Chapter EIGHT: So that was the situation!

“You’re sure about this?” Geoffrey inquired seriously.

“Oh, quite! At first I made excuses for them. They must, of course, have been fearfully upset over what had just occurred, and in no frame of mind for looking after a guest. But--well, I’m giving them almost no trouble, and yet it is perfectly plain they are determined to get rid of me.”

“Why?” he asked, though fairly sure of the answer.

“Oh, you know what servants can be like when they’ve had the uninterrupted run of a place. They don’t want anyone there who might possibly criticize their arrangements or pull them up.”

She went on to relate the incident of the Empire bedroom, laughing when she came to the offensive comb and soap. Her companion, however, exclaimed in sharp annoyance:

“By Jove, what impertinence! They are behaving as though they owned the flat!”

“They really are. You can’t think what liberties they are taking. Everything is neglected and dirty, curtains unwashed, silver not polished. Eduardo looks like a desperado; the cook, who’s not at all a bad sort, is so impossibly slack she scarcely bothers to cook me enough to eat. I suppose that’s why I’m so ravenous to-night,” she added, laughing. “This cook,” she went on, “is a priceless person. This afternoon I glanced into the kitchen--filthy, of course, the sink piled up with dishes. What do you think she was doing? Sitting on the table, smoking a cigarette, and lacing a pair of pale blue satin stays!”

He joined her in mirth over the picture she drew, but sobered directly and frowned with noticeable displeasure.

“Jeanne,” she continued thoughtfully, “is, _au fond_, a really splendid character. I don’t want to minimize her devotion to my cousin, whatever faults she may possess. She is without any doubt deeply attached to her, giving her every possible attention, so that is really all that matters.”

“You’re satisfied about that, are you?”

She glanced at him, surprised.

“Oh, absolutely! And Mme. Bender is fond of her--quite dependent, in fact. I don’t know what she would do without her.”

He was silent at this, but after a moment turned the conversation to the invalid herself.

“How did Mme. Bender strike you when you saw her to-day? What exactly do you feel about her condition?”

She drew a long breath.

“I don’t quite know. After what I was told I was astonished to find her so little changed. She talked for the most part reasonably and seemed much as she was after the accident last year. I almost think that’s the worst part,” she added, “to sit and chat with her quietly all the time knowing what she has tried to do, what she may want to do again. I shiver when I think of it!”

He nodded understandingly.

“Yet you tell me she describes the thing as an accident.”

She assented.

“I would have believed her story, only how can one? You see Jeanne is probably right about it’s being the cunning of the madwoman trying to put us off the scent. Besides, it was the second attempt. There are bars up now, to prevent her throwing herself from the window. One can’t explain those away, can one? Oh, I’m afraid it’s really serious.”

He dug his cigarette into his coffee-cup, listening attentively while she went on to relate various small incidents to illustrate her meaning. One thing was clear--she ought to remove herself from so gloomy an atmosphere as soon as possible. He wondered if he dared tell her so.

“You believe, then, that your cousin may be likely to repeat the attempt on her life?” he asked when she had finished her recital.

“I’m afraid she may. I can’t help being apprehensive about it. But it isn’t only that that’s bothering me. I’ve got a horrid feeling about it all, something I can’t put into words.” Here she paused, striving to express an almost intangible idea that had come to birth during the past twelve hours. “I keep thinking there’s something I don’t quite grasp in all this, that things are going on beneath the surface, if you understand me…?”

“What do you mean?” he demanded.

She extended her hands with a helpless gesture.

“Exactly. What do I mean? You see I don’t know. It was Jeanne who put it into my head. She is so certain about the unfortunate influence of this friend of Mme. Bender’s, the one I spoke to you about.”

He looked up suddenly.

“You don’t mean----?”

“Yes, Hermione Cushing.”

“Miss Cushing!”

She watched his face, but could tell nothing from it.

“It seems that she was with Mme. Bender on both occasions, immediately before those suicidal attacks. There may be nothing in it, but I shan’t feel easy till I’ve seen what she’s like. In fact, I mean to call on her to-morrow.” She stopt, then went on again: “That’s another thing--to-day when I rang her up, Jeanne overheard me making the appointment, and was quite rude to me afterwards. It was exactly as though she suspected me of conniving with Miss Cushing to make trouble for her mistress. Funny, isn’t it? She’s rather like a fierce watch-dog where Germaine is concerned.”

