Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo
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E. Phillips Oppenheim >> Mr. Grex of Monte Carlo
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They entered the Hotel de Paris. Hunterleys made a few breathless
enquiries. Nothing, alas! was known of Mr. Richard Lane. He came back,
frowning, to the steps of the hotel.
"If he is up playing golf at La Turbie," Hunterleys muttered, "we shall
barely have time."
A reception clerk tapped him on the shoulder. He turned abruptly around.
"I have just made an enquiry of the floor waiter," the clerk announced.
"He believes that Mr. Lane is still in his room."
Hunterleys thanked the man and hurried to the lift. In a few moments he
was knocking at the door of Lane's rooms. His heart gave a great jump as
a familiar voice bade him enter. He stepped inside and closed the door
behind him. Richard, in light blue pyjamas, sat up in bed and looked at
his visitor with a huge yawn.
"Say, old chap, are you in a hurry or anything?" he demanded.
"Do you know the time?" Hunterleys asked.
"No idea," the other replied. "The valet called me at eight. I told him
I'd shoot him if he disturbed me again."
"It's nearly three o'clock!" Hunterleys declared impressively.
"Can't help it," Richard yawned, throwing off the bed-clothes and
sitting on the edge of the bed. "I am young and delicate and I need my
rest. Seriously, Hunterleys," he added, "you take a chap out and make
him drive you at sixty miles an hour all through the night, you keep him
at it till nearly six in the morning, and you seem to think it a tragedy
to find him in bed at three o'clock in the afternoon. Hang it, I've only
had eight hours' sleep!"
"I don't care how long you've had," Hunterleys rejoined. "I am only too
thankful to find you. Now listen. Is your brain working? Can you talk
seriously?"
"I guess so."
"You remember our talk last night?"
"Every word of it."
"The time has come," Hunterleys continued,--"your time, I mean. You said
that if you could take a hand, you'd do it. I am here to beg for your
help."
"You needn't waste your breath doing that," Richard answered firmly.
"I'm your man. Go on."
"Listen," Hunterleys proceeded. "Is your yacht in commission?"
"Ready to sail at ten minutes' notice," the young man assured him
emphatically, "victualled and coaled to the eyelids. To tell you the
truth, I have some idea of abducting Fedora to-day or to-morrow."
"You'll have to postpone that," Hunterleys told him. "I want to borrow
the yacht."
"She's yours," Richard assented promptly. "I'll give you a note to the
captain."
"Look here, I want you to understand this clearly," Hunterleys went on.
"If you lend me the _Minnehaha_, well, you commit yourself a bit. You
see, it's like this. I've one man of my own in Grex's household. He came
to me this morning. Monsieur Douaille objects to cross again the
threshold of the Villa Mimosa. He fears the English newspapers. There
has been a long discussion as to the next meeting-place. Grex suggested
a yacht. To that they all agreed. There is a man named Schwann down in
Monaco has a yacht for hire. Mr. Grex knows about it and he has sent the
man I spoke of into Monaco this afternoon to hire it. They are all going
to embark at ten o'clock to-night. They are going to hold their meeting
in the cabin."
Lane whistled softly. He was wide awake now.
"Go on," he murmured. "Go on. Say, this is great!"
"I want," Hunterleys explained, "your yacht to take the place of the
other. I want it to be off the Villa Mimosa at ten o'clock to-night,
your pinnace to be at the landing-stage of the villa to bring Mr. Grex
and his friends on board. I want you to haul down your American flag,
keep your American sailors out of sight, cover up the Stars and Stripes
in your cabin, have only your foreign stewards on show. Schwann's yacht
is a costly one. No one will know the difference. You must get up now
and show me over the boat. I have to scheme, somehow or other, how we
can hide ourselves on it so that I can overhear the end of this plot."
The face of Richard Lane was like the face of an ingenuous boy who sees
suddenly a Paradise of sport stretched out before him. His mouth was
open, his eyes gleaming.
"Gee, but this is glorious!" he exclaimed. "I'm with you all the way.
Why, it's wonderful, man! It's a chapter from the Arabian Nights over
again!"
He leapt to his feet and rang the bell furiously. Then he rushed to the
telephone.
"Blue serge clothes," he ordered the valet. "Get my bath ready."
"Any breakfast, monsieur?"
