With even more hesitation than Joyce Whipple had used, Mr. Ricardo repeated the account which she had given to him of her disquieting reactions to letters written in that hand. Joyce had confessed that even to herself, when she came to translate them into spoken words, they shredded away into nothing at all. How much more elusive they must sound related now at second hand to this hard-hearted trader in realities? But Hanaud did not scoff. Indeed, a look of actual discomfort deepened the lines upon his face as the story proceeded, and when Mr. Ricardo had finished he sat for a little while silent and strangely disturbed. Finally he rose and placed himself in a chair at the table opposite to his friend.
“I tell you,” he said, his elbows on the cloth and his hands clasped together in front of him. “I hate such tales as these. I deal with very great matters, the liberties and lives of people who have just that one life in that one body. Therefore I must be very careful, lest wrong be done. If through fault of mine you do worse than lose five years out of your few, if you keep them, but keep them in hardship and penance, nothing can make my fault up to you. I must be always sure — yes, I must always know before I move. I must be able to say to myself, ‘This man or that woman has deliberately done this or that thing which the law forbids,’ before I lay the hand upon the shoulder. But a story like yours — and I ask myself, ‘What do I know? Can I ever be sure?’”
“Then you don’t laugh?” cried Mr. Ricardo, at once relieved and Impressed.
Hanaud threw wide his hands. “I laugh — yes — with my friends, at my friends, as I hope they laugh with me and at me. I am human — yes. But stories like this one of yours make me humble too. I don’t laugh at them. I know men and women who have but to look into a crystal and they see strange people moving in strange rooms, and all more vivid than scenes upon a stage. But I? I see nothing — never! Never! It is I who am blind? Or that other who is crazy? I don’t know. But sometimes I am troubled by these questions. They are not good for me. No! They make me uneasy about myself — yes, I doubt Hanaud! Conceive that, if it is possible!”
He unclasped his hands and flung out his arms with something burlesque and extravagant in the gesture. But Mr. Ricardo was not deceived. His friend had confessed the truth. There were moments when Hanaud doubted Hanaud — moments when he, like Mr. Ricardo, was aware of cracks in the opal crust.
Hanaud bent his eyes again upon that handwriting which had so alarming a message for just one person alone, and not an atom of significance for the rest.
“She has broken off her engagement — this young lady. Miss Tasborough,” he said, pronouncing the name as Tasbruff. “That is curious too.” He sat for a moment or two in an abstraction. “There are three explanations, my friend, of which we may take our choice. One. Your Miss Whipple is playing some trick on you, for some end we do not know of. To establish her credit — after some — thing has happened. To be able to say: ‘I foresaw — I tried to avert it. I warned Mr. Ricardo.’ Eh? Have you thought of that?”
He nodded his head slowly and emphatically at his friend, who certainly had not thought of anything of the kind. But the notion disturbed Mr. Ricardo a little now. He had after all been troubled on his way home after that conversation. Troubled by an excuse which Joyce Whipple had given for her own inability to interfere. “Cinderellas must be off the premises by midnight.” What sort of an excuse was that for a young lady with a pipe-well of oil in California? No, it certainly wouldn’t do!
But Hanaud, reading his thoughts, raised a warning hand. “Let us not run too fast. There are still two explanations. The second? Miss Whipple is an hysterical — she must make excitements. She is vain, as the hysterical invariably are.”
Here Mr. Ricardo shook his head; as emphatically as a moment ago Hanaud had nodded his. That spruce young lady with tidiness for her monomark dwelt thousands of leagues away from the country of hysteria. Mr. Ricardo preferred explanation number one. It was more likely and infinitely more thrilling. But he must not be in a hurry.
“And your third explanation?” he asked. Hanaud pushed the letter back to Ricardo and rose from his chair, slapping his hands against his hips.
“Why, simply that she was speaking the truth. That some warning came to her through that handwriting, even though the writer knew nothing of the warning she was sending.”
