Hotel Mirador

by Rosalind Brett

  Dane shoved his hands into his pockets. “I’ll tell you something. The day before yesterday, a few hours after we’d got back from the kasbah, I wrote to the Caid thanking him for his hospitality. Right at the end of the letter I invited him to come here and bring the child. That way, he could consult Dr. Demaire, and a specialist if we can get hold of one, without insulting the old doctor at Nezam. The Caid hasn’t replied, even though this gift must have been brought in by messenger very early this morning.”

  “What do you think it means?”

  “The gift? It means that the episode is more or less closed. He thanks you in the only way he knows for doing your best. In a day or two I shall receive a courteous acknowledgment of my letter, and that will be the end of it.”

  “The poor little scrap,” she murmured. “How can a father be so blind and stubborn?”

  “Stop being mawkish about someone else’s child,” he said curtly. “I know the way he thinks; he simply has his code and sticks to it, however foolish it may seem to us. The old doctor at Nezam has attended the Caid’s family since before the Caid himself was born. To consult someone else would be dealing a death-blow to the man, and the Caid would never consent to deceive him. On the other hand, if the child were threatened with death there might be some chance of moving his father...” He broke off, and added, in quieter tones, “Leave it to me, Sally. Keep the damned stuff if you want it, but let me handle the thanks.”

  “Very well,” she said coolly, and took a step or two towards the door.

  But it would still have been difficult to get out of the room without asking him to move or deliberately reaching across him to the handle. She curbed the quivering, and the vexation.

  He took the box from her hands and placed it on the wall table near the door. Then he held her elbow and led her on to the balcony, and they looked down at a couple of early swimmers, and at the bright umbrellas above empty tables. He stood there for a moment, his expression a little jaded.

  “For the first time, I’m tired of the view,” he said. “Have you changed your opinion of it?”

  “I don’t mind it, but I wouldn’t like it forever.”

  “I thought not. You don’t sing in the mornings any more.”

  She ran her finger along the stone wall. “Don’t I? Perhaps I’m afraid of waking Lucette.”

  “Or maybe you’ve nothing to sing about. Yearning for Tony?”

  She shrugged. “When I begin to yearn, I’ll run down and see him.”

  “You haven’t been looking too merry since he left.”

  “Oddly enough, I haven’t been feeling it,” she said. Let him make what he liked of that.”

  His jaw tightened slightly, his eyes looked cold as the Channel in winter. “I’ve had a message from Mike this morning. He says he particularly wants to give a little party at lunch time, here at the Mirador. Know anything about it?”

  “Nothing at all.” She paused. “It’s rather strange. Didn’t he give any reason?”

  He turned back to the desk and took up the sheet of notepaper. “Just a list of guests—you and me, Cécile, Lucette and himself. Says he feels like branching out, and he intends to do it in a small way to begin with. I wonder what’s got into him?”

  “Aren’t you pleased that he’s keen to get back into social life?”

  “Of course.” But the reply sounded automatic. “Why the suddenness of it, though? I’ve invited him here only recently, but he wouldn’t come. He has something on his mind.”

  Sally leaned back against the door frame of the french window and looked at him as he stood, tall and wide shouldered, behind the desk. “I think you’re right. He’s going to make an announcement, and I know what it is.”

  “Yes?”

  “Mike told me a few days ago that he was coming round to considering going to England for treatment.”

  “Really?” He spoke sharply and a muscle moved in his jaw. “That could be good news. Why didn’t you mention it?”

  “I waited till he was more certain.” That wasn’t the whole truth, but Sally was beginning to feel that all she had left was pride. “He made a condition. He’ll go to England if I’ll go too, and do my best to get a job wherever he has to have treatment.”

  Dane’s eyes narrowed at' her. For a long moment he looked dangerous; there was even a faintly cruel twist to his lips. He asked, “What was your reaction to that?”

  What had it been? Sally wasn’t too sure. She moistened her lips and answered, “I don’t really know. For his sake I ought to agree to it.”

  “And for your own?” he shot at her.

  For her own good, Sally thought, she ought to leave Morocco now, quite alone—cut all connection with Shiran and the Hotel Mirador. To tell Dane that would be to confess something that he would find laughable and incredible. She stood there, fighting down a pain that was almost tangible, a long probe of a pain that touched her wounds with an exquisite precision. Yes, she ought to get out, free herself from the strain of living close to Dane and Lucette ... and Cécile Vaugard.

  She said, low-voiced, “For my own sake I should do as Mike wants. Once he’s installed somewhere and starts getting about, he’ll find someone to make love to. That’s what he really wants.”

  “Sure he does.” He was about to say more, but checked himself. He flicked the letter back on to the desk, came round to face her in the opening to the balcony. “Whatever Mike has on his mind, we’ll know more about it at lunch. I want you to stay away from him this morning—I’ll send him a message.”

  “His exercises are important. I wouldn’t discuss anything with him.”

  “You might be forced into it. I’ll send him a note saying that I’ll send the car for him at twelve-thirty, and that maybe he’d better rest till then.”

  “All right.” She moved away from his nearness, felt baffled and powerless. “I’ll tell Lucette about lunch, and leave you to tell Mademoiselle Vaugard. What do we do—meet down in the main lounge at a quarter to one?”

  He nodded, held her glance with a controlled steadiness. His tones were hard but quiet. “Don’t tell me you’re not in love!”

  “Very well, I won’t.”

  “What’s the agony for?” he demanded brusquely. “Having to wait two years?”

  “You’d like to think that, so you may.”

  On a savage note, he said, “What’s happened to us all? Mike’s goading himself into doing something he may be sorry for, Lucette gets more excitable every day, Cécile has gone watchful and you ... you’re as brittle as Crown Derby but determined not to break.”

  “And you?” she queried. “Still the machine—or is it a good sign that you’re getting tired of the view from the balcony?”

  “Hell,” he said violently, “I’ve had enough. If the luncheon party doesn’t clear the air I’ll do something about it myself. Sit down, for heaven’s sake, and have some coffee!”

  But Sally had stood more than enough. “I’d rather go. See you later.” And she picked up the Caid’s gift and escaped before he could say another word.

  In her sitting room she drew a long breath and let out some of the tension in a sigh. She slipped the box into the cabinet and went through to the bedroom. Lucette, for once, was already up and parading in front of the mirror in her newest swimsuit—an affair in apple green which sported a brief ballet skirt. She pirouetted and confronted Sally.

  “Like it? The skirt stays stiff in the water, but you don’t swim in the suit more than necessary. It’s a promenading get up.”

  “Suits you. Why are you up so early?”

  Lucette’s lashes drooped over her dark feverish eyes. “I have to make the most of the days.”

  “You keep talking as if you’re leaving soon, yet you won’t say when.”

  “Because I can’t, darling,” said Lucette in tones of despair. “I should have left already ... at least three days ago.”

  “Should you?” Sally gazed at her. “Was there a reason for it?”

  Luce
tte nodded dismally. “A very big reason. But you know how it is for me,” imploringly. “I can’t bear to leave Dane.”

  Sally was on edge and impatient “Then why don’t you contact your parents? They can’t possibly make you go home. You’re twenty-two.”

  Lucette deliberately turned her back. “Unzip me, darling, and please stop reminding me that I shouldn’t be here. I have to go back to utter and abysmal boredom, but I won’t let it interfere with a single hour of the time that’s left to me here in Shiran!”

  Sally moved to her own side of the bedroom and began tidying it. After a few moments she said calmly, “We’re lunching with Mike Ritchie here in the hotel today.”

  From the folds of an orange and white frock she was struggling into, Lucette exclaimed, “I won’t meet that man! He hates me and I hate him.”

  “Don’t be absurd. Mike wants to prove he’s capable of doing the normal thing once in a while. Dane will be there.”

