The House of Peril (Ainslee's, 1911)/Chapter 1

RS. BLACKETT was resting in her sunny, barely furnished bedroom; that is, she was sitting back in a basket chair close to the open window, but though her dark-blue eyes were closed she was not asleep. She had just enjoyed a reasonable share of the copious, well-cooked meal which she had learned to think of as déjeuner, for this young American woman was spending a very happy summer in France—at Enghien.

It was a very hot August afternoon, but Mabel Blackett was in perfect physical condition, and in her cool, white silk-muslin gown and large black tulle hat, she felt only comfortably warm. It was an ideal day for a drive in the Forest of Montmerency—through the shady glades which used to be the principal attraction of Enghien, and Mrs. Blackett was waiting for the arrival of the friend whom she had asked to drive with her.

That friend was a Danish lady, a certain Madame Olsen. The two, both young, both widowed, both possessed of ample means, had met in the Paris hotel where Mabel Blackett had been spending a lonely week, and the two had soon become friends. It was owing to Anna Olsen that Mabel Blackett had stayed on in France instead of going on to Switzerland.

For the first time the pretty young American woman was seeing life, and she found such seeing very pleasant. How fortunate it was that one of the two mistresses of the old-fashioned “Young Ladies' School” at which she had been educated was a Frenchwoman! Thanks to that fact she spoke the language fairly well, and she had been able to make quite a number of friends in delightful Enghien.

Mrs. Blackett had been born, bred, married, and widowed in a small New England country town called Dallington. And not in her wildest dreams, during the placid days when she had been the principal heiress of that quiet—she now called it to herself, that sleepy—little place had she conceived of so amusing, so exhilarating an existence as that which she was now leading! This was perhaps owing in a measure to the fact that there is, if one may so express it, a spice of naughtiness in life as led at Enghien. At home, neither as girl nor during her brief married life as the wife of a man much older than herself, had Mabel Blackett ever been allowed to be naughty.

A highly esteemed guidebook to Paris says of Enghien:

But this, as every one who knows Enghien is very well aware, is only half, nay a quarter or an eighth, of the truth. Enghien is the spendthrift, the gambler—the austere would call her the chartered libertine—of the group of pretty country towns which encircle Paris; for Enghien is in the proud possession of a gambling concession which has gradually turned what was once the quietest of inland watering places into a miniature Monte Carlo.

The vast majority of American visitors to Paris remain quite unaware that there is, within half an hour of the French capital, such a spot as gay Enghien; the minority, those tourists who do make their way to the alluring little place, generally live to regret that they have done so.

But in this, as in so very many other things, Mabel Blackett was the fortunate exception which proves the rule. Enghien had developed in her a most unexpected taste—that of play. She thoroughly enjoyed risking her money—enjoyed both the humble joys provided by that gambling plaything, petits chevaux, and perhaps even more the more dangerous delights of baccarat. But for long generations her forbears had been business people and amassing-money people, and Mrs. Blackett, after the first few days, had never been tempted to play for more than she knew she could afford to lose.

It was a sad pity that in this matter the friend for whom she was now waiting—that is, Anna Olsen—was not as wise and sensible as herself. Mabel Blackett had an affectionate, happy nature, and as she waited for Madame Olsen her thoughts dwelt on her, not unkindly, only a little critically, as our thoughts are apt to dwell on those of our friends of whose conduct we do not particularly approve, especially if it be conduct that we ourselves would never be tempted to emulate.

Anna Olsen lived for play, and play alone. Dark, excitable, ardent, in spite of her Scandinavian blood, she was an absolute contrast to the fair American. That perhaps was one reason why they had become such friends, but sometimes Madame Olsen quite frightened Mabel Blackett by the reckless way in which she risked large sums of money at the gambling tables.

It was because of a considerable loss she had made very early in her stay at Enghien that Madame Olsen had decided to stay on at a cheap pension kept by some people called Malfait, after her American friend had moved to the Pension Noir, a better situated and altogether superior boarding house.