"Oh, breakfast be hanged! No, wait a moment. Get me some coffee and a
roll. I'll take it while I dress. Hurry up!... Yes, is that the enquiry
office? This is Mr. Lane. Send round to my chauffeur at the garage at
once and tell him that I want the car at the door in a quarter of an
hour. Righto! ... Sit down, Hunterleys. Smoke or do whatever you want
to. We'll be off to the yacht in no time."
Hunterleys clapped the young giant on the shoulders as he rushed through
to the bathroom.
"You're a brick, Richard," he declared. "I'll wait for you down in the
hall. I've a pal there."
"I'll be down in twenty minutes or earlier," Lane promised. "What a
lark!"
CHAPTER XXXIV
COFFEE FOR ONE ONLY
The breaking up of Mr. Grex's luncheon-party was the signal for a
certain amount of man[oe]uvring on the part of one or two of his guests.
Monsieur Douaille, for instance, was anxious to remain the escort of
Lady Hunterleys, whose plans for the afternoon he had ascertained were
unformed. Mr. Grex was anxious to keep apart his daughter and Lady
Weybourne, whose relationship to Richard Lane he had only just
apprehended; while he himself desired a little quiet conversation with
Monsieur Douaille before they paid the visit which had been arranged for
to the Club and the Casino. In the end, Mr. Grex was both successful and
unsuccessful. He carried off Monsieur Douaille for a short ride in his
automobile, but was forced to leave his daughter and Lady Weybourne
alone. Draconmeyer, who had been awaiting his opportunity, remained by
Lady Hunterleys' side.
"I wonder," he asked, "whether you would step in for a few minutes and
see Linda?"
She had been looking at the table where her husband and his companion
had been seated. Draconmeyer's voice seemed to bring her back to a
present not altogether agreeable.
"I am going back to my room for a little time," she replied. "I will
call in and see Linda first, if you like."
They left the restaurant together and strolled across the Square to the
Hotel de Paris, ascended in the lift, and made their way to
Draconmeyer's suite of rooms in a silence which was almost unbroken.
When they entered the large salon with its French-windows and balcony,
they found the apartment deserted. Violet looked questioningly at her
companion. He closed the door behind him and nodded.
"Yes," he admitted, "my message was a subterfuge. I have sent Linda over
to Mentone with her nurse. She will not be back until late in the
afternoon. This is the opportunity for which I have been waiting."
She showed no signs of anger or, indeed, disturbance of any sort. She
laid her tiny white silk parasol upon the table and glanced at him
coolly.
"Well," she said, "you have your way, then. I am here."
Draconmeyer looked at her long and anxiously. Skilled though he was in
physiognomy, closely though he had watched, for many months, the lights
and shades, the emotional changes in her expression, he was yet, at that
moment, completely puzzled. She was not angry. Her attitude seemed to
be, in a sense, passive. Yet what did passivity mean? Was it
resignation, consent, or was it simply the armour of normal resistance
in which she had clothed herself? Was he wise, after all, to risk
everything? Then, as he looked at her, as he realised her close and
wonderful presence, he suddenly told himself that it was worth while
risking even Heaven in the future for the joy of holding her for once in
his arms. She had never seemed to him so maddeningly beautiful as at
that moment. It was one of the hottest days of the season and she was
wearing a gown of white muslin, curiously simple, enhancing, somehow or
other, her fascinating slimness, a slimness which had nothing to do with
angularity but possessed its own soft and graceful curves. Her eyes were
bluer even than her turquoise brooch or the gentians in her hat. And
while his heart was aching and throbbing with doubts and hopes, she
suddenly smiled at him.
"I am going to sit down," she announced carelessly. "Please say to me
just what is in your mind, without reserve. It will be better."
She threw herself into a low chair near the window. Her hands were
folded in her lap. Her eyes, for some reason, were fixed upon her
wedding ring. Swift to notice even her slightest action, he frowned as
he discerned the direction of her gaze.
"Violet," he said, "I think that you are right. I think that the time
has come when I must tell you what is in my mind."
She raised her eyebrows slightly at the sound of her Christian name. He
moved over and stood by her chair.
"For a good many years," he began slowly, "I have been a man with a
purpose. When it first came into my mind--not willingly--its
accomplishment seemed utterly hopeless. Still, it was there. Strong man
though I am, I could not root it out. I waited. There was nothing else
to do but wait. From that moment my life was divided. My whole-soul
devotion to worldly affairs was severed. I had one dream that was more
wonderful to me, even, than complete success in the great undertaking
which brought me to London. That dream was connected with you, Violet."
