Number Six and the Borgia/Chapter 14

There is a little hotel overlooking the beauties of Babbacombe Bay, in Devonshire. Its lawn stretches to the edge of the cliff; its gardens are secluded from public view by high hedges of rambler roses. Under a big garden umbrella sat an old man and a girl. A table was spread for breakfast, and Mr. Ross was reading the morning newspapers, while Stephanie was looking out ever the sea.

“My dear,” he said, putting down the paper and looking over his glasses with a puzzled frown, “this is the third day, and we have heard no news from Monsieur Lecomte.”

“I don't think we're likely to get news for a little while,” she said. “I'm sure Monsieur Lecomte is doing his best. He searched Cæsar's château from end to end, and he is perfectly confident that my mother is alive.”

“But she was not there,” persisted the old man, shaking his head. “That is bad. This man Cæsar is a devil, I tell you”

“She had been there a few days before,” said the girl. “This woman—what is her name, Madonna Beatrice?—admitted it when they arrested her.”

“Has Cæsar heard of her arrest?” asked the other quickly.

The girl made a little grimace. “We can't really worry as to whether Cæsar has heard or not. I am confident that he brought mother to England.”

The old man muttered something uncomplimentary to the French police. “If they'd only searched the château when I was in Paris,” he said, “but there were all sorts of formalities to be overcome. Apparently Cæsar is regarded as an American subject, and they had to consult the consulate; and then the infernal consulate had to consult somebody else to discover whether he was American or English. Who was this madonna person?”

“An old servant of the Valentines, I believe,” said the girl.

“We shall have him yet,” muttered the old man and took up his paper again.

It was at that moment that Tray-Bong Smith made his appearance, a passable figure in gray flannels, who strolled nonchalantly across the lawn toward the group. At sight of him the girl rose.

“Why—why” she stammered.

“Who is this?” demanded Mr. Ross sharply, “Mr. Smith?”

“I'm awfully sorry,” said Tray-Bong Smith. “I have not the slightest intention of joining your party, but I have very specific instructions from my worthy friend Mr. Valentine to present myself here at nine o'clock, and here I am.”

The old man scowled up at him. “And you can go as quickly as you came,” he said gruffly. “We want no people of your caliber here, my friend.”

A car had stopped on the public road, opposite the entrance to the hotel garden. The girl heard it and Smith heard it, but neither attached any significance to so commonplace an event. Perhaps, had they seen the man and woman who alighted, or been witnesses of the menacing gesture of the man and the shrinking submission of the woman, even the venom in the old man's tone would have been unheeded.

“You can go back to your employer,” he snapped, “and tell him that I am afraid neither of him nor of his hired cutthroats. Such men as you, enjoying all the advantages of education and birth, who descend to the level you have reached, are more contemptible in the eyes of decent men and women than the poor, wretched creatures who fill our gaols.”

Smith smiled a little crookedly. “Your views upon my character,” he drawled, “are particularly interesting. Your granddaughter will probably tell you” and here came the grand interruption.

Smith alone of the three understood just what it meant and drew a long, sighing breath as a faded woman walked haltingly toward them. “My God!” he whispered.

The girl was watching the intruder wonderingly. The old man still held to his scowl. The newcomer was a frail lady with an old colorless face and the hands she put before her as she groped like a blind woman across the lawn were blue-veined and almost transparent. Then the girl screamed and flew toward her, and at her approach the woman halted and shrank back.

“Mother—mother, don't you know me?” sobbed Stephanie, and caught the faded creature in her arms.

A waiter staggering under a laden tray came down a narrow path that led from the kitchen through the rosary into the lawn. He was surprised to see a tall man sitting on one of the garden seats that abound in these shady walks—more surprised when the stranger beckoned to him.

“Waiter,” he said, “could you get me a glass of water?”

“Certainly, sir,” said the waiter. “I am just taking coffee down to a gentleman on the lawn”

“It won't take you a minute,” said the man faintly and took out a handful of silver. “I have heart trouble. My life may depend upon your help.”

The waiter put down the tray and hurried back to the kitchen and returned in something under a minute. The stranger took the glass with a shaking hand. “Thank you,” he said, “I feel better now.”

The waiter picked up the tray, pocketed the liberal tip and carried the tray to this strangely assorted group on the lawn. When he returned the stranger had gone.