Hanaud turned away to the window and stood for a while looking out over the little pleasant spa, its establishment of baths down here by the park, its gay casino over there, and its villas and hotels shining amongst green streets. But he was deep in his own reflections. He might have been gazing at a wall for all that he saw. Mr. Ricardo had seen him in such a mood before, and he knew that this was a moment which it would be definitely inadvisable to interrupt. A sensation of awe stole over him. He felt the floor of the opal very brittle beneath his feet.
Hanaud turned his head towards his companion, without in any other way relaxing his attitude.
“The Chateau Suvlac is thirty kilometres from Bordeaux?” he asked.
“Thirty-eight and a half,” Mr. Ricardo replied helpfully. He was nothing if not accurate.
Hanaud turned once again to the window. But a minute afterwards, with a great heave of his shoulders, he shook his perplexities from him.
“I am on my holiday,” he cried. “Let me not spoil it! Come! Your servant, the invaluable Thomson, shall pack up my Hanaudski paraphernalia and send it back at your expense to the Odeon Theatre from which I borrowed it yesterday. You and I, we will motor in your fine car to the Lake Bourget, where we will take our luncheon, and then like good wholesome tourists we will make an excursion on the steamboat.”
He was all gaiety and good-humour. But he had broken in upon the sacred curriculum of his holiday; and all that day, as Mr. Ricardo was aware, some grave speculations were with an effort held at bay.
CHAPTER 4
RIDDLES FOR MR. RICARDO
MR. RICARDO PROGRESSED in a leisurely fashion from Bordeaux, staying a day here and a night there, and arrived at the Chateau Suvlac at six o’clock on the evening of the twenty-first of September, a Wednesday. The day of the week is important. For the last mile he had driven along a private road which sloped gently upwards. On the top of this rise stood the house, a deep quadrangle of rose-pink stone with its two squat round turrets breaking the line of the main building at each end, and the two long wings stretching out to the road. The front of the quadrangle was open, and in the middle of this space rose a high arch completely by itself, like some old triumphal arch of Rome. This side of the house looked to the south-west, and the ground fell away from it in a slope of vineyard to a long and wide level of pasture. At the end of this plain of grass there rose a definite hill upon which, through a screen of trees, a small white house could just be seen. As Mr. Ricardo stood with his back to the Chateau Suvlac, stretching his legs after his long drive, he saw that a secondary road struck off at the end of the sloping vineyard, descended the incline, passed a group of farm buildings and a garage just where the vineyard joined the pasture-land, but on the opposite side of the road, and climbed again towards the small white house.
No one of the house-party was at home except the aunt and chaperon, Mrs. Tasborough, who was lying down. Mr. Ricardo was served with a cup of tea by Jules Amadee, the young manservant, in the big drawing-room, which opened on to the stone terrace and looked out over the wide Gironde to the misty northern shore. Having drunk his tea he sauntered out on to the terrace. Four shallow steps led down into a garden of lawns and flowers, and on his right hand a closely planted avenue of trees sloped almost to the hedge at the bottom of the garden, sheltering the house and shutting out from its view the massive range of chais where the wine was stored and the big vats were housed.
Mr, Ricardo walked down across the lawn to the hedge and, passing through a gate on to a water meadow, saw a little to his right a tiny harbour with a landing-stage to which a gabare, one of those sloop-rigged heavy sailing boats which carry the river trade, was moored. A captain and
two hands were engaged in unloading stores for the house. Mr. Ricardo, curious as ever, made his inquiries. The captain, a big black-bearded man, was very willing to accept a cigarette and break off his work.
“Yes, monsieur, these are my two sons. We keep the work in the family. No, the gabare is not mine yet. Monsieur Webster, the agent of mademoiselle, bought her and put me in charge, and when I pay off the cost she will be mine. Soon?” The captain flung out his arms in a gesture of despair. “It is difficult to grow rich on the Gironde. For half of our lives we are waiting for the tide. See, monsieur! But for those cursed tides, I could finish my work here, and start back for Bordeaux later in the night. But no! I must wait for the flow and I shall not put out until six o’clock in the morning. Ah, it is difficult for the poor to live, monsieur.” He had his full share of the French peasant’s compassion for himself, but he was sitting on the stout bulwark of the boat and he began to stroke and caress the wood as though there were nothing nearer to his heart. “The gabare is a good gabare,” he continued. “She will last for many years, and perhaps I shall own her sooner than a lot of people think.”
His little eyes, set too close together under heavy black eyebrows, gleamed unpleasantly. He had not only the self-pity of his kind but its avarice too. He was not, however, very clever, Mr. Ricardo inferred. No man could be clever who paraded such an air of cunning before a stranger. The captain, however, waked to the knowledge that his two sons had stopped working too. He thumped upon the bulwark.
“Rascals and good-for-nothings, it is not to you that the gentleman talks! To work!” he cried in a rage. “Bah! You are only fit to turn the paddles of Le Petit Mousse in the public gardens.”
Mr. Ricardo smiled. He had sauntered through the public gardens at Bordeaux only yesterday. He had seen Le Petit Mousse, a little pleasure boat shaped like a swan, floating on an ornamental water. It had two little paddle wheels which were turned by two little boys, and on Sundays and fete days it set out upon adventurous little voyages under the palms and chestnuts.
The youths resumed their work, and Mr. Ricardo turned away from the little dock. He noticed, without paying any particular attention to the circumstance, the name upon her bows — La Belle Simone. He would probably never have noticed it at all, but the first two words of it were weathered and the third stood out glaringly in fresh white paint. Inquisitiveness made him ask: “You have changed her name?”
“Yes. I named her La Belle Diane. A little compliment, you understand. But Monsieur Webster said no, I must change it. For mademoiselle would think she looked the fool if ever she perceived it. Not that mademoiselle perceives very much these days,” and his little black eyes glittered between half-closed lids. “However, I changed it.”
Mr. Ricardo turned away. He walked back along the broad avenue and saw beyond the border of trees, on the far side from the house, a little chalet of two storeys, which stood by itself in an open space, and was approached by a small white gate and a garden bright with flowers. It was now, however, seven o’clock, and without exploring it Mr. Ricardo returned to the drawing-room. There was still no sign of the house-party. He rang for Jules Amadee, and was conducted by him to his bedroom at the very end of the eastern wing. It was a fine big room with two windows, one in the front which commanded the sloping vineyard, the pasture land and the wooded hill opposite, the other at the side, looking upon the avenue and affording a glimpse of the little chalet beyond. Mr. Ricardo dressed with the scrupulous attention to his toilet which not for the kingdom of Tartary would he have modified; and he was still giving the final caress to the butterfly bow of his cravat when, over the top of the looking-glass, he saw a youngish man in a dinner-jacket cross the avenue towards the chateau. The reason for the chalet was now clear to Mr. Ricardo.
“A guest-house for the younger bachelors,” said he. “Thomson, my pumps and the shoehorn, if you please.”
He walked down the long corridor — he was astonished to notice what a large tract of ground the house covered, and how many empty rooms stood with their doors open — turned to the left at the end of it, and came to the drawing- room, which was in the very centre of the main building. As he stood at the door, the hall and the front door was just behind him. He stood there for a few moments, listening to a chatter of voices and invaded by an odd excitement. Was he to solve by one flash of insight the mystery of Joyce Whipple’s letters? Was he to look round the room and identify by an inspiration the sinister figure of the person who had detained Diana Tasborough in the seclusion of Biarritz throughout the summer?
“Now,” he said to himself firmly. “Now,” and with a gesture of melodrama he flung open the door and stepped swiftly within. He was a little disappointed. Certainly there was a moment of silence, but the abruptness of his entrance accounted for that. No one flinched, and the interrupted conversations broke out again.
Diana Tasborough, looking as pretty as ever in a pale green frock, hurried to him.
“I am so glad that you could come, Mr. Ricardo,” she said pleasantly. “You know my aunt, don’t you, very well?”
Mr. Ricardo shook hands with Mrs. Tasborough.
“But — I am not sure — I think Mrs. Devenish is a stranger to you.”