  Lucette straightened the frock over her hips. “Oh, but it’s a waste, all the same. Cécile never comes down to meals and I was hoping to have Dane to myself!”

  “Cécile is invited, too.”

  Lucette flounced towards a mirror and began to make up her face; it was painting the lily, but she managed it. With a comb in her hand she turned about.

  “I’ve just made a decision. Cécile has to leave Shiran for Casablanca at the end of the week. I’m going to stay on over the weekend, and find out how much Dane really wants me. If he ... proposes, I’ll have all the courage in the world to face Tangier!”

  Sally lifted her shoulders. It was an early hour to be tired, but she was. Tired to death of the whole tissue of duplicity and doubt.

  CHAPTER NINE

  THE luncheon with Mike went well. They had drinks in the lounge and talked a little, ate one of the best hot-weather meals the Mirador could produce and tasted two or three good wines with the courses. Mike had been astonishingly pleasant, Cécile had started off a little nervously but become as calm and arrogant as ever. There had been several minutes of unease about Lucette, but she stayed close to the cool, reflective Dane and his imperturbability had had its effect on her. As for Sally, she sensed the strong undercurrents of hostility, made a brave attempt to ignore them and succeeded fairly well.

  They waited till the dining room was almost' empty, before getting Mike to his feet and trailing with him into a shadowed corner of the terrace for coffee. Waiters arranged a table and chairs in a semi-circle round it, and Mike was given the chair against the wall, with Sally on his right and Cécile on his left'. Dane sat next to Sally and beyond him Lucette disposed herself on a lounger, to be as far as she could get from Mike.

  It was nearly three and the heat was intense. Brilliant searing light beat in, reflected from sky and sea, and the growing shadows were deep purple. Sally thought of cool courtyards and tinkling fountains, of the interminable mosaic tiling which one didn’t grow tired of in Morocco because it detracted a little from the glare. She thought of the mystery of veiled women walking gracefully on soft kid heelless slippers from one great building to another, of barred windows and blank white walls, of mosques, with the faithful washing in the fountain before entering the holy place, and of boys listening avidly to bearded story-tellers. And she reflected, queerly, that the impossible had happened. For the time being Morocco was far more real than Cumberland! But only for the time being, she assured herself hastily.

  Dane was saying, “You can rest here in the hotel, Mike, and take a bathe in the pool at your usual time or a little later.” He paused, and smiled. “It’s been like old times—having you here to spin a tall yam while we eat.”

  Mike looked at his watch, finished the large brandy he had ordered with his coffee. “Not quite like old times. Cécile was here occasionally, but the other two maidens were busy growing out of their teens. We don’t have to move yet.”

  “So long as you’re not tired. We’ll excuse the ladies, if they like.”

  Cécile shook her head. “Now that' I am down here for a meal, I will stay.” She, too, consulted her watch.

  Neither Sally nor Lucette made any comment at all, and Dane spoke next, about something else.

  “I’ve been waiting to tell you some news, Mike, but I put it off till the time seemed just right. This could be it.” Mike grinned, a little tipsily. “Not going to ask me to get out of the house just yet, are you? If you’re aiming to get married, I’d like a couple of weeks’ notice.”

  “You’ll get it, old chap,” said Dane, with cynicism. “No, it’s nothing to do with the house. When Cécile and I went to the phosphate mine, I took a few hours off and went down to the coast to see your old chief, Bruenel. I told him you were improving and he said he couldn’t have heard it at a better time. The chap they took on in your place is finishing in three months, and they’d be overjoyed to get you back.”

  Mike’s smile was unpleasant. “Really?” Are you trying to stampede me into a spell in hospital?”

  “No, but it’s a good reason for going, isn’t it? Bruenel says he’d be quite willing to carry on himself till you’re ready, and he’ll still go along with you for a while till you can handle things on your own again—even if it takes a year. I thought it generous of the man.”