She moved a little uneasily, as though the repetition of her Christian
name grated. This time, however, he was rapt in his subject.
"I won't make excuses," he went on. "You know what Linda is--what she
has been for ten years. I have tried to be kind to her. As to love, I
never had any. Ours was an alliance between two great monied families,
arranged for us, acquiesced in by both of us as a matter of course. It
seemed to me in those days the most natural and satisfactory form of
marriage. I looked upon myself as others have thought me--a cold,
bloodless man of figures and ambition. It is you who have taught me that
I have as much sentiment and more than other men, a heart and desires
which have made life sometimes hell and sometimes paradise. For two
years I have struggled. Life with me has been a sort of passionate
compromise. For the joy of seeing you sometimes, of listening to you and
watching you, I have borne the agony of having you leave me to take your
place with another man. You don't quite know what that meant, and I am
not going to tell you, but always I have hoped and hoped."
"And now," she said, looking at him, "I owe you four thousand pounds and
you think, perhaps, that your time has come to speak?"
He shivered as though she had struck him a blow.
"You think," he exclaimed, "that I am a man of pounds, shillings, and
pence! Is it my fault that you owe me money?"
He snatched her cheques from his inner pocket and ripped them in pieces,
lit a match and watched them while they smouldered away. She, too,
watched with emotionless face.
"Do you think that I want to buy you?" he demanded. "There! You are free
from your money claims. You can leave my room this moment, if you will,
and owe me nothing."
She made no movement, yet he was vaguely disturbed by a sense of having
made but little progress, a terrible sense of impending failure. His
fingers began to tremble, his face was the face of a man stretched upon
the rack.
"Perhaps those words of mine were false," he went on. "Perhaps, in a
sense, I do want to buy you, buy the little kindnesses that go with
affection, buy your kind words, the touch sometimes of your fingers, the
pleasant sense of companionship I feel when I am with you. I know how
proud you are. I know how virtuous you are. I know that it's there in
your blood, the Puritan instinct, the craving for the one man to whom
you have given yourself, the involuntary shrinking from the touch of any
other. Good women are like that--wives or mistresses. Mind, in a sense
it's narrow; in a sense it's splendid. Listen to me. I don't want to
declare war against that instinct--yet. I can't. Perhaps, even now, I
have spoken too soon, craved too soon for the little I do ask. Yet God
knows I can keep the seal upon my lips no longer! Don't let us
misunderstand one another for the sake of using plain words. I am not
asking you to be my mistress. I ask you, on my knees, to take from me
what makes life brighter for you. I ask you for the other things
only--for your confidence, for your affection, your companionship. I ask
to see you every day that it is possible, to know that you are wearing
my gifts, surrounded by my flowers, the rough places in your life made
smooth by my efforts. I am your suppliant, Violet. I ask only for the
crumbs that fall from your table, so long as no other man sits by your
side. Violet, can't you give me as much as this?"
His hand, hot and trembling, sought hers, touched and gripped it. She
drew her fingers away. It was curious how in those few moments she
seemed to be gifted with an immense clear-sightedness. She knew very
well that nothing about the man was honest save the passion of which he
did not speak. She rose to her feet.
"Well," she said, "I have listened to you very patiently. If I owe you
any excuse for having appeared to encourage any one of those thoughts of
which you speak, here it is. I am like thousands of other women. I
absolutely don't know until the time comes what sort of a creature I am,
how I shall be moved to act under certain circumstances. I tried to
think last night. I couldn't. I felt that I had gone half-way. I had
taken your money. I had taken it, too, understanding what it means to be
in a man's debt. And still I waited. And now I know. I won't even
question your sincerity. I won't even suggest that you would not be
content with what you ask for--"
"I have sworn it!" he interrupted hoarsely. "To be your favoured friend,
to be allowed near you--your guardian, if you will--"
The words failed him. Something in her face checked his eloquence.
"I can tell you this now and for always," she continued. "I have nothing
to give you. What you ask for is just as impossible as though you were
to walk in your picture gallery and kneel before your great masterpiece
and beg Beatrice herself to step down from the canvas. I began to wonder
yesterday," she went on, rising abruptly and moving across the room,
"whether I really was that sort of woman. With your money in my pocket
and the gambling fever in my pulses, I began even to believe it. And now
I know that I am not. Good-bye, Mr. Draconmeyer. I don't blame you. On
the whole, perhaps, you have behaved quite well. I think that you have
chosen to behave well because that wonderful brain of yours told you
that it gave you the best chance. That doesn't really matter, though."
