The next morning the young Rajah did not arrive. Had he crossed by the Southampton steamer to Havre, he should have been at Trouville before nine o’clock. Nor did any message come from him. Lydia waited until twelve and could wait no longer. Oliver was waiting, too, she told herself, with the Chitipur jewel, in some safe place like Havre. For the only alternative was that he had been the victim of some dreadful crime compared with which the attack on her had been a mere triviality; and that she refused to believe, though it pressed and clamoured to be believed, breaking her heart and breaking her courage too.
She was in her car when a messenger arrived for her from the Hotel des Fontaines. He brought a note from Scott Carruthers that she and he were to meet Hanaud and Nahendra Nao at the House of the Pebble at six o’clock that afternoon. She shrank from returning to that house of disaster, but Hanaud of the Police would be present and she would be spared something which she dreaded even more — a return to the house-boat of Lucrece Bouchette. She drove off to Havre. She and Oliver had slipped away more than once from Caudebec and lunched at the Restaurant du Sceptre. Why shouldn’t he be waiting for her there? She drove to the restaurant and found Mr. Ricardo and Hanaud.
“You too didn’t trust me, Monsieur Hanaud, though I did trust you,” Lydia said gently.
Hanaud looked extremely uncomfortable and Ricardo was pleased to see it. It would do him good to feel uncomfortable.
“Mademoiselle, that morning I didn’t understand you. First you wanted to see me — oh, most urgently, and in private.”
“I have just told you that I trusted you. I wanted to tell you everything I knew.”
“Then the next moment, you wouldn’t see me at the only place where you could see me privately. At Caudebec.”
“But, monsieur, I was terrified of Caudebec. Caudebec meant for me Lucrece Bouchette, her maid Marie, the house-boat. I was certain that it was Lucrece who had stolen the necklace, who had threatened my eyes. Another woman had helped her. Who, except her maid? No, I wasn’t going to return to Caudebec.”
“In another minute, mademoiselle, you had again changed your mind. You would see me at Caudebec.”
“Yes. For during that minute Mr. Ricardo had told me that he had seen me aquaplaning at Caudebec the night before. The fact that I was aquaplaning was paraded in front of the hotel. Everybody there was meant to believe that I was aquaplaning.”
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
“When I was really at Trouville.”
“Yes.”
“Very well. It was plain to me at once that something else was planned against me, against both of us, Oliver and myself. There was a reason for staging that exhibition. It was to be done in my absence. I wasn’t to know of it. Well, I did know of it. I had been made to look like a thief already. Something else was planned. I had got to find out what it was. I couldn’t let it go, however much I was frightened. No!”
She lifted her head into the air. If she had lost her spirit during her bad hour at Guy Stallard’s house, she had got it back now, and she had had it in the Restaurant du Sceptre.
“Do you remember what I said? ‘Je m’y oblige.’ I subdue myself to what I’ve got to do. I had got to find out what new stroke was aimed at me. I was going back to Caudebec, and more, monsieur, I was going back to Lucrece Bouchette’s house-boat.”
Hanaud stood up, and made her the most charming little bow.
“Mademoiselle, I live in a rough world, and therefore, when someone finer than those I meet as a rule shines upon me for a moment, I do not always know it at once. I make you my apologies.”
It was very prettily done. Hanaud had his moments, Mr. Ricardo reflected.
Lydia Flight stretched out her hand and shook Hanaud’s.
“You shall make me no apologies. But for you what should I be now?” She threw a glance out of the window to the river and shivered.
“And then, mademoiselle, you came late to Caudebec?” Hanaud suggested.
“Yes. I am a little ashamed there,” Lydia returned. “I was more frightened of Lucrece than I ought to have been. I thought that I would give myself every chance...I thought that if in spite of everything I could find Oliver — oh, I know it wasn’t brave, but I am only the ordinary mixture. I was going to the house-boat to face Lucrece, but at the same time I shrank from it. I went to the cathedral. You see we had been there together — I stayed there pretending to look for Oliver — until the motto on the window drove me out ashamed. I went to the steamer booking-office. He might have crossed last night. He might be meaning to cross to-night. Then I caught at the idea that he might have, after all, gone to Trouville. I should be late for you, late for the appointment at the Château. But being late didn’t seem to matter. I crossed by the nearest ferry. There was no one at Trouville. I had then to face up to my own fears.”
