Hotel Mirador

by Rosalind Brett

  “I go almost every day,” he said briefly.

  “But you don’t stay long. Were you and he good friends before his accident?”

  “Of course, but I’m eight years older than he is, and you’d be surprised what that means between cousins. Mike just galloped through life without a care. When he made errors he laughed, and very often made them again. He was always convinced that he led a charmed life—till he found he didn’t. When he was younger I cured him of borrowing, but it took the smash to cure him of a craving for speed and admiration. He caved in.”

  Sally said nothing for a minute. She dipped her toes lower and watched them, and at last said thoughtfully, “Under the dash and bravado he was sensitive, but no one ever found it out.”

  “Mike’s not sensitive—never has been. Don’t kid yourself that because he writes he’s one of these tender, artistic souls. With him, writing was mere reporting with his own individual twist.”

  She said stubbornly, “It’s the sensitive people who feel an incapacity like his so terribly. The reason he won’t make the effort to regain the use of his leg is that he knows it will never be absolutely right, and therefore life will never be the light and airy thing it once was. There’s no other kind he wants, so he doesn’t try.”

  Dane snapped his fingers sharply. “For heaven’s sake don’t talk to Mike like that He’s quite sorry enough for himself!”

  “Of course I wouldn’t,” she said crossly. “Have I got to be careful what I say to you, too? I’m simply trying to analyze what’s wrong with him.”

  “Well, leave it alone and stick to muscles!”

  “You said you wanted me to persuade him to have treatment in a hospital.”

  “Do that, but don’t start dripping emotion all over him, or he’ll respond in a way you may not bargain for! You don’t have to restore his faith in women. He’ll do that for himself when he’s fit to resume the chase.”

  “You bully, you,” she said quietly.

  Dane was silent for a surprised second; then he laughed. “You’re an odd girl. I’ve always thought women were easy to understand, but you’ve a quirk in the usual feminine character. Maybe it comes of reaching the age of twenty-one without having wallowed in the usual calf-love affair.”

  “Who said I’d never had an affair? When I was training I was terribly gone on one of our lecturers.”

  “Really?” His tone scoffed. “Did he respond?”

  “Vaguely. We tramped the moors a few times and he took me to an art show in York.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “It fizzled out. He was talking to us on hydrotherapy one morning and a sort of mist seemed to disintegrate between him and me and I saw him plainly for the first time. I noticed that he used a technical word over and over again and often pronounced it differently ... and that he had an outsize Adam’s apple and skeleton fingers. And at the same time I realized he hadn’t a sense of humor.”

  “Is that why you’re now so emphatic that the man you marry must have one?”

  “Perhaps. As a family, we Yorkes invariably see the funny angle. When you grow up in a happy family you feel sorry for people who are too intense to laugh, but you couldn’t link up your life with them.” She paused. “I don’t suppose you know what I’m talking about.”

  “You’re fairly lucid, and I’d already gathered you were used to a fair amount of harmless fun. Since you’ve been here, I’ve noticed for the first time in my life that it’s rather nice to hear a woman singing at seven in the morning.”

  “Good heavens, is my voice that penetrating?”

  “It’s soft, but it carries. My balcony is not so far from yours, and we both have the doors open. Don’t mind me. I like it.”

  Though she was still cool from the swim, Sally felt heat stealing up from her neck. She thought of that other woman who sang in theatres and night clubs and wished to heaven she’d left the habit of singing while dressing at home in Cumberland.

  She got back quickly to the subject of Mike Ritchie. “Your cousin swims, I suppose?”

  “He used to. We’d often do a mile along the coast at weekends.”

  “It would do him the world of good to swim again, but he can’t start in the sea and there are too many people about here at the pool. He wouldn’t come.”

  He thought for a minute. “There’s a lagoon along the coast, but before you can get Mike to enter it you’ll have to persuade him to take the drive. Give it a couple of days and we’ll talk again.”

  Sally knew that she should now get up and take her smiling departure, but something held her here, at Dane’s side. She did get as far as slipping her arms into the robe, but the reluctance to move was so extreme that she felt pleasantly heavy and drugged.

  Dane shifted, and when he spoke she noticed that his voice had changed. “Do you prefer the food at Le Perroquet to ours at the Mirador?”

  Sally had to adjust her thoughts before she could answer, “Oh, you mean last night. It was a change, that’s all.”

  “Tony’s idea, of course.”

  “Yes.”

  “He probably told you that I heartlessly turned down his plea for a date plantation.”

  “I understood his father was willing to buy, but you weren’t interested in forming a company to make it a success.”

  “That’s it, exactly.” He had withdrawn. “In your leisure time here you’re quite free, but I’m afraid I’ll have to insist on your staying away from such places as Le Perroquet”

  “You were there later than I was.”

  “I escorted Mademoiselle Vaugard. She has a contract to sing there at eleven each night, for two months.” A pause. “I also happen to be a man.”

  “I didn’t see anything wrong with the place.”