He took a quick, almost a threatening step towards her. His face was
dark with all the passions which had preyed upon the man.
"There is a man's last resource," he muttered thickly.
"And there is a woman's answer to it," she replied, her finger suddenly
resting upon an unsuspected bell in the wall.
They both heard its summons. Footsteps came hurrying along the corridor.
Draconmeyer turned his head away, struggling to compose himself. A
waiter entered. Lady Hunterleys picked up her parasol and moved towards
the door. The man stood on one side with a bow.
"Here is the waiter you rang for, Mr. Draconmeyer," she remarked,
looking over his shoulder. "Wasn't it coffee you wanted? Tell Linda I'll
hope to see her sometime this evening."
She strolled away. The waiter remained patiently upon the threshold.
"Coffee for one or two, sir?" he enquired.
Mr. Draconmeyer struggled for a moment against a torrent of words which
scorched his lips. In the end, however, he triumphed.
"For one, with cream," he ordered.
CHAPTER XXXV
A NEW MAP OF THE EARTH
Selingman, who was leaning back in a leather-padded chair and smoking a
very excellent cigar, looked around at his companions with a smile of
complete approval.
"Our host," he declared, bowing to Mr. Grex, "has surpassed himself. For
a hired yacht I have seen nothing more magnificent. A Cabinet Moselle,
Flor de Cuba cigars, the best of company, and an isolation beyond all
question. What place could suit us better?"
There was a little murmur of assent. The four men were seated together
in the wonderfully decorated saloon of what was, beyond doubt, a most
luxurious yacht. Through the open porthole were visible, every few
moments, as the yacht rose and sank on the swell, the long line of
lights which fringed the shore between Monte Carlo and Mentone; the
mountains beyond, with tiny lights flickering like spangles in a black
mantle of darkness; and further round still, the stream of light from
the Casino, reflected far and wide upon the black waters.
"None," Mr. Grex asserted confidently. "We are at least beyond reach of
these bungling English spies. There is no further fear of eavesdroppers.
We are entirely alone. Each may speak his own mind. There is nothing to
be feared in the way of interruption. I trust, Monsieur Douaille, that
you appreciate the altered circumstances."
Monsieur Douaille, who was looking very much more at his ease, assented
without hesitation.
"I must confess," he agreed, "that the isolation we now enjoy is, to a
certain extent, reassuring. Here we need no longer whisper. One may
listen carefully. One may weigh well what is said. Sooner or later we
must come to the crucial point. This, if you like, is a game of
make-believe. Then, in make-believe, Germany has offered to restore
Alsace and Lorraine, has offered to hold all French territory as sacred,
provided France allows her to occupy Calais for one year. What is your
object, Herr Selingman? Do you indeed wish to invade England?"
Selingman poured himself out a glass of wine from the bottle which stood
at his elbow.
"Good!" he said. "We have come to plain questions. I answer in plain
speech. I will tell you now, in a few words, all that remains to be
told. Germany has no desire to invade Great Britain. If one may believe
the newspapers, there is scarcely an Englishman alive who would credit
this simple fact, but it is nevertheless true. Commercially, England,
and a certain measure of English prosperity, are necessary to Germany.
Geographically, there are certain risks to be run in an invasion of that
country, which we do not consider worth while. Besides, an invasion,
even a successful one, would result in making an everlasting and a
bitter enemy of Great Britain. We learnt our lesson when we took
territory from France. We do not need to repeat it. Several hundred
thousands of our most worthy citizens are finding an honest and
prosperous living in London. Several thousands of our merchants are in
business there, and prospering. Several hundreds of our shrewdest men of
affairs are making fortunes upon the London Stock Exchange. Therefore,
we do not wish to conquer England. Commercially, that conquest is
already affected. I want you, Monsieur Douaille, to absolutely
understand this, because it may affect your views. What we do require is
to strike a long and lasting blow at the navy of Great Britain. As a
somewhat larger Holland, Great Britain is welcome to a peaceful
existence. When she lords it over the world, talks of an Empire upon
which the sun never sets, then the time arrives when we are forced to
interfere. Great Britain has possessions which she is not strong enough
to hold. Germany is strong enough to wrest them from her, and means to
do so. The English fleet must be destroyed. South Africa, then, will
come to Germany, India to Russia, Egypt to France. The rest follows as a
matter of course."