She had crossed back by the ferry at Quilleboeuf. She had stopped her car at the hotel in Caudebec and asked for Hanaud. She had driven on, left her car at the end of the open space, ran along the embankment and hailed the house-boat. She wondered then whether Oliver had got back to it, whether he was waiting there for her, and not daring to go away lest she should arrive. It was growing dark by this time. Lydia heard the splash of the sculls and ran down the steps, but as the dinghy came round under the counter of the house-boat she saw that it was Marie who rowed it. She almost turned then and there and fled, but she did not. After all, here was a little town at her elbow, a house-boat only a few yards from the shore, and Hanaud of the Sûreté Generale on the watch. Nothing could happen to her, and she was stubborn in her conviction that between Oliver’s disappearance and the aquaplaning camouflage of yesterday night, there was a vital connection. She stepped into the dinghy.
“I meant to have it out with Lucrece Bouchette,” Lydia declared. “Then I should collect my things and leave the house-boat at once.” But nothing turned out as she had planned.
The saloon was dark, but forward of the saloon the two windows of one of the cabins showed light behind the curtains.
“Madame is in her room?” said Lydia.
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
Lydia climbed over the bulwarks into the stern of the house-boat, whilst Marie made the dinghy fast, and entered the saloon. She was in a fever now to find Lucrece. She threw off her hat on to the table. She did not trouble to switch on the lamps. There was enough glimmer from the twilight for her to see her way across to the forward door. She opened that door. The passage ahead of her between the two rows of cabins was in darkness, and though a skylight gave light to it by day, the skylight was covered with a carpet now. She knew that the door of Lucrece’s cabin was the first upon the right-hand side, and the light switch on the wall beside it. Lydia went forward and caught her heel in what she thought to be a tear in the carpet. But it was not a tear in the carpet. She pitched forward into a net slung across the passage. Before she could recover herself, she heard a little rumbling sound on the roof behind her, and her feet were drawn backwards. She had stepped on to the tail of the net spread out upon the floor and it was slipping away beneath her and lifting. She knew what the sound meant. There was a small electrically driven capstan on the roof deck just abaft the covered skylight which was used for the cables in mooring. That capstan was revolving and taking up as it revolved the net in which she was caught. She tried to turn and escape. But she only caught her heels the deeper and twisted the meshes more inextricably about her feet. Panic seized her. She began to struggle desperately, trying to keep her balance, trying to thrust the net from her face and her breast. A thin rope was threaded at each edge and both were brought together through the roof of the skylight on to the capstan so that as the net tugged at her feet, its edges began to close round her too. She hadn’t been equal to Lucrece...she was mad to have come on board...This was the net which she herself had woven...under Lucrece’s directions. As she struggled, tearing at the meshes, she remembered in a flash how she had been ordered to undo her work and do it again so that each knot shou
ld hold; and how she had obeyed. Lucrece had been making her plans then! Oh, she had been no match for Lucrece, and suddenly the door of the saloon behind her was shut. Lydia uttered a scream, but her breath was coming in gasps and it was little louder than a sob. Her feet were quite off the ground now and so tangled in the meshes that she could not free them. And now the net was tightening about her body, pressing her arms to her sides, cutting her face, leaving her as helpless as a fish. She lay still for a moment to gather what strength she had left and whilst she lay still the rumbling of the capstan ceased. A door opened and shut, just ahead of her, the door of Lucrece’s cabin, but no light now came from it; and in the darkness a pair of hands made sure that the net held her tight. The touch of those hands made Lydia’s blood run cold; and quite close to her face someone stooped and giggled. The sound drove Lydia into a frenzy. She struggled, she screamed once, and then a palm was clapped upon her mouth, and the voice of Lucrece — oh, there was no doubt about it now — said in a low voice:
“Keep quiet! No one could hear you. If you scream again — this,” and Lucrece’s other hand curved round her forehead and felt for her eyes. Lydia couldn’t speak, couldn’t whisper: “I promise, I promise!” but she lay quite still; and again Lucrece laughed.