The fourth member of that group, Smith, felt awkward and out of place. Yet he must hold on, for Cæsar would not have telegraphed to him insisting upon his arrival at the Bellevue at an exact hour, unless there was more of the game to be played out. He had drawn aside from the three, and heard little of what was said. He recognized the woman immediately as the apparition he had looked upon from his bedroom window, at Maisons Lafitte.

It was old Ross who beckoned him forward, and if his tone was not friendly, it had lost some of its antagonism.

“Mr. Smith,” he said solemnly, “did you know of this?”

Smith shook his head. “I knew nothing,” he said, “except that I suspect this lady was kept a prisoner at Cæsar's house at Maisons Lafitte.”

“Do you know why he has released her, why he brought her here this morning?”

Again Smith shook his head.

“I know nothing except that I had instructions from my employer to be here at a certain hour.”

It was an awkward moment and a situation which required the most delicate handling. After a little while he was withdrawing when the woman beckoned him back. She was sitting looking listlessly from her daughter to the old man. A dazed, gray woman, incapable, it seemed, of understanding what was going on around her, but at the man's movements she roused herself.

“You are Smith?” she said. She spoke slowly as one who was not accustomed to speaking. “He told me you were to wait.”

“Where is he?” asked Smith quickly.

“He was here—in the car.” She pointed to the way she had come. “But I think he has gone now. He did not wish to wait and see father,” she said simply. “But you were here. He said that. We must always do what Cæsar says.”

Smith came back to the little group and at a nod from the old man seated himself.

“I signed the paper he asked me to sign,” said the woman, “on the boat yesterday, and one of the sailors—a steward, I think—signed it, too.”

“A paper?” said the girl quickly. “What kind of paper, mother?”

The woman's brows contracted. “Mother?” she repeated. “That's a peculiar word.” She looked strangely at the girl. “I had a little child once,” she said, and her eyes filled with tears.

Stephanie drew the woman's head down upon her shoulder and comforted her.

“Let us hear the story, my dear,” said Ross gently. “I am sure Mr. Smith will not mind staying. Stephanie, my child, pour out the coffee, and a cup for Mr. Smith.”

“It was a week ago, I think,” said the woman more calmly. “Cæsar came to the house and told me he was taking me back to England to my father, and, of course, I was glad. It has been very—very dull at the château, you know. And everything has been so mysterious, and sometimes Cæsar has been quite cruel. They were afraid of my running away; that's why they only used to allow me to come out at night with horrible things on my hands and ankles, so that I couldn't run. I tried to run away once,” she said.

Smith was watching her over the brim of his cup as he sipped his coffee. Stephanie had lifted her cup and it was at her lips when Smith struck it from her hand. The hot coffee spilled over her dainty dress and she sprang up in alarm and indignation. “Sorry!” said Smith most coolly. “Sorry to interrupt the story and the light repast; but there's a taste about this coffee which I don't like.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Ross.

“I only mean,” said Mr. Smith, “that it seems to me rather likely that friend Cæsar is removing the just and the unjust at one fell swoop; and, speaking for myself, I should prefer to live a little while longer.” He smelled the coffee, then beckoned the waiter who was visible at the far end of the lawn.

“Coffee tastes funny, sir?” said the waiter in surprise, “I don't know why that should be.”

He was lifting the cup when Smith stopped him.

“Unless you want to be a very dead waiter,” he said, “I should recommend you not to taste it. Just tell me. Did you bring this coffee straight from the kitchen?”

“Yes, sir,” said the man, mystified.

“Did you meet anybody on the way?”

“No, sir—yes, I did,” corrected the man. “There was a gentleman who was ill, and asked me to get him a glass of water.”

“Which you did,” said Smith, “leaving the coffee behind. I see.” He nodded. “All right, that will do.”

“Shall I take the coffee back?”

“No, thank you,” said Smith grimly. “Leave the coffee here. I want to make absolutely certain that Cæsar Valentine has double-crossed me, but I'd rather like to make the experiment on something less than human. Bring me a bottle—a whisky bottle will do—to put this coffee in.”

There was a dead silence when the waiter had gone.

“You don't mean to suggest that he would be as diabolical as that?”

“I'm not concerned with the morality, of his actions or the purity of his intentions,” said Smith, “but I am pretty certain that our friend contemplated a vulgar and wholesale murder which would remove in one swoop every person with a knowledge of his infamy.”