I believe you’re trying to lead me astray. But you won’t find that so easy. My friends tell me I’ve a jolly good head for wine, and things.”

  “You’ve got a jolly pretty one; and much the best figure in your show.”

  “D’you really think so?” Lottie preened herself at the compliment, but she was a little nervous. This quietly self-confident man with the compelling grey eves was very different from both the gay young sparks and the middle-aged would-be seducers who made up her usual following. She had picked up a lot since she had been at the Gaiety, but anxiety not to spoil this promising evening by some social gaffe now made her avert her eyes from his and fidget with her long kid gloves.

  Sensing her uneasiness, when the vodka arrived De Richleau made her join him in drinking it down straight, Russian fashion. She coughed, spluttered, and the tears came into her blue eyes; but he pulled a face of such pretended contrition that she could not help laughing, and the warm spirit coursing through her veins soon dispelled her self-consciousness, which was just what he had intended.

  He had summed her up very swiftly—as pretty off the stage as on it: about twenty-three: full of healthy vigorous life: a pleasant voice which no longer betrayed her lower middle-class origin, although her turns of phrase and mannerisms did so. Beneath her mass of puffed-out fair hair her brain was conspicuous by its absence. She had, no doubt, learned in a hard school how to look after herself; but to a man who had money and experience she would surrender easily enough, and probably quite willingly. She would, therefore, provide quite a pleasant evening for anyone who did not require intellectual entertainment.

  As the meal progressed he led her on to talk about herself, and listened with sympathetic understanding to the story of her struggles. Now and then she remembered to gild the lily by inferring that she was well-connected and worked only because her family had fallen on evil times. But in the main hers was the truthful account of a good-looking girl who could sing and dance a little, and, rather than spend her best years behind the counter of a shop, had defied poor but honest parents in order to earn a precarious living on the stage.

  She told him of bad times in the provinces, when shows had packed up unexpectedly, leaving her to get back to London the best way she could: of having to submit, up to a point, to the unwelcome attentions of provincial managers and the wealthy patrons that they often brought round to the green-room after the shows: of the tyrannous ill-temper of leading ladies, and the jealous squabbles that took place among the girls. But, in the main, she was gay and optimistic. For just over a year she had been playing in London, and, although she never expected to rise above the chorus, that gave a girl a living wage and opportunities. The management insisted on its girls being well-dressed, so now and again she had to let herself be kissed by some ‘old buffer’ as the price of a new frock. But being at the Gaiety gave her a chance to meet ‘real gentlemen’, and maybe she would marry one, or even into the peerage, as several of her friends had done.

  She would not have confessed as much had she had any illusions that the Duke bore the least resemblance to the type of vapid youth who, still half tight, had led some of her friends to the altar at St. George’s, Hanover Square. But, all the same, with her fair head cocked a little on one side, she gave him her most encouraging smile.

  For a while they talked of the London shows, leading actors and actresses, and the whispered scandals connected with their names. Now that she was well under way, De Richleau let her do most of the talking while he enjoyed his supper and gave only half an ear to her inconsequent chatter. From time to time he paid her some small compliment or gave her an admiring glance, as her presence contributed almost as much to his sense of well-being as did the excellent champagne. He had always felt that if he could not, while eating, discuss the subjects that interested him, the next best thing was to have a beautiful woman to look at. And Lottie at least fulfilled his requirements in that respect. Health and vitality radiated from her well-made person: her blue eyes were large, her golden hair apparently untinted, her features, if a little full, not yet even faintly blurred by the least sign of advancing age.

  For her part, Lottie was enjoying herself immensely. Her pleasure was increased in no small measure by the fact that three other girls from the Gaiety were also supping in the restaurant. How she would be able to crow over them to-morrow, when they asked her who her new friend was, and she could reply with a little lift of her chin, “Oh, a Frenchman that I’ve known for some time. De Richleau is his name. He’s a Duke, you know, and has huge estates in France. He’s a distant relation of my mother’s, and wants us to visit him at his castle later on this summer.”

  By the time they tackled the hot, fluffy soufflé, with its solid block of ice cream inside, she had definitely decided that, marriage being out of the question, when he asked her for a private rendezvous she would not pretend any silly scruples, but let herself go for once—even if it did mean another row with ‘ma’ about coming home with the milk in the morning.

  But De Richleau had other views. He was much too blasé to be disappointed, because he had often done this sort of thing before when finding himself alone and bored in a great city. There had been occasions when he had had the luck to pick a winner—some girl of character and temperament who had gone on the stage because she was determined to become a star; or a gay little guttersnipe who made no pretences, but had the wit, the warmth, and the magnetism of a Nell Gwyn. Lottie de Vaux had nothing to offer but her lovely healthy body. In the first fine careless rapture of his exuberant youth that would have been enough, but now he required of a woman something more than good looks to satisfy his epicurean tastes.

  When coffee was served to them by a negro in Turkish costume, in tiny porcelain bowls supported on stands of silver filigree, the Duke turned the conversation to Command Performances, then to the Royal Family, and took occasion to infer that the Prince of Wales’s second title was Duke of York. She promptly declared that he was wrong, and that it was Duke of Cornwall. He offered to bet her a fiver to a shilling that he was right; but a reference to the smiling maître d’hôtel quickly proved him wrong. Having pretended momentary annoyance at losing the wager, he smilingly produced a crisp banknote from his wallet and handed it across. It was his tactful way of ensuring that Miss de Vaux would be able to console herself by buying a new frock for the fact that her evening had led to no proposal for a further meeting.

  A quarter of an hour later he escorted her upstairs and out into the street, where a taxi he had ordered was waiting. He had already obtained her address, and as soon as she was inside gave it to the driver. Leaning forward, he took and kissed her hand for the second time that night, then murmured blandly:

  “I do hope you will forgive me, but the night air is bad for my bronchitis, so I must deny myself the pleasure of seeing you home. The driver is paid and tipped. I have greatly enjoyed this evening, and I hope that we shall renew our acquaintance when I am next in London.”

  Poor Emily Stiggins had drunk her share of the champagne and had a double crème de menthe on top of it, so her vision of the Duke as he closed the door of the cab was slightly blurred and her reactions slow. By the time the blissful smile had faded from her pretty face, to give way to an expression of petulant annoyance, the taxi was bowling along the now almost empty Strand on its way to Clapham. She never saw the Duke again, but
it is pleasant to be able to record that three years later she married an ironmonger in a good way of business and made him an excellent wife.

  As for De Richleau, before the taxi was even out of sight she had passed from his mind as completely as the quail he had eaten at supper. At the moment he had many more important things to think of, and the principal of them was that he believed he was being shadowed.

  Just as he handed Lottie into the cab, out of the corner of his eye, he had noticed a tall, thin, shabby-looking man, wearing a pork-pie hat, who was standing half-concealed in a shop entrance a few yards along the street from the restaurant. De Richleau was prepared to swear that the same figure had been lurking near the stage-door of the Gaiety when he picked up Lottie; and after he had walked a little way towards Trafalgar Square, a casual glance over his shoulder verified his impression. The man had left cover and was following him.

  The thought that instantly jumped to the Duke’s mind was that the charming Miss de Vaux might be married, and the man a private detective who was endeavouring to secure evidence for divorce against her. The good wine he had drunk, and Lottie’s vivacious company, had put him in a merry mood: moreover he felt that he owed her something over and above the fiver for the disappointment he had caused her. So he promptly decided to give the unfortunate detective a lesson that would make him chary about following her friends in future.

  Ignoring the invitation of a prowling growler, he continued on across Trafalgar Square, now walking a little erratically, as though he had had too much to drink; his object being to nullify the steady rhythmic ring of his footfalls on the pavement.

  Turning up the Haymarket, he entered Piccadilly Circus. There were still quite a number of ladies of the town about, and several of them called invitations to him. Outside Appenrodts’ German restaurant he stopped, ostensibly to talk to two of them, but actually because it gave him an opportunity to turn round quite naturally and see if he was still being trailed. He was. The man in the pork-pie hat had also halted, and was buying an early edition of the morning paper from a newspaper boy on the corner.