  “I doubt if you’d see anything wrong anywhere,” he said coolly. “You’re not in a village in England, you know. Moroccan women hardly ever go out let alone enter restaurants and night clubs, and the few French wives of the military and government officials are strict in their ideas and behavior. You’re a resident here for the present—not a tourist who can hit the high spots and pass on.”

  “Very well, I won’t go again.”

  “Good. And if I were you I wouldn’t see too much of Tony, either. He’s entirely without a sense of responsibility.”

  She said stiffly, “He’s not an unpleasant companion and he does happen to be half English.”

  “He also has a father who’d go to some lengths to get him settled with a wife and a good living. I like Pierre and I can understand his ambitions for Tony, but I brought you here for a far different purpose.”

  “You needn’t think I’ll lose sight of that, Mr. Ryland!” Dane remained cool and unperturbed. “I’m more concerned about Mike than you think, and I want results from your association with him.”

  Sally’s usually even temper slipped slightly out of control. “What are you trying to say, Mr. Ryland? That I’m thinking of my own enjoyment before Mike’s needs? When I’m not with him am I supposed to sit twiddling my thumbs? Are you afraid I won’t earn my salary?...”

  “Don’t raise your voice to me, child,” he broke in sharply. “If you’re angry because I won’t encourage your friendship with Tony de Chalain, it’s too bad, and it doesn’t make any difference. Seeing that you’re impervious to the magic of Shiran, you shouldn’t find it too difficult to resist Tony. I want no entanglements—do you understand?”

  She jumped up, but, even so, he seemed to be standing before she was. “I think you’re being beastly! If it weren’t for Mike, I’d tell you to keep your horrid job and all that goes with it. You’re detestable!”

  His eyes narrowed, and glittered in the darkness. “Because I’m spoiling your first romance? That’s a typically girlish reaction.”

  “Well, perhaps I’m typically girlish! I certainly couldn’t be as hard and one-track as you are. I don’t believe you ever think really deeply about anything except your soulless business propositions, and where Mike�
�s concerned, he’s just another proposition that has to be put back on to a sound basis. You generously spare him ten minutes a day, and order up someone who might be able to get him shipshape. You don’t really care, because it isn’t in you to care about anyone...”

  “That’s enough!”

  But Sally was breathless and defiant. Without shoes she was tiny beside him, but she flung up at him a reckless spate of words. “You can’t frighten me, you big brute! I’m on Mike’s side, and Tony’s, and I won’t be cowed. You sit back like some overlord and tell Tony he couldn’t run a plantation if he tried. At times you get nasty with Mike because he won’t make any effort for his own good. But if you cared to spare the time and a little feeling, you could help both of them tremendously. I don’t wonder you’ve never married, and never expect to. A man has to own a heart before he even thinks about such things!” He gripped her shoulders and was probably in a mood to shake her violently. But suddenly the pool was flooded with light from overhead lamps, and Maynier, the secretary, was hurrying across the grass. With an audible breath, Dane released her.

  The secretary stuttered. “Monsieur, I have been looking for you. Mademoiselle Vaugard is in distress. Her voice has gone and she demands you and Dr. Demaire.”

  “Her voice?” Dane sounded a little strange; the same note in any other man’s speech might have denoted a swift gathering of wits. “Is she in pain?”

  “She is much disturbed, monsieur.”

  “I’ll shove on a robe and go along to her suite.” Maynier bowed. “Mademoiselle is already in your sitting room, monsieur. She is lying on the couch.”

  Dane shrugged. “All right, Maynier. I’m going up.”

  He slipped a hand under Sally’s elbow and gripped, marched her across the lawn to the side entrance which led to the private staircase. They went up together and at the door to Sally’s suite they stopped, and he pushed open the door. Then, without a word, he walked on to his own suite.

  Sally got out of her swim suit and into some underwear and a plain frock. She ordered a salad and some coffee, ate and drank absently and was cross with herself for feeling despondent. The tray was taken, and she put out the light and sat in the balcony.

  Inevitably, she looked along towards that other balcony, and saw that the whole suite was in darkness. They had gone down to dinner; perhaps the woman had received one of those miracle injections to enable her to sing.

  Sally thought back over the conversation with Dane, its light and rather exciting beginning, the swift deterioration into a one-sided slanging match. It had been wrong to speak to him like that, but she had stuck to the truth. He was too cold-blooded to care about people. Mike had to be helped because he was a cousin; every facility offered, no expense spared. Dane was generous in every way but the one that mattered most; he was too clever and aloof to give of himself.

  Why Sally should resent his self-sufficiency she did not know. It was ridiculous to care whether he had a heart or not, and futile to wish him different. She had a job to do here in Morocco, and she told herself that the sooner she completed it, the happier she would be. Upon which decision, she once more descended the private staircase to the grounds, and took a long walk. Such a long walk, in fact, that when she returned to the hotel it was nearly midnight, and many people were going upstairs to bed.

  Sally came to the door she seldom remembered to lock, opened it and found that there were lights in the entrance hall and sitting room. Her heart fluttering queerly, she stood in the doorway between the two rooms and stared at the woman who sat enjoying a cigarette in one of the purple chairs.