Mrs. Devenish was a young woman of about twenty-five years, tall, dark of hair, with a bright complexion, and black liquid eyes. She was brilliant rather than beautiful, big, and she suggested to Mr. Ricardo storms and wild passions. It passed through his mind that if he ever had to take a meal with her alone, it should be tea and not supper. She gave him her right hand negligently, and by chance Mr. Ricardo’s gaze fell upon the other. Mrs. Devenish wore no wedding- ring, no jewels indeed of any description.
“No, I don’t think we have ever met,” she said with a smile, and suddenly — it was certainly not due to her voice, for he had never heard her utter a word before, it may have been due to some gesture of her hand, or to some movement of her body as she turned to resume her conversation, it was probably due to the slowness of Mr. Ricardo’s perceptions — anyway, suddenly he was conscious of a thrill of triumph. So quickly had he solved Joyce Whipple’s problem. Mrs. Devenish was the dominating force which menaced Diana Tasborough. She was the malignant one. It was true that he had not met her before, but he had seen her, and in just those morbid circumstances which settled the question finally.
“Yet, I saw you, I think, exactly nine days ago in Bordeaux,” he said, and he could have sworn that terror, sheer, stark naked terror, stared at him out of the depths of her eyes. But it was there only for a moment. She looked Mr. Ricardo over from his pumps to his neat grey hair and laughed.
“Where?” she asked; and Mr. Ricardo was silent. It was an awkward, bold question. He was more than a little shy of answering it. For he would be accusing himself of a taste for morbidities if he did. He might look a little puerile, too.
“Perhaps I was wrong,” he said, and Mrs. Devenish laughed again and not too pleasantly.
Mr. Ricardo was rescued from his uncomfortable position by his young hostess, who laid her hand upon his arm.
“You must now make the acquaintance of your host that was to have been,” she said. “Monsieur Le Vicomte Cassandre de Mirandol.”
Mr. Ricardo had been startled by the previous introduction. He was shocked by this one. No doubt, he reflected, there were all sorts of crusaders, but he could not imagine this one storming the walls of Acre. He was a tall, heavy, gross man with a rubicund childish face, round and dimpled; he had a mouth much too small for him and fat red lips, and he was quite bald.
“I shall look upon your visit to me as merely postponed, Mr. Ricardo,” he said in a thin, piping voice, and he gave Mr. Ricardo a hand which was boneless and wet. Mr. Ricardo made up his mind upon the instant that he would rather abandon altogether his annual pilgrimage than be the guest of this link with the Crusaders. He had never in his life come across so displeasing a personage. He should have been ridiculous, but he was not. He made Mr. Ricardo uncomfortable, and the
feel of his wet boneless hand lingered with the visitor as something disgusting. He could hardly conceal his relief when Diana Tasborough turned him towards the man whom he had seen crossing from the chalet.
“This is Mr. Robin Webster, my manager, and my creditor,” said Diana with a charming smile. “For I owe to him the prosperity of the vineyard.”
Mr. Webster disclaimed the praise of his mistress very pleasantly. “I neither made the soil nor planted the vines, nor work any miracles at all, Mr. Ricardo. Mine is a simple humble office which Miss Tasborough’s kindness makes a pleasure rather than a toil.”
The disclaimer might have sounded just a trifle too humble but for the attractive frankness of his manner. He was of the average height with quite white hair, and a pair of bright blue eyes. But the white hair was in him no sign of age. Mr. Ricardo put him down at somewhere between thirty-five and forty years of age, and could not remember to have seen a man of a more handsome appearance. He was clean-shaven, fastidious in his dress, with some touch of the exquisite. He spoke with a certain precision in his articulation which for some unaccountable reason was familiar to Mr. Ricardo; and altogether Mr. Ricardo was charmed to find anyone so companionable and friendly.
“I shall look forward to seeing something of the vintage under your guidance tomorrow, Mr. Webster,” he said; and a voice hailed him from the long window which stood open to the terrace.
“And not one word of greeting for me, Mr. Ricardo?”
Joyce Whipple was standing in the window relieved against the evening light. Of the anxiety which had clouded her face the last time he had seen her, there was not a trace. She was dressed in a shimmering frock of silver lace, there was a tinge of colour in her face, and she smiled at him joyously.
“So, after all, you put off your return to America,” he said, advancing eagerly towards her.
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 89