Complete Works of a E W Mason

by A. E. W. Mason

  He recovered control of himself with a jerk and rising abruptly from his chair went over to the window. To-night the Rhône would be flowing past the park of the Villa Laure, just as the Thames would be flowing here and was flowing on that fatal night when Corinne sprang to her feet in this room — eddies of molten silver and ripples of gold and the music of running water. Would those two men be stealing across the park? They would reach Avignon at half-past seven, if the train ran true. He sent up a prayer as he stood in the window looking out upon the trim lawn. Fortunately the nights were short — about midnight the moon would rise. Evening would shade through silver to the dawn. There would be no real darkness. It was the bad season for the wild beasts. He fell to calculating times and distances. As he calculated the cloud lifted a little from his face. He spoke to Culalla in the room behind him without turning his head; working out his problem slowly.

  “I was wrong in thinking Clutter would reach Avignon to-night. Let us say that he left the Chapel of Rest at midday yesterday, midday at the earliest. He would go thence to some secret rendezvous where he would meet Hospel Roussencq. They would lunch together and they would riot lunch quickly. Remember that they had had a knock-down blow! That’s clear enough from Cowcher’s description of the Archie Clutter he left sitting in the Chapel of Rest, a giant in granite, his ears shut to sounds, who once or twice shivered. He had expected to hear that Ariadne and Corinne were somewhere in London, or in England at all events. No, they were in France. No wonder Clutter shivered. He and Roussencq would have to take stock of their money, to talk over new plans, to decide upon one of them. I can see this desperate idea of a swift rush to France, a pounce upon their victims, creeping into their talk, always rejected, always returning. Many a Frenchman in the same case has slunk back into France and died there an old man at liberty. Instances would be quoted. In the end — for there’s no alternative — they accept the risk. They’ll go. Yes, but they wouldn’t travel by a night service. Too few passengers. They must travel when the passenger traffic is at its busiest, the decks of the steamers black and passports stamped without a glance.”

  “By the one o’clock boat then from Dover to Calais,” Culalla interposed. “Yes, I think that’s probable.”

  “I think it’s certain,” continued Strickland. “Clutter has shown a queer patience all through, hasn’t he? That’s what makes him so formidable. He knows how to keep the fires of his hatred banked. He left Dover by the boat — this morning. He may be at Amiens at this moment. He will be in Paris to-night, at Avignon to-morrow morning. He has on paper the advantage of twenty-four hours over me. But in fact he has none. For I shall travel by aeroplane and reach Avignon to-morrow morning too.”

  Culalla drew a breath of relief. He had never really doubted that Strickland would go, but he derived none the less some comfort from hearing him say so.

  XXIV. TWO POINTS OF VIEW

  IT WAS AFTER five o’clock in the afternoon when Strickland left Culalla’s house at Kew. He drove at once to the offices of the Air Company and hired an aeroplane to Avignon. Thence he went to a telegraph office and dispatched a telegram to Lady Ariadne Ferne at the Villa Laure, in the following terms:

  PLEASE MOVE WITH CORINNE ON RECEIPT OF THIS TELEGRAM TO THE HOTEL AT AVIGNON. MOST SERIOUS AND URGENT. WAIT THERE UNTIL I COME. JOHN STRICKLAND.

  It was a quarter past six when he pushed this telegram under the bars of the counter. It was impossible, therefore, that it could be delivered that night at a house some kilometres from the postal town in the south of Provence. But Strickland was not really troubled by the delay. The dispatch of the telegram was a mere precaution. The more he reasoned about it, the more certain he became that Archie Clutter and his accomplice would have travelled by the crowded midday service, when all was turmoil, and supervision a form. Archie Clutter coupled his ferocity with cunning. He took big chances, but not small ones. He would reach Avignon to-morrow morning, and so would this telegram reach the Villa Laure even if Strickland himself did not. Clutter would have to explore with caution the neighbourhood of the villa, he would have to make his arrangements — for Ariadne’s reception, for instance, He and his companion would probably go on to Marseilles at once. Clutter would have no reason to suspect that Cowcher had revealed his share in the matter. He would take his time as he had taken it in London, and in Burma, so that when he struck, the blow should not glance. Strickland probably had two or three days to spare; and meanwhile Culalla would pull his strings in Paris. There would be a certain amount of inquiry there before any active steps were taken. That was inevitable. But on the whole, Strickland started from the Croydon aerodrome that night with a mind fairly free from apprehension.