“That’s better, Lydia,” she said and she switched on the light. She had done with secrecy. There was no further need for it. She was going to make sure that Lydia would bear no witness against her. She stood and looked down at her held tightly in the coils with a smile spreading over her face.
“I thought that I had lost you,” she cried. “When I heard your voice hailing from the bank, I couldn’t believe it. I think it was wonderful of you — so brave!”
And the door opened from the saloon, and Lucrece nodded to her maid.
“Lace the little fool up, Marie.”
Lydia dared not utter a word. This was to be the end for her, but the horror of Lucrece’s hands about her eyes kept her dumb. Anything but that disfigurement and torture. “Je m’y oblige.” She had bent herself to her task, and this was the result of it. Marie with a cord laced the edges of the net together with a rough hand. Then she went out again. In a moment, the little capstan revolved again, and let Lydia’s feet down to the floor. But Lydia could not stand. The net was too fast about her. Her feet dragged on the floor; she could twitch them feebly, but she could not separate them. Marie was back again in a moment. The top of the net was slung upon a hook in the passage roof. She and Lucrece lifted it off the hook and bringing the end back laced it down behind Lydia’s back. The girl was lying face downwards now on the floor of the passage. She could hardly move, the meshes of the net were so tightly drawn about her. If she did move, it was no more than a convulsion and the string cut into her arms and her throat and her legs.
“What are you going to do to me?” she implored piteously; and looking down at her, Lucrece laughed gleefully and Marie smiled.
“You are going aquaplaning again, my dear, as you did last night,” said Lucrece. “But you’ll be under the launch to-night.”
That was the plan. Someone was to ride the aquaplane board whilst Lydia in her net was to be dragged along below the water.
“It won’t take long,” said Lucrece with a grin. They were to run down the river in the darkness past the houses, beyond the bend. At a point where no one could spy, there was to be an accident. The rider on the board would fall and be drawn in, the net would be cut away from the dead body of Lydia; and no one in the world would be so distressed as Lucrece Bouchette.
“She was so fond of it. She did it so well. I warned her of the currents and the tide. She laughed at me. There wasn’t any danger. I allowed myself to be persuaded. Poor girl! I am really to blame. I ran the launch for her.”
That was the line Lucrece Bouchette was going to take. Remorse at the loss of a dear friend and the abrupt ending of a career; censure of herself for her weakness in consenting to so dangerous a pastime.
“I think Guy Stallard will be very sorry for five minutes,” said Lucrece venomously. “But he’ll forget, my dear. Men do, you know. I wonder where they’ll find you. Yes, and how long it’ll take before they do find you. I hope it will be soon, don’t you? Otherwise what they do find won’t be so pretty and charming as the Rosenkavalier, will it?”
It would not be possible to exaggerate the cold malignancy of Lucrece Bouchette’s voice. “Guy Stallard wouldn’t like it at all,” she went on smoothly. “You look quite lovely now in that pretty blue dress all disordered and your hair tangled, but in three days’ time — what with fish and the steamers going up and down — oh, my dear, a horror!”
“But you can’t do it!” Lydia cried. “You daren’t! I won’t scream, I promise, but you must listen. Hanaud’s here!”
“Hanaud!”
Lucrece Bouchette was startled. She straightened her back and so stood looking down upon her victim. A hunted look came into her eyes. She didn’t want Hanaud upon her heels.
“Here? What do you mean, Lydia?”
“He’s at Caudebec.”
Lydia saw a glimmer of hope. She pressed her little advantage and pressed it too hard. “I have seen him. I saw him at Havre to-day. I am to see him again — to-night. I stopped my car at the hotel to leave a message that he should expect me. The car’s on the quay now.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. And Hanaud knows the car. He’ll know that I drove here and came on board” — and she stopped, for suddenly Lucrece began to laugh.
