Nude in Mink by Sax Rohmer (classic literature books txt) 📖

>“Why was he not taken in the street?”

“There were passers-by. It would have been dangerous.”

“Well?”

“He opened the door. We seized him.”

The woman shuddered slightly.

“There was—violence?”

“My Lady, he struck Varro insensible. What could we do? It was fortunate that the neighbouring tenants were absent, for Abdul and I had to carry two men down to the car—”

“Be silent. Let me think. You are such coarse blunderers.” She raised a slender white hand and covered her eyes. “Claudette Duquesne is still with the actress woman in Shepherd Market?”

“Yes, My Lady. Mark Donovan is with her.”

“Ah! This is interesting. Remember, no violence with this wayward child. I shall direct you personally with regard to her… Is Dr. Maitland here?”

“He is here, My Lady.”

“In whose charge?”

“Abdul’s, My Lady.”

“Is Dr. Maitland… injured?”

“Dear My Lady, what could we do?”

At which the storm broke.

“Ah! this ugliness! Be silent! Excuses do not heal. They make fresh wounds. Why are your ways so ugly? Is he conscious?”

“Abdul is endeavouring to revive him… Madonna!”

She had sprung upright, fists clenched.

“Abdul!… Abdul! … A man with hands less delicate than the hooves of a mule! Are you mad? Rise up! Up, I say! Bring the physician Ariosto to him. Hurry! Hurry! When he has seen him, let Ariosto report to me.”

Philo had risen from the Egyptian stool upon which he had been seated, had drawn back so that he all but touched the rose tinted curtain.

“My Lady, forgive me if I have failed in this. I am afraid …”

Then, the woman laughed. He laughter was divine music—with a counter melody of hell interwoven.

“There is nothing to be afraid of when a duty has been performed to the best of one’s ability …”

5

In Jackie de Lara’s flat Claudette had dropped down on to the settee and, her hands clasped in her lap, was watching Donovan. As their glances met, that provocative flush swept again over her cheeks.

“Whatever do you think of me?” she asked. “How can I hope to excuse myself for—interfering with you like this?”

Perhaps Donovan’s ardent sincerity carried conviction, for Claudette smiled, although ever so slightly. It was the first time he had seen her smile, and he thought that a man who knew how to win such a smile as Claudette’s should be a very happy man indeed.

“I am Claudette Duquesne. My father is Marcel Duquesne, the Paris journalist.”

Marcel Duquesne! It all came back to Donovan—where he had heard the name—Claudette. “For instance,” Maitland had said, “what became of Claudette, the daughter of Marcel Duquesne, who disappeared on her way home from Algiers?”

“I begin to understand. You speak perfect English?”

“I was educated here, and my mother was English, or rather, Irish. She came from Donegal. I speak French, also, of course.”

Donovan shook hands with himself for his bearing in this particularly awkward interview, for Claudette had attained a composure which was truly remarkable. Alone with him —a stranger—in that oddly decorated bedroom, she seemed so much at ease that she put Donovan at ease too; no simple achievement.

“So you are really Claudette Duquesne, who disappeared on the way home from Algiers? The French newspapers were full of the story. But you father?”

“My poor father! I … I can’t bear to speak about him.”

“I’m sorry. Truly sorry,” Donovan assured her penitently. “Please don’t let me upset you. Just let’s forget that part and thank heaven that your own troubles are over—that you’re safe, now.”

“Oh!” Claudette whispered, “if I could only believe it! If I dared to think that She could never find me! But she is terrible. I am so terrified. That was why I ran away from your flat last night—from you. I’m afraid I fainted, but I must have recovered pretty quickly. I thought you were one of Our Lady’s men.”

“Our Lady’s men?”

“It must sound strange, because I know now that you are not. But you are—well, good looking, and she seems to employ no one who is not good-looking.”

“You flatter me,” Donovan replied, awkwardly. “If you mean a biggish fellow, you probably mean what a friend of mine meant when he said that anybody would take me for a policeman.”

Claudette shook her head.

“It isn’t just that. But I was so distrustful, of everybody, that I was afraid to move, or even to try to get in touch with the police. For one thing, I didn’t think they would believe me. I remembered your name, though, and remembered your saying you were with the Alliance Press Association. This evening, in desperation, I rang them up and asked for you. They said you had been there but had gone. That was when I phoned Jackie to try to find you. I knew you were really—you! But I feel terribly guilty, as though I’m dragging you into something—something awful—something which may ruin your life, too!”

But Donovan was thinking, as he watched her, that he would, very gladly, have crossed two continents just for the happiness of seeing her again. His thoughts, in fact, rather frightened him, and so he said:

“Now that you know that you are safe, try to forget your troubles, and try to explain to me just what happened. There is something more than mere chance in our meeting. I feel that we are going to be very real, firm friends. Steel Maitland spoke to me only last night about your disappearance. Don’t you think that’s odd, when here we are talking together tonight?”

Claudette’s eyes opened widely. “Was that—after I had been at—your flat?”

“Yes. Naturally I had no reason to suspect that you were Claudette Duquesne.”

A cheerful rattle of pans and a smell of coffee came from the next room, where Jackie was humming snatches of songs, possibly from the Colombe d’Or revue.

“Wasn’t it amazing good luck that I ran into her?” said Claudette. “I felt utterly, hopelessly, lost. She was simply splendid. She’s a darling. She came up to me, you know, and took me home as one would a poor, stray thing. I shall never be able to repay Jackie.”

“And now I’ve found you again, I shall never be able to repay her either, Claudette… May I call you Claudette?”

“But of course! I love your New England courtesy so much—Mr. Donovan! And may I call you—”

“That makes me very happy. I guess, maybe, I am a little shy. My name is Mark. What I can’t understand is how you came to be in the hands of this awful woman. Who is she? What is she? and how did you meet her?”

And this is what Claudette Duquesne told Mark Donovan.