Nude in Mink by Sax Rohmer (top reads .TXT) 📕
There was a semi-circular recess, like a shrine, approached by three marble steps and veiled by silk curtains of rosy pink.
The existence of this singular apartment was destined to arouse keen curiosity in certain quarters (and before long) and to provoke equally keen incredulity in others.
A high, sweet note, that of a bell or of a silver gong, split the hushed silence, hitherto unbroken except for faint stirrings of lily leaves in the pool when one of several large golden orfe swimming there disturbed them.
Almost noiselessly, a bronze door was opened at the head of a short flight of marble steps. The handrail also was bronze, terminating in a newel post representing a sphinx. A man came down, slowly. He was a man of slight and graceful build. His leisurely move
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“I’ll do my best. I’m sorry to hear that we are brothers in misfortune, Mr. Donovan… The facts are fairly simple. I have already told Inspector Ives that I met Jean in Algiers, late in ‘44. She was working for the French propaganda people; and—we grew fond of one another. I may add that, as well as being highly talented, Jean is—lovely.”
“All Sumuru’s women are lovely.”
Forrester paused, staring.
“Did you speak, Dr. Maitland?”
“No,” Maitland murmured. “Forgive me. I was thinking aloud.”
“Oh!” Forrester’s expression was a puzzled one. “I returned to England some time before Jean. But of course we corresponded. Then, at last, I got a letter to tell me that she was coming home. She gave me no address, but, a week later, I received a telegram. It was rather mysterious. It asked me to meet her in the porch of St. George’s Church, Hanover Square, that night at nine o’clock—”
“You hear that, Maitland?” cried Donovan. “It was the very night I met Claudette!”
Maitland nodded.
“It was, Donovan. Go on, Mr. Forrester. The night was a foggy one, I recall.”
“It’s amazing you should remember that, Dr. Maitland—but it was. I met Jean. She seemed to be frightened—of something—or of someone. I cant quite describe her mood. She looked wonderful—exquisite, but…”
And Ian Forrester gave an account of the meeting which was so vivid that no one of the three men present ever forgot it.
3
Fog was so dense by the time that he reached their strange trysting place that at first he failed to discover Jean shrinking in the shadow of a church pillar. She ran to him—threw herself into his arms.
“Ian, darling! It’s been just plain hell to be separated from you!”
She was trembling wildly.
“But, Jean! Why this queer meeting—out in the street?”
Some of Jean’s secret terror had touched her lover. He was dismayed …
“Don’t ask me, darling! Please don’t ask me. I know how odd it must seem. But there’s no other way. Just five minutes with you, and then—I must bolt!”
“But, Jean—my dear! Bolt where? What’s the urgency? I’m at work like a pack-mule on my Hamlet production at the theatre—but surely we can meet for lunch tomorrow?”
Jean clung to him tightly—as if, he said, she feared that someone would tear her away.
“Ian—it’s impossible,” she declared, breathlessly.
“Impossible?”
“Just impossible—”
“You are terribly worried about something, Jean. My darling! What is it? What has gone wrong? Your father doesn’t object?”
“Oh, no—my dear! Father would never object to you. It isn’t Father—”
“Then what is it?”
But, Jean, slipping from his arms, turned like a trapped thing, staring through the fog.
“Who’s that?” she whispered. “Over there? No—opposite the church!”
Forrester began once more to share her singular fears. But he tried to reply calmly.
“Unless I’m mistaken, a passing policeman.”
“Oh! Please forgive me!” She pressed her head against his shoulder. He could feel her heart racing. “I know how queer I must seem. Ian—I will get a note to you at the theatre—tomorrow. Now, I must go!”
He did not release her.
“Go? But where? Why? Can’t we cut along and have some supper at Ciro’s or somewhere?”
But Jean tore herself away.
“No. Don’t ask me why again. I’ll try to explain—next time…”
4
“And,” said Forrester sadly, “she was gone! I did my best to follow her, but I lost her in the fog.”
Forrester dropped into a chair, as if exhausted by his unhappy memories so sharply revived.
There were some moments of silence in Inspector Ives’s office before Steel Maitland spoke.
“And where did you see her next, Mr. Forrester?”
“I have met her three times since then, always by appointment made by her on a note sent to the theatre.”
Forrester replied without raising his bowed head. “And where did these meetings take place?”
“In Kensington Gardens. Always, Jean seemed to be terrified—distraught. She watched every passer-by. She refused to tell me where she was staying or how she was employed. But two days ago—our last meeting—I forced a confession from her… She was in the clutches of some damnable secret society—a society with a world-wide organisation!”
He stood up, confronting the three who listened, an angry, unhappy figure.
“Ah!” Maitland muttered. “Now we’re coming to it!”
“She was forbidden to marry without the consent of her superior. This, apparently, had been declined. But Jean was desperate. She asked me to arrange with my sister, who lives in Kent, to put her up and keep her hidden. I was to meet her, with my car, at the Albert Memorial, and drive her straight down there. When we parted, I followed her. It was dusk—”
All listened tensely.
“Yes, yes!” Maitland prompted—“And where did she go?”
“This is the queerest thing of all.” Forrester paused, looking from face to face. “She slipped in at a side entrance to the grounds of Lorimer House!”
“Lorimer House,” said Donovan. “You mean the house that used to belong to Sir Martin Lorimer, the Victorian painter—a show place, nowadays?”
“It was a show place, before the late war, Mr. Donovan,” Ives interrupted. “But during the war and right up to now it has been the headquarters of the St. Erik Ambulance Corps.”