On his side Geoffrey was indulging in a brief battle with his usual scruples. When he spoke it was with a conscious effort at naturalness.

“By the way,” he said, “I don’t want to prejudice you, and I am pretty sure it’s hardly worth mentioning--but a few weeks ago Miss Cushing came to see me about Mme. Bender.”

“She came to see you?” echoed the girl in amazed eagerness.

So that was it! At last he was going to tell her what he had so studiously kept back.

“She complained bitterly about being prevented from seeing her friend. She said she could scarcely ever get a word alone with her, and sometimes was denied admittance altogether.”

“Ah!” cried Catherine, “that bears out Jeanne’s story!”

“There was something else, too, though I’m not sure I ought to speak of it. I must rely on you not to give me away. She displayed an extraordinary concern in the disposition of Mme. Bender’s property, inquired if a will had been made, and seemed very worried as to whether or not she was in danger of losing a legacy she had reason to hope would come to her when Mme. Bender died. Don’t for Heaven’s sake,” he hurriedly supplemented, seeing the girl’s gesture of startled interest, “run away with any wrong ideas on the subject. I don’t attach any importance to this myself, I assure you.”

“But I’m not sure that I don’t,” murmured his companion, her eyes dark with excitement. “I can’t help thinking----”

“Don’t think,” he cautioned lightly. “Not at least till you’ve seen Hermione. I gathered,” he went on, “that a more or less open warfare was going on between the lady in question and this Jeanne. Each no doubt thinks the worst of the other. I daresay there’s a considerable amount of jealousy mixed up in it, for which reason I decline to take it seriously.”

She considered this doubtfully, and he could see that her brain was busy with speculation.

“Shall you stay on there?” he ventured after a pause. “Or is it going to be rather too disagreeable?”

“I shall stay for the present, anyhow,” she replied slowly. “You see, whatever her mental state is, Mme. Bender seems so really happy to have me there. I couldn’t hurt her by going away, not at once, that is. Later in the spring I am leaving for Italy, so it couldn’t be for long in any case.”

His face fell.

“Oh! So you don’t mean to stay long in Paris?”

“Not this time. I’m thinking of joining some people who are in England now, but my plans will depend somewhat on their movements.”

She was powdering her nose, so did not see the blank disappointment in his face, rather like the expression of a thirsty dog from whom a basin of water has been callously snatched away.

“But meantime,” she remarked with determination, “I am going to do my best to find out what, if anything, is causing these fits of depression with my cousin. I can’t help thinking there may be some definite, outside reason.”

He shook his head disparagingly. The vagaries of a hopeless neurotic were pretty difficult to fathom. If the case proved to be actually mental there was little chance of improvement, but he said nothing and gave his attention to the bill just presented to him.

The evening being still young, Catherine gladly agreed to his suggestion of a cinema, in her heart unwilling to return at once to the solitude of the gloomy apartment. Accordingly they presently found themselves seated in the warm darkness of a palatial building where shifting streamers of light played like the Aurora Borealis and an orchestra _en masse_ rose as from the sea, shining pure gold against a violet curtain. In an instant they had entered a realm of fantasy.

“How extraordinarily good the music is!” whispered the girl in amazed delight.

He told her that each member of the orchestra was a _premier prix de Conservatoire_, the conductor a well-known figure in Paris.

As he spoke there was a hush, and the first violin, an elegant youth with sleek hair swept off his forehead, stepped forward with an air and raised his bow. Simultaneously the curtain parted, and a pair of Spanish dancers moved on to the stage. The man, bullet-headed and lithe, wore trousers of white cloth ornamented in silver, while his narrow body was tightly encased in a silver-braided jacket. His partner, sumptuous in snowy lace, stiffened at the hips Goya fashion, was draped in a magnificent mantilla, pendant above her glossy black coiffure from a towering comb of red coral. Against the black velvet back-drop the two figures poised, sheer, flashing white, and there were only four accents of carmine--the woman’s comb, her immense earrings, her lips, and the heels of her shoes.

Then the music began, slow, deliriously exquisite, with a heavy sweetness, like the perfume of honeysuckle under a midnight sky. Catherine drew in her breath ecstatically.

“That heavenly tune! I’ve heard it before.… Oh, of course, it’s the Albeniz Tango that Kriesler plays! It is too, too lovely!”

In a spell of enchantment she watched the swaying pair, while the violin with steady rhythm dripped notes that were like globules of clear amber. Never, afterwards, was she to forget the sensuous rapture of those moments. Always whenever she heard the Albeniz Tango, no matter in what surroundings, she had but to shut her eyes to feel about her the enveloping darkness, see the opening heart of brilliant light in which moved the dancers. There was something else she was to recall, though at the time she was only dimly aware of it. That was the right hand of Geoffrey Macadam as it rested on the arm of the seat dividing her from him, brown, muscular, a little over-large for his slight, wiry build.…

It was nearing half-past twelve when they reached the shadowy chestnuts of the Avenue Henri Martin. The neighbourhood was deserted, the buildings had a blind look with all the massive doors closed for the night.

“_Cordon, s’il vous plait!_” shouted Geoffrey, his voice ringing hollow against the black expanse of wood.

After a short delay a ghostly click sounded and one of the doors swung heavily ajar. Catherine stepped within the entrance and held out her hand, but her companion after a slight hesitation followed her in.

“I think I’d like to see you actually into the apartment, if you don’t mind,” he said. “You may have trouble with the key.”

Their steps echoed across the paved way to the foyer, where a dim light shone in a suspended glass cage. Silently the _ascenseur_ crept up to the _entresol_.

“I say, there’s something odd about this lock. It’s a good thing I didn’t leave you to wrestle with it alone,” remarked Geoffrey a moment later, after several fruitless attempts to open the door.

He struck a match and examined the key, an ordinary Yale one. There seemed nothing wrong with it.

“Let me have a go,” suggested Catherine, taking it from him.

It appeared to fit, even to turn, but nothing happened.

“Curious, that. Here, give it to me again.”

However, though he pushed and tugged and manipulated, the door refused to budge. Minutes went by with no result. At length, red in the face with effort and chagrin, he straightened up and shrugged his shoulders.

“No doubt about it,” he declared shortly. “Someone has drawn the bolt. Damned careless--if you’ll forgive the language. I suppose we’ll have to ring.”

“Oh, don’t! I’m so afraid of waking Mme. Bender.”

“There’s nothing else to do! She won’t hear, though, as it probably sounds in the kitchen.”

He pressed his finger to the button and they waited expectantly. Within was unbroken silence.

“They must be sleeping very soundly. Try again.”

There was a second interval of prolonged waiting. Far away, at the back of the apartment, sounded a faint, persistent ringing.

“Who sleeps on this floor?” Geoffrey inquired, frowning.

“Only Eduardo and Jeanne. The cook moved to-day up to the _sixième_.”

“Well, either those two can’t hear or they won’t. Anyhow, you can’t spend the night out here. I’m going to let go with the knocker;” and before she could protest he had laid hold of the wrought-iron handle and hammered resoundingly.

Somewhere in the interior a door opened and a padded footfall approached, barely audible. Someone was at last astir. Yet even now there was a long delay. The steps paused, retreated, and then, exchanging questioning glances, Catherine and Geoffrey fancied they caught the murmur of whispering voices, sibilant and cautious. Finally, after protracted silence, there fell on their ears the stealthy grate of a bolt withdrawn.

The next instant the door cracked open, and silhouetted against a rectangle of light the stocky figure of the Portuguese appeared, clad in an overcoat buttoned to the chin. From beneath bristling hair his small, animal-like eyes glowered at them suspiciously.

“Oh--it’s you, miss,” he mumbled with a touch of insolent surprise. “I took it you were in hours ago.”

It was a flimsy pretext to cover his own thoughtlessness, or so it seemed to Catherine. Her eyes flashed at his rude tone, but she made no reply. Her escort, on the contrary, accosted the butler in a peremptory manner.

“Another time, please be sure before you put the bolt on. It’s only by chance that mademoiselle hasn’t had to wait out here a quarter of an hour by herself.”

The man said nothing, but as he stared impudently first at the speaker, then at Catherine, his lips curled in an unmistakable sneer. Geoffrey’s blood boiled at the unuttered insinuation, and even the girl, without understanding its import, felt indignation rise within her.

“You needn’t wait, Eduardo,” she coldly informed him. “I’ll put out the lights.”

Without replying he shuffled off, hitching his coat collar higher around his thick bull neck.

“See here, I don’t care for that fellow’s manner,” whispered Geoffrey as he took her hand. “Are you sure you don’t mind----”

“Oh, I’m not a bit upset over him,” she returned scornfully. “You see, though, that I didn’t exaggerate about the deterioration in him. It’s as if the veneer had come off. Never mind--good night, and thank you for a marvellous evening.”

For a second he retained her slender hand, reluctant to let it go. However, his expression remained studiously matter of fact, betraying no hint of his inward feelings.

“Let me know if that brute gives you any trouble,” he said at parting. “I shall hope to see you again soon, at all events.”

Glancing at his watch on the way down, he found it was just after one o’clock. That meant they had spent half an hour outside that infernal door. His wrath rose anew as he recalled the insolence of the butler, whom he would have liked to throttle.

“_Cordon!_”

The concierge had gone to sleep in the interval, and no wonder.

“_Cordon!_” he called more loudly.

An irate voice, heavy with sleep, issued from within the loge.

“Who are you, going out at this hour? What are you up to, _diable!_ coming in with a woman and remaining with her all this time? I’ll have you to know this is not the way to conduct yourself in a respectable house. Do you take this for a _maison de rendez-vous_?”

Geoffrey’s anger shot up like a flame.

“Hold your foul tongue, you filthy camel, and open that door before I lay hands on you!” he shouted, furious with rage.

More abusive wrangling followed, epithets in choice argot hurled on both sides. Not for the first time did Geoffrey rejoice in his command of Gallic profanity. Finally, with a last imprecation, the unseen porter pulled the cord and the door swung open.

Stupid to lose one’s temper with a concierge. It was like beating one’s head against a wall. Still it was impossible not to be infuriated by the man’s insinuations. Rain was falling, but he did not feel the drops as with rapid strides he crossed to the car and started the engine.

“The swine!” he muttered as the Citroën purred along wet streets towards the Seine. “So he, too, had that idea in his putrid mind! I shouldn’t have got so wild if it had been another sort of girl. But Catherine!”

Already in his thoughts he was calling her by her first name.

Alone in the hall, Catherine stood for a moment, her palm still tingling with the recent hard pressure. Circumstances had combined to rouse in her a fluttering emotion--uncertainty as to why she had been shut out, the interval on the dim landing with its faint suggestion of intimate _rapproachement_, and last, the butler’s peculiarly offensive manner. Her heart beat with strong strokes.

Why, indeed, had Eduardo stared at them like that? There had been something insulting about it. If only Germaine could realize what his behaviour was like now, how quickly she would dismiss him! Not that she was likely to find out.

She tiptoed towards her distant room. Then as she switched on the light in the passage, she spied, at the top of the staircase before mentioned, a limp, dark object. Picking it up, she discovered it to be a man’s glove.

A glove--but of an unfamiliar sort, made of black, stuffy fabric. Who on earth wore things like that? She stared at it curiously. Somewhere, not long ago, she had seen a man with gloves resembling this, but for the moment she could not say who it was. Certainly no one she knew. There was something rather horrid about it. With slight distaste she replaced it where it had lain before.

As she did this she noticed, a little lower down the stairs, a small heap of acrid cigar ashes, and nearby the muddy imprint of a square-toed boot, plainly marked on the pale grey carpet.

Her eyes narrowed in thought. Eduardo, she had remarked only to-day, wore pointed, rather foppish shoes, ill-according his thick, prize-fighter frame. Who, then, had been here this evening? The person, whoever it was, had been to the apartment in her absence, most likely using the private door.

With a shake of the head she gave it up. And then, all at once, she remembered the vulgar-genteel lounger who last evening had stared at her so curiously in the street below, and later had gone away with Jeanne. Yes, he had certainly worn gloves like the specimen lying there on the floor. She recalled in a flash the prim nastily-decent look of them, as she had passed him on the pavement.

“So Jeanne has a lover,” she concluded with a touch of amused wonder. “But what a lover!”

Somehow the creature had suggested an undertaker.