Mrs. Blackett, who was very fastidious in all her habits and ways, had fancied that the Pension Malfait was not quite as well kept—not quite as clean, to speak frankly—as it might be. And then Madame Wachner, one of the pleasant acquaintances Mabel Blackett and Anna Olsen had made at Enghien, had hinted that the kitchen of the Pension Malfait was not quite so scrupulously clean as it might be. That clinched the matter. The day she had received that kindly hint, Mabel had moved herself and her dainty belongings to the Pension Noir. She would have borne much for her friend, Anna Olsen, but not living on in a dirty boarding house.

There Came a knock at the door, and the commissionaire, by whom Mabel had sent the note inviting Madame Olsen to drive with her, walked in. He handed her back her own letter to her friend, and together with it a sheet of common note paper, across which were scrawled in pencil the words: “Madame Olsen est partie.”

“Partie?” The word puzzled her; surely it should have been “sortie.”

“Then the lady was out?” she said to the man,

“The lady has left the Pension Malfait,” he said briefly. “She has gone away.”

“There must be some mistake!” she exclaimed in French. “Madame Olsen would never have left Enghien without telling me.”

The man went on: “But I have brought back a carriage as madame directed me to do.”

She paid him, and then went downstairs hurriedly. As the carriage was there, she might as well drive to Anna Olsen's pension, and find out the meaning of the curt message, and why her own letter to Anna had been opened.

As she drove along the pretty, well-kept roads lined by gay beflowered villas, Mrs. Blackett began wondering uneasily as to the meaning of the message she had just received. It was out of the question that Anna Olsen should have left without telling her the place where they had both settled to spend the end of the summer. The two women had become really attached the one to the other, and Mabel hoped that in time her Danish friend would come back to America with her for part of the winter.

Madame Olsen had been remarkably lucky during these last few days—in fact, she had made quite a large sum of money at the tables. Emboldened by this good fortune, she had actually insisted, to the astonishment both of Mabel and also of the little group of acquaintances the two women had made in their respective pensions, on taking a bank at baccarat. Anna's luck had not forsaken her even then, and she had risen from the table, her dark face aglow with joy, and richer by some twenty thousand francs than when she had sat down.

That was two nights ago, and Madame Olsen had wisely determined to “cut” play for a few days. Mabel was aware that yesterday evening her friend was to have had supper with that very lady, Madame Wachner, who had been the indirect cause of Mabel Blackett's hurried departure from the Pension Malfait.

Monsieur and Madame Wachner were a kindly, middle-aged couple with whom the two young widows had quickly struck up a kind of intimacy, and whom they now met almost daily. Both husband and wife spoke English well, and had apparently traveled a great deal in English-speaking countries. They were not French, as Mabel Blackett had at first supposed them to be, and, when she had once asked Madame Wachner if she was German, the older woman had shaken her head and answered: “We are citizens of the world. Cosmopolites!” Anna Olsen believed them to be Servians.

The Wachners did not live in a pension; instead they had taken for the summer a pretty little house, called the Châlet des Muguets, situated on the outskirts of the town. As Anna Olsen had supped with them last night, the Wachners would of course know what had happened—nay, more, it was probable that Madame Wachner had a message from Anna explaining her abrupt departure, if indeed it was true that she had really left Enghien.

While these thoughts were passing disconnectedly through her mind, Mabel Blackett was relieved to see Madame Wachner walking slowly along the road toward her.

“Madame Wachner! Madame Wachner!” she cried, and the driver of the little victoria in which she was sitting drew up. “Have you heard that Anna Olsen has disappeared? I am going to the Pension Malfait to find out about it. Do come, too. Did she say anything about going away when she had supper with you yesterday?”

With voluble thanks, Madame Wachner climbed up into the carriage, and sat down with a sigh of satisfaction. She was a stout, still vigorous-looking woman, with a shrewd, determined face lit by dark, bright eyes which allowed, very little to escape them. She looked just now hot, red, and a little breathless. She waited a few moments before answering Mrs. Blackett's question; then:

“Madame Olsen did not come to supper yesterday,” she observed placidly. “We expected her, and stayed in on purpose, but she never came.” Again she waited; then turned and smiled at Mabel Blackett. “Yes, it is quite true that she 'as gone away.” When excited, Madame Wachner sometimes dropped her h's; apart from that, she spoke English remarkably well. “She 'as taken what you call 'French leave.'”