“Is that so?” Donovan looked frankly bewildered. “I ran across units of their outfit on almost every battle front I covered. Highly efficient. Wasn’t it founded by the Baroness Rikter—widow of the Swedish millionaire?”
Forrester replied.
“It was. And the Baroness herself—a really strange coincidence—had called on me at the theatre, only about a week before—”
“What’s that?” rapped Maitland. “What for?”
“To ask me to donate the first night’s box office returns to St. Erik’s! With great regret, I was forced to decline. My management wouldn’t hear of it. But I promised the old lady a substantial cheque. She is simply charming, of course.”
Steel Maitland stood up suddenly and began to walk about.
“Must be,” he muttered. “H’m! Extraordinary. What did you do?”
“I could think of nothing to do. Besides, Jean had made me promise to do nothing except to make those arrangements until we met again… Well, she never turned up! I waited until this morning—then phoned Lorimer House. I asked to speak to the Baroness Rikter. They put me through.”
“Well?” Donovan urged, excitedly.
Forrester shook his head.
“The Baroness was most sympathetic. But she assured me that Jean Barlow was quite unknown to her!”
“Phew!” Maitland’s promenade grew swifter. “What did you do, then?”
“I came straight here, to Scotland Yard—”
OUR Lady was seated on a cushion beside the marble pool, amusing herself with the golden orfe which lived among the lilies. These fish have vegetarian tastes, and she had some pellets composed of delicacies which experience had proved to be much appreciated by her red-gold pets.
Their tameness (or perhaps her personal magnetism) was distinctly uncanny.
She would hold a pellet over the clear water, between finger and thumb, and some four inches above the surface. The excited fish, swarming to the top, would spring out, one after another, in an attempt to seize these tempting morsels. With her disengaged hand, Our Lady would try to catch each competitor. When she succeeded in capturing one, the fish would lie passively in her palm, accept the pellet from her fingers, and then dive back into the pond, to go swimming around in wild abandon—perhaps in triumph.
Each success Our Lady applauded with a peal of her soft, musical laughter.
Bending over the surface, which reflected her slender arms, white as the petals of the floating flowers, she more nearly resembled a water nymph than a woman of flesh and blood. Perhaps Ariosto, who had entered unannounced, was thinking so as he stood watching her.
Ariosto wore the correct morning dress of a physician, which suited his tall, athletic figure. The saturnine face, too, was that of a clever man. But his strangely brilliant dark eyes might have frightened a nervous patient.
Tiring of her sport, Our Lady dried her hands and leaned back against the figure of Pan beside which she was seated. She laughed up a Ariosto.
He bowed ceremoniously.
“You wished to see me, Madonna?”
“Yes, Ariosto, my friend. Sit there and talk to me.” She indicated another cushion near her own. “I must not be dominated. Talk to me.”
“For ever, Madonna, if you wish.”
Ariosto dropped down beside her. She dabbled white fingers in the pond.
“Forget the courtier, my friend. It is the scientist I wish to consult.” There was a red gleam, followed by a loud splash. “See! one of my golden orfe sprang right over my hand, and plunged back again below the leaves!”
Ariosto bent towards her.
“He was saluting your beauty, Madonna.”
She smiled slightly, watching him under drooping eyelids.
“You are incorrigible. Listen to me. We are in danger greater than any we have known since the bull-headed Nazis invaded our sanctuary in Crete.”
“Yet we survived the invasion of the bull-heads.”
“True. But the pitcher that goes too often to the well… You have completed your arrangements to leave?”
“Most reluctantly—I have,” Ariosto’s deep voice struck a note more deep than usual. “Since you are staying, I—”
“You will leave as arranged. The little sister Jean has brought this upon us. She must pay the penalty. But, unfortunately, so, to some extent, must we. All essentials from the laboratory have been removed?”
“All, Madonna.”
She leaned back against Pan, her eyes nearly closed.
“Abdul and Varro are known by sight to Steel Maitland and to the American. So is Caspar. They will report to Paris tomorrow.”
“They are on their way,” Ariosto replied quietly. “I, too, am known to them—as Dr. Worthington.”
“True… There must be yet another example, Ariosto, my friend—an example. We left our mark upon the body of the man, Miles Tristram, and by now every member of the Order Will have heard that to attempt to betray me means death by rigor Kubus. I fear that the little Jean failed to read the lesson aright. And so—there may be others who dream—”
“You cannot mean that—Jean …”
She shook her head, laughing softly.
“Jean was granted every opportunity to repair her lapse of discipline. I exacted no promise from her. I waited—and watched. When she met this man, she was followed. It is because of what the little fool told him that our peace is disturbed.” She dipped her fingers in the water again. “Injure Jean?… No, no! She is too beautiful. How shallow your reasoning, Ariosto! So like the boasted wisdom of man! A woman suffers a thousand deaths in her memories of one …”
“I understand.”
Ariosto averted his eyes.
“You have seen the man of her choice. I have studied him closely. As you know, I visited him at the theatre. He has physical beauty, and a certain poise. But a flexible voice is his only talent. I do not desire to transmit his brains to a future generation. Ian Forrester cannot mate with Jean. We have no use for him.”
“I agree with you, Madonna. But Philo has learned, as you say, that she has confided secrets to this man, which—”
“That was what I meant, Ariosto, when I said that we were in great danger. That is why we are changing our plans. It may be too late—but Ian Forrester must be silenced, and those who know the meaning of a body turned to stone must be warned again. Philo, in this case, works alone. It is his last chance. He has failed me once. You will give him the necessary means—and then make your departure.”
“Dear Madonna!” Ariosto pleaded—“to administer the drug is—”
But the golden
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