  But a little to the north of Paris their aeroplane was in trouble and forced to land. Strickland caught an early suburban train into Paris and, driving across the city, left at nine o’clock in the morning by the Rapide to Marseilles.

  In after days he had very few recollections of that journey to the South. A green wood with the sunlight splashing on the leaves, a throng of church steeples like a squadron of lancers, a spacious city of bridges and broad rivers. But such impressions were no more than reflections in a mirror which vanish altogether with the objects reflected. He was lulled into a trance by the roar of the train across the vast, flat country and the regular thud and throb of the springs beneath the carriage. An old image, which had once occurred to him, of the affair in which he had taken so great a part recurred to him now. He was a man at a capstan winding in the last links of a chain of events which had begun many months ago for him with a premonition as he sat on the veranda of the guest-house at Mogok under a procession of blazing stars. It was written that whatever finish there was to be, he should be in it. Even that day’s journey into Warwickshire for which he had so bitterly reproached himself, was now seen to be no waste of a day at all. It fitted into the pattern at its proper place. He would arrive in time. He would find the two girls safe at the Hotel de l’Europe in the town. Meanwhile his train was late; by half an hour at Dijon; by an hour at Valence.

  That morning Corinne had risen early. Strickland had drawn the right inference from Ariadne’s letter. There is no greater test to which friendship can be put than the test of isolation. The little differences of temperament, and point of view and conduct become more and more noticeable, more and more irritating. People drawn to one another in a company, fly apart in a solitude, unless each one brings enough imagination to recognise and find a value in the very points of difference. The friendship between Ariadne and Corinne within the week was already wearing thin. It had been a growth, bred from chivalry upon the one side and gratitude upon the other, of admiration on Ariadne’s part for the exquisite grace of Corinne’s dancing, of pride on Corinne’s that she was numbered amongst Ariadne’s friends. It had flowered in the hot-house atmosphere of supper parties and dancing clubs; it flourished to the popping of corks and the clatter of voices, but it languished quickly during the long evenings at the Villa Laure. What was the whole plain flat surface of Corinne’s mind was just one of many facets of Ariadne’s. Corinne was bored stiff, to use her expression. Ariadne found in Avignon, its narrow streets opening into little open squares, its history, its surrounding and its people, matter to enchant her. But they had no common experiences to talk over and get their fun out of in the evening. So Ariadne fell to rehearsing her songs with the help of a piano in the boudoir of their suite; whilst in Corinne’s thoughts there was framed that unforgiving, resentful word, “amateur.” How much vanity is assuaged in the course of a year by the triumphant use of that damning word!

  When Strickland was ascending from the Croydon aerodrome on the Thursday night, Ariadne rose from her piano.

  “I would like to make an excursion to-morrow to Les Baux, Corinne,” she said.

  “What in the world’s that?” asked Corinne.

  “The Castle of the Troubadours. It’s a wonderful drive, I believe, and a place of wonderful ruins on the top of a hill when yo
u reach it.”

  Ruins upon the top of a hill meant worse than nothing to Corinne.

  “‘We could take our luncheon — it’s a good long way — and picnic on the road,” Ariadne urged.

  Corinne lit a cigarette. A railway time-table, which she had been diligently consulting, lay on the sofa beside her.

  “I have got an idea,” she said. “You go to Les Baux. I shouldn’t appreciate it a bit. But I see that the Moldavia puts into Marseilles to-morrow morning, and I believe I have some friends on board. I’ll ring up the hotel at Avignon for a motor to come out for me, and I’ll catch the early train.”