  “I’m surrounded by generous men ... and even a generous woman or two.” He had looked at Cécile, not at Sally. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Do that.” Dane rubbed out his cigarette on an ashtray. “I think you, as well as the women, should rest now.”

  “What’s the hurry?” demanded Mike pettishly. “This is the first time in a year that I’ve come here for lunch, and you’re trying to break it up!”

  “It’s hot here for the girls,” Dane said evenly, “and you’ve been drinking rather well. I’ll take you through to a private lounge.”

  But it was Cécile who now protested. “Dane, darling, you are severe with Mike. He is happy here with us and it cannot hurt to stay a little longer. It is only three o’clock.”

  “I’m fired,” stated Lucette firmly, without looking at anyone. “I think I’ll go.”

  Mike wouldn’t have that. He leaned over the table and stared at her long figure stretched on the lounger. “I thought you and I were friends at last,” he said with smiling belligerence. “If I want you to stay, you’ll stay, won’t you?”

  “That’s enough, Mike!” Dane put in sharply. “If there’s something you want to tell us, get it out, but don’t pick on anyone. If you hadn’t drunk more than you’re used to you wouldn’t be behaving like this.”

  Mike went bland. “What could I have to tell you? I’ve no secrets. Not like little Black Curls over there...”

  Dane stood up quickly. “You’re going a lot too far, Mike! We’ll stop right there.”

  But again Cécile peeped at her watch. She looked up into Dane’s face and said soothingly, “Cheri, this is unnecessary. Just let us sit for a minute or two in quietness. The waiters know we are here, no?”

  He nodded, grimly, but did not sit down. “It’s time we went our ways.”

  Mike sat back, blinked and said, “Cécile’s right ... just a few minutes more together and everything will...” He stopped as Pierre de Chalain came along the terrace. Pierre’s expression was grave and astounded. He stopped at the table, summoned a very artificial smile and spoke to Dane.

  “There is a man—a stranger to Shiran—who wishes to see Mademoiselle Lucette...”

  “Bring him here!” said Mike loudly. “Let him see all of us.”

  Lucette had sat up, and Sally moved swiftly, so that she could look at her. The usual high color had gone from the creamy skin, leaving it sallow, and the black eyes stared up at Pierre in horror.

  Lucette whispered, “Did the man give his name?”

  Pierre nodded. “He is a Monsieur Karel Descamps, from Tangier. You will see him, mademoiselle?”

  Somehow Lucette got to her feet, and Dane slipped a hand under her elbow. She turned towards him blindly
, burst into tears and was held close to him for a minute. Then, with only a half-glance at those he was leaving, Dane led her shaking figure along the terrace, with Pierre at his other side. The three disappeared, and Sally became aware that her heart was thudding right through her body.

  She looked at the other two, saw Mike’s face, red with wine and fury, and Cécile’s, faintly smiling and triumphant, and she knew that whatever had happened, they had engineered it. She wanted to get up and run away, but a frightful inertia had possession of her strength.

  She said feebly, “Who is Karel Descamps—does anyone know? Is he ... Lucette’s fiancé?”

  “The whole thing was spoiled,” Mike said angrily. “Pierre should have brought him out here, so that we could have seen the fun. No, Sally, the man isn’t Lucette’s fiancé—he’s her husband!”

  Sally stared. “I don’t believe you.”

  Cécile said equably, “It is true. Your vivacious young friend, who was so strictly brought up, has been married for several months to a man of forty-three. He is in business in Tangier, very rich, very sober, very proud that he has such a beautiful young wife to wear the jewels he is constantly buying for her.”

  “How did you find this out?”

  Cécile lifted narrow, white-clad shoulders and tilted her honey-blonde head. “We made enquiries. Mike knew the name of Lucette’s father, and wrote to a man in the office of the Midi Press. The reply was as you would expect to find a reply from a reporter—very concise and informative. After that, all we had to do was to send a telegram to Monsieur Descamps, asking him to catch a certain plane on a certain day if he wanted to reach his wife. He and the Millars were already frantic because Lucette was missing.”