"And what is the rest?" Monsieur Douaille asked.
Herr Selingman was content no longer to sit in his place. He rose to his
feet. His face had fallen into different lines. His eyes flashed, his
words were inspired.
"The rest," he declared, "is the crux of the whole matter. It is the one
great and settled goal towards which we who have understood have schemed
and fought our way. With the British Navy destroyed, the Monroe Doctrine
is not worth a sheet of writing-paper. South America is Germany's
natural heritage, by every right worth considering. It is our people's
gold which founded the Argentine Republic, the brains of our people
which control its destinies. Our Eldorado is there, Monsieur Douaille.
That is the country which, sooner or later, Germany must possess. We
look nowhere else. We covet no other of our neighbours' possessions.
Only I say that the sooner America makes up her mind to the sacrifice,
the better. Her Monroe Doctrine is all very well for the Northern
States. When she presumes to quote it as a pretext for keeping Germany
from her natural place in South America, she crosses swords with us. Now
you know the truth, and the whole truth. You know, Monsieur Douaille,
what we require from you, and you know your reward. Our host has already
told you, and will tell you again as often as you like, the feeling of
his own country. The Franco-Russian alliance is already doomed. It falls
to pieces through sheer lack of common interests. The entente cordiale
is simply a fetter and a dead weight upon you. Monsieur Douaille, I put
it to you as a man of common sense. Do you think that you, as a
statesman--you see, I will put the burden upon your shoulders, because,
if you choose, you can speak for your country--do you think that you
have a right to refuse from Germany the return of Alsace and Lorraine?
Do you think that you can look your country in the face if you refuse on
her behalf the greatest gift which has ever yet been offered to any
nation--the gift of Egypt? The old alliances are out of date. The
balance of power has shifted. I ask you, Monsieur Douaille, as you value
the prosperity and welfare of your country, to weigh what I have said
and what our great Russian friend has said, word by word. England has
made no sacrifices for you. Why should you sacrifice yourself for her?"
Monsieur Douaille stroked his little grey imperial.
"That is well enough," he muttered, "but without the English Navy the
balance of power upon the Continent is entirely upset."
"The balance of power only according to the present grouping of
interests," Mr. Grex pointed out. "Selingman has shown us how these must
change. Frankly, although no one can fail to realise the immense
importance of South America as a colonising centre, it is my honest
opinion that the nation who scores most by my friend Selingman's plans,
is not Germany but France. Think what it means to her. Instead of being
a secondary Power, she will of her own might absolutely control the
Mediterranean. Egypt, with its vast possibilities, its ever-elastic
boundary, falls to her hand. Malta and Cyprus follow. It is a great
price that Germany is prepared to pay."
Monsieur Douaille was silent for several moments. It was obvious that he
was deeply impressed.
"This is a matter," he said, "which must be considered from many points
of view. Supposing that France were willing to bury the hatchet with
Germany, to remain neutral or to place Calais at Germany's disposal.
Even then, do you suppose, Herr Selingman, that it would be an easy
matter to destroy the British Navy?"
"We have our plans," Selingman declared solemnly. "We know very well
that they can be carried out only at a great loss both of men and ships.
It is a gloomy and terrible task that lies before us, but at the other
end of it is the glory that never fades."
"If America," Douaille remarked, "were to have an inkling of your real
objective, her own fleet would come to the rescue."
"Why should America know of our ultimate aims?" Selingman rejoined. "Her
politicians to-day choose to play the part of the ostrich in the desert.
They take no account, or profess to take no account of European
happenings. They have no Secret Service. Their country is governed from
within for herself only. As for the rest, the bogey of a German invasion
has been flaunted so long in England that few people stop to realise the
absolute futility of such a course. London is already colonised by
Germans--colonised, that is to say, in urban and money-making fashion.
English gold is flowing in a never-ending stream into our country. It
would be the most foolish dream an ambitious statesman could conceive to
lay violent hands upon a land teeming with one's own children. Germany
sees further than this. There are richer prizes across the Atlantic,
richer prizes from every point of view."
"You mentioned South Africa," Monsieur Douaille murmured.
Selingman shrugged his shoulders.
"South Africa will make no nation rich," he replied. "Her own people are
too stubborn and powerful, too rooted to the soil."
Monsieur Douaille for the first time stretched out his hand and drank
some of the wine which stood by his side. His cheeks were very pale. He
had the appearance of a man tortured by conflicting thoughts.
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