  The woman spoke first. “I have not dismayed you, I hope. You are Miss Yorke, I believe? I am Cécile Vaugard.”

  Rather jerkily, Sally made some acknowledgement. She came farther into the room, felt herself tightening up as she waited for the other to say more.

  Afterwards, she remembered thinking in that moment that this was not her lucky day.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CÉCILE VAUGARD smiled, a bewitching smile which showed beautiful white teeth between her curving red lips. Seated, she looked smaller, and with the wheat-blonde hair smoothed back in deep waves and secured by a jewelled comb, her rich dark lashes enhanced by mascara and her creamy neck encircled by a single row of pearls and diamonds, she was spectacularly lovely. Almost, one did not notice the deceptively simple white linen frock belted with black braid, the transparent slippers showing rosy pink toenails which matched her fingertips.

  “I thought it was time we should meet,” she said in velvet tones. “You speak French?”

  “A little—it’s not so good as your English.”

  “But you have been able to make yourself understood in the souks?”

  “Oh, yes. The Moors seem to be exceptionally intelligent.”

  “They are also excellent businessmen. For money, they will understand any language.” Cécile paused. “I would like us to understand each other, Miss Yorke, because I may be able to put you in touch with some work which will pay you more money than you have ever seen in your lifetime.”

  “Really?” said Sally with caution. “I think you must have overestimated my abilities.”

  “You are a masseuse, are you not?”

  “Partly.”

  “You have dealt with children?”

  “More than with adults—yes.”

  “Good. There is a Caid at the Kasbah of Nezam who has a small son in need of this therapy of yours. The child was a polio victim two years ago and he is left with some sort of trouble. He happens to be the Caid’s favorite son, but neither the Caid nor the mother will allow the child to take treatment in a clinic. They have had Moorish and French masseurs, but no one from England. How would you like to become a member of the Caid’s staff for perhaps six months? He would pay whatever you ask.”

  “I’m afraid it’s impossible. I could no more guarantee to be successful than the others who have treated the child, and in any case, I’m already employed.”

  “By Mr. Ryland—I know that.”

  There was a brief silence, then Sally said politely, “You seem to have regained your voice, Mademoiselle Vaugard. Were you able to sing this evening?”

  Cécile shrugged gracefully. “It has happened before, but Dr. Demaire has the remedy. Yes, I sang. Dane told me afterwards that he has never heard me in better voice.” Which was strange, thought Sally; the fleeting laryngitis sounded as if it might have been bogus. What was this woman really like, under the gloss? She was a beauty, of course, and women with undeniable beauty of feature are rare enough to know themselves unassailable by other women. They regard themselves as beings set apart, and consequently they are governed by their own elastic laws. Perhaps because she was a singer, Cécile nourished and cherished her looks; she was certainly intensely conscious of them.

  Still polite, Sally said, “I would like to hear you sing some time.”

  “When I arrived in Shiran I gave a concert at the Mirador. I shall do so once again before I leave—light opera, French ballades. At Le Perroquet they like the popular nostalgic songs, but I get tired of them.” Cécile sank further into her chair. “It was you I saw in the pool with Dane this evening, was it not?”

  Faintly startled and still wary, Sally answered, “Yes, it was. My first dip since I’ve been here, as a matter of fact.”

  “It was an arrangement between you—that meeting?”

  “No, it was more or less accidental.”

  “Yet you seemed to be very close and interested in each other as you sat on the side of the pool.”

  “Did we?” Sally recalled those few minutes and thought how deceptive appearances could be. “We were talking about other people.” Then she saw the hard glint in the other woman’s eyes, remembered something, and stiffened. “If you manufactured the lost voice to break it up, you needn’t have bothered, mademoiselle.”

  “How dare you!” But Cécile’s tones remained smooth and without heat. “Yet I can see how you dare. Dane is Englis
h, so is this cousin of his whom you are to help. One cannot blame you for the ideas which naturally come to a woman’s mind in such circumstances. After all, you come from a dull country farm. You are hoping to find a husband, no?”

  Why not be truthful? “I hope to marry some time,” Sally said, “but not in Morocco. As you remarked, the choice of Englishmen here is limited to Mr. Ryland, who couldn’t care less about women—and Mike Ritchie, who has a chip the size of an oak tree on his shoulder. I’m here purely on business.”

  “That is something I cannot believe,” stated Cécile. “Always inside a woman there is hope of romance. Even the English are not immune, or your population would have declined long ago. I am a Frenchwoman, Miss Yorke—therefore I am shrewd and a realist. Some day, perhaps, I shall marry Dane Ryland.”

  “Yes ... I thought you might.”

  “So, naturally, I do not wish there to be small complications which might become big complications once I have left Shiran. You understand?”

  “Perfectly. But I assure you I’m no threat to your plans.”

  “While I myself am here, no. But Dane is fond of his cousin Mike. If you were to awaken that young man’s interest in life, Dane would be grateful enough to give you almost anything you might fancy. It is possible, Miss Yorke, that you might fancy Dane himself.”