“That’s very ingenious,” she said. “I almost believed you. Of course we all know that he is in Havre, don’t we. The papers have been full of him. And you’ve actually seen him! What a stroke of luck! And he has come to Caudebec to save you from that cruel Bouchette woman! Charming of him” — and her laughter ceased. “You little idiot!” she said, and she pushed Lydia contemptuously with her foot.
Lydia had said too much. Had she been content with her simple first statement that Hanaud was in Caudebec, she would have flung Lucrece Bouchette into a good deal of doubt and anxiety. She might even have abandoned the fine plan to punish Lydia which she had been savouring gleefully for a month. She might have tried to make terms. Lydia’s life for Lydia’s silence. But the details wouldn’t do. They were made up and after all not so very cleverly made up. Lydia had seen Hanaud, had she? She had a second appointment with him too. And he was at Caudebec! Lucrece was more savage than ever for having allowed herself to be frightened for one moment by so childish a lie.
“No, you don’t get free of your net so easily as that, my dear,” she continued. “You made it very strong, you remember. It would hold a shark. Didn’t we say that? Yes! At all events it’ll need a better lie than yours to break any of those meshes, I can tell you.”
Lydia’s glimmer of hope was extinguished. Lucrece stood rocking her from side to side with her foot. Every now and then a little spurt of laughter broke from her.
“Lydia Flight,” she said, speaking the name very slowly. “Lydia Flight,” and she set it to the motion of her foot in a sort of rhythm. She rocked the girl in the net, as though she rocked a cradle and chanted the name like a lullaby.
But in another sense Lydia had said too much. She had told Lucrece that her car was standing on the quay. Lucrece was thinking. The car could stand on that wide space all night and no one would notice it, or interfere with it.
“It’ll be useful, you’ll lend it to me, won’t you? There was a little difficulty, but since you lend me yours, or rather Guy Stallard’s, everything will now be easy. Come!”
She stooped: and called on Marie to help her. Lydia choked back a scream. To cry out in the vain hope that, muffled by these walls and doors and the covering over the skylight, her cry would reach the houses on the shore. No, she dared not do it. The talons of Lucrece were too near her face. They dragged her forward. In the bows of the house-boat there was a store-room for cables and a few sails and blocks and the hundred and one odd things needed upon any boat. Ther
e was neither window nor skylight to it, and the floor of it was deep under the water. Into this hole, the two women dragged Lydia and laid her down.
“If you cry out here, no one will hear you — unless I hear you,” said Lucrece, “and if I do, my dear, you will be very, very sorry,” and her lips were drawn back from her teeth and her eyes were terrifying.
They left her there and locked and barred the door. And there Lydia Flight lay in the darkness. But hours later, whilst Hanaud talked with Lucrece in the saloon, the Commissaire and Perrichet quietly searched the house-boat and discovered her. They loosed her from the net, bidding her keep silent. She was passed out from the window of her cabin on to the launch, and under Perrichet’s direction the launch was driven to the hard opposite the hotel.
This was the story which Lydia Flight told to her friends in Mr. Ricardo’s sitting-room in the hotel. She leaned back when she had told it, looking very white and troubled. Both men who had heard her had seen terror, stark and appalling, come and go in her face as she told it. Both had seen her head turn suddenly as though she was sure the dreadful events were to be renewed. But now that she lay back in her chair, wan and unhappy beyond words to describe, both were aware of the grief for her lover which took all the savour out of life.
“You shall go back to your bed, mademoiselle,” said Hanaud with a respect which was of the sincerest, as he rose from his chair. “You will know that you can sleep safely. For you have three friends here, Monsieur Ricardo, this poor man Hanaud, and Perrichet his Brigadier, who will not be foolish enough to try to console you, but who will hold you in their hearts.”
Lydia gave a hand to each of them, and a smile — a poor little thing in the way of smiles, wistful and unhappy, but the best she could manage. Hanaud opened the door. Outside it, stood Perrichet.
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 145