“But Anna cannot have left Enghien without letting me know?” Mrs. Blackett was staring straight at her companion; there was incredulity, and also discomfiture, painted on her fair, pretty face. “I'm sure she wouldn't have done such a thing! Why should she?”

The older woman shrugged her shoulders. Then, seeing that the young American looked really distressed:

“I expect she will come back soon,” she said consolingly. “You know that she 'as left her luggage at the Pension Malfait? That does not look as if she 'ad gone for evare”

“Left her luggage?” repeated Mabel. “Why, then, of course she is coming back. How could the Pension Malfait people think that she has gone—I mean for good? You know”—she lowered her voice, for she did not wish the driver to hear what she was about to say—“you know, Madame Wachner, that Anna won a very large sum of money two days ago.”

Mrs. Blackett was aware that people before now have been robbed and roughly handled, even in idyllic Enghien, when leaving the Casino after an exceptional stroke of luck at the tables.

“Yes, but she 'as had plenty of time to lose it all again.”

Madame Wachner spoke dryly. She was still very red, and as she spoke she fanned herself vigorously with a paper she held in her left hand.

“Oh, but indeed she did not do anything of the sort. Anna has not been inside the Casino since she took that bank at baccarat.” Mabel Blackett spoke very eagerly.

“Ah, well, that neither you nor I can say. She may have been there—and once there, well, the money flies. But let us suppose you are right—in that case surely our friend would have done very wisely to leave Enghien with her gains in her pock-kett?”

Madame Wachner was leaning back in the victoria, a ruminating smile on her broad, good-tempered face; she was thoroughly enjoying the drive, for it was very, very hot, and she disliked walking.

Something of a philosopher was Madame Wachner, always accepting with eager, outstretched hands that which the gods provided her.

And now pretty Mabel Blackett, though unobservant, as happy, prosperous youth invariably is, received the impression that her companion did not wish to discuss Madame Olsen's sudden departure; in fact, that the older woman, feeling that the matter was no concern of hers, was unwilling to talk about it.

Although Madame Wachner spent a good deal of time at the Casino and often played at petits chevaux, she was not a gambler in the sense that Anna Olsen was. On the other hand, Monsieur Wachner, like the Danish widow, only lived for play. L'Ami Fritz, as his wife generally called him, was a tall, thin, silent man, passionately interested in what may be defined as the scientific side of gambling—that is, in the mysterious laws which govern chance. He always played according to some elaborate “system,” and, if Anna Olsen was to be believed, he lost considerable sums at the tables each week. But if that were so, then his wife never allowed the fact to disturb her. Madame Wachner was always kindly and genial, interested in her friends' affairs rather than absorbed in her own. So it was that, having become accustomed to receive interest and sympathy in full measure from the woman now sitting by her side, Mabel was surprised that Madame Wachner did not seem more concerned at Anna Olsen's departure, for she herself felt very deeply concerned, as well as surprised and hurt.

As they came within sight of the Pension Malfait, Mrs. Blackett's companion suddenly placed her large, powerful, bare hand on the American's small, gloved one.

“Look here, Mab-bel,” she said familiarly. “Do not worry about Madame Olsen. Believe me, she is not worth it. And then, you know, you still have good friends left in Enghien—I do not only speak of me and of my husband, but also of another one!” And she laughed a little maliciously.

But Mabel gave no answering smile. For the moment she was absorbed in the thought of Anna Olsen, and in the mystery of Anna Olsen's sudden departure.

As they drove up to the door of the boarding house, Madame Wachner remarked:

“I do not think, dear friend, that I will enter the Pension Malfait. They have already seen me this morning—indeed, I was there also last night, for I wished to know why Madame Olsen had not kept her appointment with us. They must be quite tired of seeing me.”

Mrs. Blackett felt a little disappointed. She would have liked the support of Madame Wachner's cheerful presence when making her inquiries, for she was vaguely aware that the proprietress of Anna's pension had keen much annoyed when she, Mabel, had left for the other, superior and alas, cleaner, boarding house.

Madame Malfait, an active, sharp-eyed little Frenchwoman, was sitting in her usual place; that is, in a glass cage in her hall. When she saw Mrs. Blackett coming toward her, a look of impatience and dislike came over her face.

“Bon jour, madame,” she said curtly. “I suppose you have come to ask me about Madame Olsen? I can give you no news—no news at all—beyond the fact that she did not come home last evening, and that this morning we found a letter in her room saying she had gone away. She need not have troubled to write—a word of explanation would have been better, and would have prevented my servants sitting up all night We quite feared something had happened to her.”

The woman held out a sheet of note paper, on which were written the words:

Mabel Blackett stared down at the open letter. Anna Olsen had not even signed her name. The few lines were very clear, written in a large, decided handwriting—considerably larger, or so Mabel Blackett fancied, than Anna's ordinary hand. But then the American had not had the opportunity of seeing much of her Danish friend's caligraphy [sic].

She was not given much time in which to study the letter, for Madame Malfait took it out of her hand before she had quite finished reading it over for the second time.

But Mabel Blackett was quite unused to being snubbed; pretty young women provided with plenty of money seldom are; and so she did not turn away and leave the house, as Madame Malfait had hoped she would do.

“What a strange thing!” she observed musingly. “How extraordinary it is, Madame Malfait, that my friend should have gone away like this, leaving her luggage behind her! What can possibly have made her want to leave Enghien in such a hurry?”

The Frenchwoman looked at her with a curious stare.

“If you ask me to tell you the truth, madame,” she said rather insolently, “I have no doubt that Madame Olsen went to the Casino yesterday and lost her money; became, in fact, décavée!” Then, rather ashamed of her rudeness, she added: “But she is a very honest lady, that I will say, for you see she left enough money to pay everything, as well as to provide my servants with handsome gratuities. That is more than the last person who left me in a hurry troubled to do.”

“But it is so strange that she left her luggage,” repeated Mabel in a perplexed, dissatisfied tone.

“Pardon me, madame, that is not strange at all. She probably went to Paris without knowing exactly where she meant to stay, and she did not want to take her luggage round with her when looking for a hotel. Any moment I may receive a telegram from her telling me where to send it.”

As Mabel at last began walking toward the front door, the landlady hurried after her.

“Madame will not say too much about Madame Olsen's departure, will she?” she said a little anxiously. “I do not want any embarrassments with the police. Everything is quite en règle. After all, Madame Olsen had a right to go away without telling madame of her plans, had she not?”

“Certainly she had the right to do so,” said Mabel coldly. “But still, I should be much obliged if you would kindly send me word when you receive the telegram you are expecting her to send you about the luggage.”

After she took her place in the carriage by Madame Wachner, Mrs. Blackett remained silent for a few moments. Then:

“It's very strange,” she repeated; “I should never have expected Anna Olsen to do such a thing.”

“Well—now that is just what I should have expected her to do.” exclaimed Madame Wachner briskly. “And then there was that absurd fortune teller, you know”

“Yes—so there was! But Anna was far too sensible a woman to be guided by a fortune teller.”

“Hum! I wonder!”

The carriage was still stationary, and the driver turned round for orders.

Mabel roused herself. “Can I drive you back to the Châlet des Muguets?” she asked. “Somehow I don't feel inclined to take a turn in the Forest now.”

“Well, if you do not mind”—Madame Wachner hesitated—“I should prefer to be driven to the station; in fact, I was on my way there when you met me, for L'Ami Fritz had to go to Paris”—she laughed—“to fetch money, as usual! His 'system' did not work well yesterday.”

“How horrid!” said Mrs. Blackett naïvely. “It must be very disappointing for Mr. Wachner when his 'systems' go wrong.”

“Yes—very,” answered the wife dryly. “But, bah! He at once sets himself to inventing another. I lose a great deal more at my petits chevaux playing with francs than Fritz does each season at baccarat playing with gold. You see, a 'system' has this good about it—one generally comes out even at the end of each month.”

“Does one indeed?”

But Mabel was not attending to what the other was saying. She was still absorbed in the thought of her friend, and of the mystery of that friend's sudden departure from Enghien.