  Ariadne agreed without hesitation. A day apart would be a good thing for both of them.

  “By all means,” she said cordially. “You can get back?”

  Once more Corinne consulted the time-table.

  “Yes. But I shall be a little late, I expect. Does it matter, Ariadne? The local trains are awful. I shouldn’t get to the house until nearly midnight.”

  Ariadne laughed.

  “It doesn’t sound dreadfully late, does it? I don’t expect that I shall get back until fairly late myself. I’ll wait up for you.”

  Thus it was arranged. Corinne rang up the hotel on the telephone in the boudoir, ordered her car, and was downstairs the next morning by eight o’clock.

  The economy of the Villa Laure becomes here a matter of importance. Denise Bochon, the wife of the lodge-keeper, was in the habit of arriving at the villa at half-past six in the morning. She let herself in with her key, lighted a. fire and made the coffee, and soon after seven took it up with some brioches to the young ladies. She then went about her duties in the house, took in the letters, and left the ladies to prepare their own baths and get themselves up. This she did on the morning when John Strickland left Paris by the day express. Corinne got up at once, ate her early breakfast as she dressed, knocked on Ariadne’s door, and cried: “I am off,” listened to a very sleepy reply of “Good hunting!” and went downstairs. In the drawing-room, upon a table in one of the great windows which looked out upon the Rhône the letters were laid in a little heap. The only address which the girls had left behind them was that of an office of Lord Culalla’s in the City of London, and all their letters were redirected from that office. But on the top of them lay a telegram.

  Corinne pounced upon it. There’s nothing so intriguing as a telegram when you are clean out of the world. Corinne did not even think of reading to which of them it was addressed. It was just the flimsy piece of blue paper folded over and fastened at the back with a smear of gum. She inserted a finger and flicked it open. She read Strickland’s telegram:

  PLEASE MOVE WITH CORINNE ON RECEIPT OF THIS TELEGRAM TO THE HOTEL AT AVIGNON. MOST SERIOUS AND URGENT. WAIT THERE UNTIL I COME.

  Corinne dropped into a chair. She felt sick and faint. No precautions, however tiresome, were of any use, then! The words of the telegram needed no interpreter. Archie Clutter and his friend Roussencq had slipped into France, were after her, had some inkling certainly of where she was, may even have in their possession her actual address. A sense of utter despair stole over her. The police? Archie Clutter beat them at every turn. John Strickland? He could send a telegram. She saw herself continually in flight, just a day ahead of her pursuers, and always in terror, her whole body one sensitive nerve throbbing with it, her face day by day more haggard, her eyes more haunted. Almost she gave up, but in the moment of yielding she felt the great hand close over her mouth, and the morning went black before her, and the blood in her veins turned to ice.

  She sprang up. She must rouse Ariadne at once, and she took a step quickly towards the door. But before she had traversed that long drawing-room her feet were dragging; and at the door she stopped and came slowly back. Even if they moved into the hotel in the town, would they be safe there? Was it not one more stage in the chase, and nothing beyond! Somewhere Clutter would catch her up. What was it he was going to say? “Corinne, the moment has come to be brave.” She saw him towering above her, his hand reaching out towards her face, an elemental, a colossal thing of evil...unless she could buy him off.

  Corinne was looking her very prettiest when she came down into the drawing-room that morning. Her face was fresh, her brown eyes clear. She was wearing a coat and skirt of cream-coloured kasha with a thin stripe of blue, a jumper of stockinette to match, a little bright blue hat, and stockings and shoes of the palest biscuit colour. No stranger but must have accounted her a girl daintily nurtured and tended, of a gay spirit and delicate, gracious thoughts. But a look came into her face now which not even her maid had ever seen, so careful was she of the figure she presented to the world. Her frank brown eyes became secret and cunning. She looked askance; and a sly grin disfigured her mouth. A witch had waved a wand over her, transforming her into a creature quite sinister, and emphasising her essential ugliness by leaving her decked out in her pretty apparel. Hag-ridden by terror, Corinne herself was becoming terrible.

