Hotel Mirador

by Rosalind Brett

  “There’s nothing to tell. I’m not like you. I already have a career and I love my family. In fact, I’m far too normal to be interesting.”

  “But don’t you realize that the normal is outlandish here in Shiran?” he said engagingly. “I’m beginning to wonder whether my father isn’t rather a good judge of English women.”

  “Now you’re being silly. Your father is much too sensible to jump to conclusions about someone he doesn’t know.”

  He reached over and took hold of her fingers, gripped when she made to withdraw. “It’s all right—the French do this kind of thing, so it won’t matter if we’re seen. I’m only clutching at you to make sure you don’t get up. Look here, Sally, you and I ought to get together. If you’re staying for some time you’ll be deuced lonely without an escort, and I’ll promise to be no more than friendly. We’ll find heaps to talk about.”

  “I’m here to do all I can for Michael Ritchie,” she said flatly. “I want no complications of any kind.”

  “Mike,” he said. “Yes, of course. Met him yet?”

  “No. I’m going to see him tomorrow.”

  “Mike and I used to be buddies, but he’s gone peculiar.” He reverted to the earlier topic. “I don’t want any complications either, but apart from Dane and Mike I’m probably the nearest thing to an Englishman you’ll get in these parts. You’ll expire from boredom if you don’t have someone to show you round. Besides, I think we’ll amuse each other, don’t you?”

  “We might,” she admitted. “Let’s wait and see, shall we? I must go now.”

  But Tony was slow in releasing her hand, too slow. Someone paused beside their table, looking down at them with cool, sea-green eyes.

  “Good evening, Tony,” Dane Ryland said. “No, don’t get up. Order your dinner. I’ll take Miss Yorke to her room.”

  But Tony stood swiftly, his smile faintly embarrassed. “Hallo, Dane,” he said. “I tried to get in to see you, but you were busy.”

  “Make it ten o’clock tonight at my rooms. Ready, Miss Yorke?”

  Without looking at him, Sally got to her feet. She nodded goodnight to Tony, and preceded Dane from the dining room, her head held high. Small spots of color had sprung in her cheeks and a vexed brightness shone in her eyes, but she went straight to the lift and did not demur when Dane followed her into the compartment. The door slid across, the attendant pressed a button and they ascended silkily to the first floor. Again she preceded Dane, walked along the corridor and stopped at the door of Suite Seven.

  She turned to him abruptly. “What do you propose to do—lock me in?”

  His smile was bland. “Come now, Miss Yorke. You’ve had a long day. I thought it was understood that you’d dine in your sitting room.”

  “You thought wrong; I didn’t say I would. I’m accustomed to taking plenty of exercise, and even after a few hours I did need a change from the suite.”

  “You soon found a friend. Have you discovered that Pierre de Chalain has plans for Tony—plans which include the steadying influence of a wife?”

  From him, too? It was unbelievable! Sally stared at him ‘Tony de Chalain said as much, but I decided he was a little mad. I arrived in Shiran only this afternoon, intent only on my job and ... well, that’s all. Monsieur de Chalain and his son are strangers to me. How can you possibly have such wild ideas?”

  “They’re not so wild. Pierre would give an eye to see Tony settle down to business and take a sensible wife, but his trouble was to find the right type of girl. This afternoon,” he observed with irony, “you stepped right into his path, and he feels you may be the answer.”

  “Did he tell you that?” she demanded, aghast.

  “He didn’t have to. I knew he’d gone to El Riza to see Tony and that he’d come back full of worry—he’s done it before. If you remember,” he added dryly, “I was there when you met Pierre, and when he told me that Tony had agreed to leave his friends at El Riza and come to Shiran until his future is settled, I knew the way his thought's had flown. He’s going to make an all-out bid to get Tony established.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, it’s fantastic. I want no part in it!”

  “Good for you, Sally,” he said negligently. “It’s best to be clear about things from the beginning. In any case, a girl like you couldn’t settle in Morocco. You’d be pining all the time for cool green hills and woolly sheep.”

  Sally curbed the rising flames. “You don’t have to be contemptuous of humdrum people like me, Mr. Ryland. We’ve a good many things that you haven’t, and most of us prefer to stay the way we are. I’m not responsible for the ridiculous notions of your partner and I certainly don’t want to know anything more about them. If you think...” But his hand closed so tightly over her arm that she winced and stopped speaking. Three people were coming along the corridor, a bald and prosperous American, his enamelled wife and an incredibly svelte daughter. Dane bowed to them, charm in every line.

  “Good evening, madame ... monsieur ... mademoiselle. I trust you will enjoy your dinner.”

  “We’ve never stayed in a finer hotel, Mr. Ryland,” cooed the middle-aged siren as they passed. The blonde daughter slanted Dane a come-hither look but was silent.

  When they were out of earshot, he looked down at Sally. “You were saying?”

  “Nothing,” she flashed at him in quiet fury. “You’re just a machine, something that can be fed with any old thing and turn out a luxury article. And I believe I know the way you work!”

  “Really?” he asked mildly. “Tell me.”

  “You suppress every human instinct'. You grew up without loving anyone, and now the only sort of feeling you’re capable of is ... is the sort you have for your cousin. You’ll pay for him to be whole, but you don’t understand in the least what’s really wrong with him—the anguish of a young, active and care-free man who is suddenly cut off from everything that means most to him. How could you understand? You’ve never loved people!”

  “No?” he said laconically.

  “No. If you could love, you’d be married by now.”

  “That’s a startling theory; I must give some time to it.”

  “Don’t bother. You just aren’t the marrying kind.”

  “Now that’s rather clever of you,” he said admiringly. “I’m not the marrying kind. But don’t let it get you; I’m pretty normal in other respects.” He paused. “I believe you’re angry because I prised you loose from Tony de Chalain. Ah well, life is full of small disappointments. You’ll get over this one. You know something? The more I see of women, the more thankful I am that I’ve never been tempted to probe below the surface of any of you. All women resent a bachelor.”

  “Chiefly because bachelors are often so selfish and conceited that they aren’t a bit nice to know!”

  “That sounds like a cue for an interesting discussion,” he told her equably. “I may take you up on it some time.” He took her key and opened the suite door, stood aside for her to enter. “Have an early night,” he said. “You need a rest. The doctor will call in at about nine tomorrow morning, and we’ll go up and see Mike soon afterwards. Don’t forget about wearing something special.”

  “I’m here as a physiotherapist—nothing more!”

  He looked at her, calculatingly. “Are you sure about that? Somehow I’ve gathered that you’ve something besides your job on your mind, though I can’t think what it would be, in Morocco.”

  “Good night, Mr. Ryland,” she said stiffly.

  He shrugged as deeply as a Frenchman. “Goodnight, Miss Yorke,” he answered carelessly. “Don’t look out at the moon—it might bewitch you into forgetting Cumberland for a minute, and that wouldn’t so, would it?”

  The door closed noiselessly. Before the man could have taken a step, she slipped the bolt home with a snap he must have heard—and felt better for it. She took a few paces, so that she could see the night through the french window. Dane Ryland must have known there was no moon; Sally was fairly sure that he was also
convinced that her first action would be just this—a peering into the darkness in search of a magic she would rather not find. The man was impossible!

  Resolutely, she ordered a tray of coffee and a box of cigarettes. She got into pyjamas, took a book from her own supply and sank into an easy chair. But she couldn’t take in a word of print. In fact, she had never known her mind in such turmoil.

  She had been here in Shiran no longer than six or seven hours, but so much seemed to have happened that she could hardly keep track of things. There was Michael Ritchie, who remained an unknown quantity; the absurd business about Tony de Chalain—why pick on Sally Yorke, who wanted nothing more than to be left alone with her job and her private problem!

  And there was Dane Ryland. Was it possible that back in England she had naively imagined herself asking his help in the matter of contacting Lucette?

  The whole atmosphere of the place was disquieting. The brilliance and warmth, the sumptuousness of the Mirador, the soft-footed servants, the palms and inviting sea, all created a forcing ground for highly-colored events. Try as one would to remain uninfected by the fevers of this corner of Morocco, some of the heat was bound to creep into one’s veins. Only Dane Ryland was immune, and, as she had not hesitated to tell him, he was more machine than man.

  She remembered his urbane charm when the American family had passed them in the corridor, and it occurred to her, suddenly, that the same charm with heart in it might be irresistible.

  “Sweet grief,” she said aloud to herself as she prepared for bed. “As if I care whether he has a heart or not! All

  I want is a chance to earn my salary, and a few illuminating hours with Lucette.”

  And promptly she steered her memory back to the letter from Lucette Millar, and to the years before, when Lucette had been a school friend and spent all her holidays with the Yorkes in Cumberland, because the Millar parents lived in Antibes or Lucca or Athens or Tangier, and were never in England when she needed them.

  After the end of their schooldays, Sally had seen little of the gay, scintillating creature she had admired and loved, but there were letters—smudged, scented missives which sketched a continental life that Sally could hardly believe in. Then, five months ago, came the one from Tangier, a cry from the heart. It seemed that the Millars’ funds were low and the parents were trying to marry their daughter off to someone rich and repulsive. Lucette couldn’t escape because she had no money ... “but, oh, Sally darling, how I long to get away from them all! If you were here with me we could run away together, but a girl alone wouldn’t stand a chance in this country. I don’t seem to have anyone at all that I can turn to for help, and you’re so very far away. But I won’t marry the horrid old thing! Only what am I to do? Sally, couldn’t you please get a holiday and come out here? I know it would be expensive, but I do have a bracelet I can give you. You could sell it when you get back to England. Please, Sally. Please.”

  Naturally, Sally had been distressed, but there had been nothing she could do. No holidays were due, and she was loath to leave her small charges at the Beckmoor Home. She had written to Lucette, pointed out that she was twenty one and free to sell her bracelets and travel to England on the proceeds ... but there had been no reply, none at all. And as the weeks passed Sally had become alarmed.

  The older Yorkes had never cared much about Lucette, so Sally decided it would be better not to mention her dilemma at home. But more and more often she wondered if she couldn’t have done something for her friend. She wrote again, several times, and finally there was the note from Mrs. Millar. An extraordinary few lines which stated the impossible—that Lucette was naughty to have ignored Sally, but that was her way, and it would be better if Sally returned the treatment!

  Lucette, as Sally knew, was effervescent and flighty, capable of heaps of gay lies and lacking in wisdom; but she would never, for any comprehensible reason, drop Sally Yorke completely from her mind. Sally was the only close friend she had ever made. Therefore the deduction was obvious. Sally’s letters had been intercepted, and eventually, to ensure that none slipped by and into Lucette’s hands, Mrs. Millar had decided to put an end to them. To Sally, the knowledge was quite unnerving.

  She had found herself scanning travel advertisements, and watching for the magic mention of Tangier. Then her eye had caught the word Morocco in an advertisement in The Times, and she had discovered that Shiran was about two hundred miles south of Tangier. In a dreamlike state she had written to Dane Ryland ... and here she was, a little excited, a little apprehensive, but determined not to be intimidated.

  Tomorrow she would get someone to type Lucette’s address on an Hotel Mirador envelope, and send off a letter in it. With luck, and the Shiran postmark, it would get past Mrs. Millar. After its despatch, Sally would have to work and wait.

  She got into one of the huge beds, snapped off the light and lay listening to the monotonous fluting of insects and a distant, unearthly wailing noise, which probably came from a holy man at prayer. She thought of houris with sullen, mysterious eyes showing above a veil, of handsome Bedouins and tents in the desert. And inevitably she thought of Dane Ryland, who was tall and careless and commanding, and definitely not the marrying kind.

  And then, because she was young and healthily spent, Sally went to sleep.

  CHAPTER TWO

  DAWN in Shiran was sudden. At one moment the sky was dark but tinged in the east with an arc of glowing pink; then a blend of milky blue and flamingo pink spread quickly across the heavens, followed by a clear and startling azure. The sun was up.

  Sensational, Sally admitted, as she looked down from her balcony at the palms and ginger bushes rising from the long strip of emerald green lawn beyond the esplanade. Behind the greenness stretched the sea, calm and silvery and edged with white where it lapped the pale gold sand. A very inviting sea.

  Though it was so early, a few men strolled the paved paths which led across to the beach. They wore swimming briefs and gay sports shirts, with a towel hung carelessly about the neck. All were dark and were, no doubt, Frenchmen in the army or government service. Their wives were presumably still in bed. Which vexed Sally a little. She would have loved to bathe in that serene blue and silver sea, but she couldn’t possibly be the only girl among so many men. Later on, she determined, she would find some secluded spot and enjoy herself in the waves.

  She showered and was served with a continental breakfast of crescent rolls, golden butter and coffee. After it, she took her time over dressing in a lavender linen frock which was collared with white, used a dusting of powder and rub of lipstick and felt sufficiently keyed up to face the languid, moneyed world of the Mirador.

  Down in the vestibule she unwittingly drew glances. The short bronze curls framed a clear pink and white face, the blue eyes looked upon the brilliant world with calm innocence, and her red lips were slightly parted, as if she were drinking in the atmosphere and hadn’t quite the capacity for so much glitter.

  “Ah, good morning, mademoiselle!” Pierre de Chalain came from a door which was half-hidden beyond the corner of the reception desk. “You slept well, I am sure. You make our morning look stale!”

  “Thank you, monsieur.” She took in his delight and reflected a little of it. “This morning, I like your city!”

  “That is splendid. You have plans for the day?”

  “Yes, I think so.” She smiled at him, thinking how simple and kind he was. Strange to feel such things about a man of more than fifty, but Pierre de Chalain had, no doubt, always been an uncomplicated, easily hurt human being. It was difficult to believe, in the searching light of morning, that he had entertained queer ideas which linked her with his son. “I’m supposed to be meeting the doctor with Mr. Ryland.”

  “Ah. Already you think of your business here!”

  “I have to, monsieur. Do you have the English newspapers?”

  “They arrive by plane this afternoon. I will send one of each to your room.”

  “Thank you very much
. Do you know, I’m beginning to wish you were my employer here in Shiran.”

  “I wish it myself,” he answered gallantly. “I can imagine nothing better than to have some relative of mine in need of your assistance; if I were Dane, I would keep you here indefinitely, on a large salary!”

  She laughed, murmured something and walked out into the hot shade of the terrace, feeling rather surprised that she, Sally Yorke from the farm, had been able to deal so casually with the Frenchman. Amazing, the speed with which one was able to handle relationships in this climate. Sally, who had known singularly little personal contact with men outside her own family circle, was aware of a heady pleasure in her own small accomplishment.

  She walked along the terrace and round to the side of the hotel, where people in gay cottons and beach-wear were sitting at tables under umbrellas, while a few swam lazily in the magnificently tiled pool and other sunned themselves on bright foam rubber loungers. Someone placed a chair for her and she looked up to thank him. Oddly, some of the happiness which was beginning to pulse in her veins seeped away.

  “Good morning,” Dane Ryland said, in those crisp, forthright tones she remembered. “Like a cool drink?”

  “Thank you, but it’s too soon after breakfast.” She sat down, and felt him lower himself to another chair. “It’s quite a playground you have here.”

  He shrugged. “People have to relax—even rich ones. I suppose you always spent your holidays at a home?”

  “Yes, but the farm is only about thirty miles from the sea.”

  “Cold sea, too much sand and a whipping breeze?”

  She looked at him, surprised. “Do you know our coast?”