  “It’s Ariadne they want really,” her thoughts ran. “She means money. They would arrange to keep her somewhere in Marseilles. Just for a day or two, whilst they got into touch with Strickland. They wouldn’t harm her here. They wouldn’t want to bring the police on them in France. If Strickland promises to hold his tongue, they’ll bring Ariadne to him, when he pays. They mean to kill me. But if they got their money, they’ll leave me alone.”

  Corinne looked at the clock as she heard the car roll up to the front door. It was still five minutes to eight. She smoothed out the blue telegram and folded it in its original shape, and placed it in her wrist-bag. She ran quickly and lightly upstairs, and put a few things for the night into a small bag. She could always say afterwards that she had not been certain whether she would come back that night. She called through the door to Ariadne: “I shall catch the last train.” She passed into the boudoir where she and Ariadne had spent the evening. The railway time-table was still lying upon the couch, and she opened it and verified her memory of the trains between Avignon and Marseilles. Then she ran downstairs again with her bag in her hand, and went out by the drawing-room window on to the terrace, and so round to the front.

  “In case I miss my train back this evening,” she said with a bright smile to the chauffeur as he took her bag from her and placed it in the car. “The station, please!”

  The big iron gates which gave entrance from the road into the park stood wide open for the day. That, indeed, was the necessary custom of the Villa Laure whilst Ariadne and Corinne camped out in it. Pierre Bochon was at work, except during the midday, either in the garden or lending a hand in the house. Denise Bochon, his wife, was cook, housekeeper, parlour-maid and housemaid rolled into one, as few but French servants could be. There was therefore no one on duty at the lodge at all throughout the day. The gates would not be closed until half-past eight or so, when Denise Bochon and her husband, having like frugal people taken their dinner in the house, retired for the night to the lodge. Corinne, as she stood with that sly look upon her face, had been reckoning upon those open, unwatched gates. “Ariadne!” she said to herself with a cold little shrug of the shoulders as the car passed between the gates into the road. She thought of her practising her songs. “After all, an amateur.”

  Corinne applauded herself for her wisdom when the train arrived at Marseilles. For she saw from the window of her carriage a big man and a little man, each one, from his Homburg hat to his brown shoes, an obvious tourist, and each one carrying a suit-case, which was neither battered nor new, descend from a first-class carriage ahead of hers. She took good care that a good many other passengers should intervene between herself and these two ill-assorted tourists, but she kept them in view. She saw that they parted company as they approached the gates where the tickets were collected, the little man going first — the jungle-cat in a word preceding the tiger. Both, however, passed through without question, and were lost to her in the great ante-room of the station, She might have cried out, of course: “There are two esca
ped convicts. Arrest them!” But she was not of the stuff for such heroic measures. People would have thought her mad and the men would have been clear before any attention was given to her outcries. The sight even of the back of Archie Clutter shook her and turned her bones to water, so that she must sit down upon a bench and rest there with the station heaving up and down before her eyes. Clutter and his friend had come right through to Marseilles. They would have their preparations to make — as she had reasoned out in the drawing-room. They had the whole day in front of them. They would need to be quick, too. The one day would suffice for them, and there were trains enough to take them back to Avignon. For herself, she had a fairly busy day ahead of her, too. But she did not leave the station. She booked a room, deposited her bag in the Terminus Hotel, and taking another ticket, doubled back to Nîmes.

  XXV. AND A THIRD — ARIADNE’S

  ARIADNE FERNE SET out upon her excursion at a later hour. Pierre Bochon added to his multifarious duties that of cleaning her small car, and he had it ready in the little garage at the side of the house by ten o’clock. It was at about that hour that Ariadne descended from her room. She glanced at the few letters waiting for her on the table in the window. But the envelopes had not an interesting appearance and she slipped them all unopened inside the vellum cover of one of those large illustrated volumes which make so fine an appearance on a drawing-room table. She called along the corridor to Denise: