Nude in Mink by Sax Rohmer (top reads .TXT) 📕

exclaimed, all the time hurrying him along. “Didn’t she fall into my arms right outside your door last night? I’m not asking what the row was about, Mark. It’s no business of mine. But some girls are extra sensitive. You’ve just got to make it up.”

Onto the thrill which had set his heart jumping there was now superimposed a fit of that acute embarrassment to which he was subject. By means of what peculiar reticence his visitor had led Jackie to infer that her predicament was due to a lover’s quarrel he could not imagine. But the idea, for all its implications, was oddly gratifying.

“She spent the night with you, then?”

“She wouldn’t leave me, Mark—and I wouldn’t have let her go if she’d wanted to. I never saw a girl so scared— not in my whole life. I was afraid she was going mad. She just clung to me like a frightened baby and wouldn’t tell me where she lived or who I should call up. I stayed in with her all today until I had to go to the theatre.”

“You mean she was terribly afraid of something?”

“Afraid! My! What had you done to her?” Jackie pulled up (they were right on the borders of Shepherd Market) and stared at Donovan in the semi-darkness. “You don’t look like a brute. I nearly had her persuaded to let me go and fetch you just before I left, but not quite. She locked herself in when I came away, and then, an hour ago, she called me up at the theatre and asked me to find you and bring you along. Here we are!”

The entrance to Jackie’s apartment proved to be up a narrow stair beside a greengrocer’s shop.

“Bit dark here,” Donovan muttered—

There came a suppressed scream from Jackie. And something—a formless shadow—slipped out into the street, and was gone!

“What the devil’s that?” Donovan cried. “Quick! The switch! Where’s the switch?”

“Bottom of the stairs… Someone was hiding! Rushed right past me. Can’t you find the switch?”

Donovan took a torch from his pocket. “Here we are— eh? What?”

Jackie stared hard at a jagged rent in the woodwork. “Well! Would you believe it? The switch has gone! Someone’s pinched the whole blessed fitting! What will they be pinching next?”

“Quick, Jackie! Quick! Which floor are you on? This isn’t just an ordinary theft–-”

“Top. But what do you mean?”

“Come on!”

He raced upstairs, Jackie following, and directed a ray of light on to a neat brass plate inscribed:

Miss Jackie de Lara.

Jackie rang the bell and then, stooping to the letter-box, called: “Claudette! Open the door, honey! It’s me—Jackie. I’ve brought him!”

Standing behind her on the landing, tiptoes with expectation, Donovan still had time to ask himself where he had heard, and recently, that name, Claudette. Then, he detected a sound of movement, the slipping of a bolt—and the door was opened.

2

She stood before him, the mystery girl.

Donovan was quite frank in his report—published later— of those extraordinary events which marked Sumuru’s appearance in London, and at this point he confesses that, quite irrationally, he had an impulse to take the girl in his arms—this complete stranger who had materialised out of the night—and kiss her.

Claudette (as he supposed her name to be) wore an elaborate and somewhat revealing rest-robe trimmed with fur, which Donovan suspected must belong to Jackie. He knew, now, that her curly hair was of a glorious shade of chestnut, that her eyes were deep blue. He had no time for further consideration of this, provoking vision for:

“In you go!” said Jackie, and seizing Donovan’s arm, pushed him inside. “Don’t mind me. I understand.”

“Thank God you’re safe!” said Donovan. “So it really is you?”

“Yes… Please forgive me for—”

“There’s nothing to forgive. Tell me—did anyone knock or ring here a moment ago?”

“No.”

“Did you hear anything?”

“No—”

Donovan found himself in a tiny living-room, quite tastefully furnished, a minute kitchenette opening out of it. As he went in, and Claudette, a faint flush sweeping over her-face, timidly entered with him, Jackie, throwing her coat on a settee, to reveal the fact that she wore a one-piece dress and no stockings, grasped each by an arm, threw open a door, and:

“Go on!” she exclaimed. “What does it matter anyway? Let bygones be bygones.” Her painted face, which Donovan found to be by no means unattractive, positively radiated goodwill and her eyes were happily moist. “Never bear malice. Get in there and make it up, while I take this grease off and fry some bacon and eggs.”

With which she shoved the pair of them unceremoniously into the only other room, her bedroom, and slammed the door!

Donovan had enough presence of mind left to notice a large wardrobe, a commodious bed, a settee, two armchairs and a dressing-table when his attention was claimed by a number of photographs of Jackie de Lara in her stage “costume.” His constitutional embarrassment rose to boiling point; he grew hot all over—and he remembered the message he had left for Maitland.

“Pardon me one moment,” he muttered and opened the door. “You are an angel, Jackie, but I must call my apartment—immediately “

Jackie, who was pulling on a large pair of wash-leather gloves, regarded him without visible enthusiasm.

“You’re the most cold-blooded American I’ve met yet! I thought the girl friend always came first! There it is, in that cubby-hole. Fire away.”

“Thank you. Believe me, the girl friend does come first. But this call is most urgent.”

As he crossed the little lobby and dialled his own number, Jackie whispered to Claudette:

“Make it up with him, honey! Be a good girl. He’s crazy about you!”

Two doors closed quietly as Maitland’s voice came over the line.

“Hullo—that you, Maitland?”

“Glad to hear from you, Donovan. Was getting alarmed. Your hall porter said half an hour.”

“Listen, Maitland—I can’t speak too loudly. But I’ve traced the girl! She’s right here with me, in this building!”

There was a perceptible change in Maitland’s voice when he replied, “You mean the girl who ran into your flat here last night, pretended to faint, and then disappeared?”

“Sure! that’s who I mean—and I’m not so certain she was pretending. I’m at 98 Shepherd Market, top floor. I think you’re quite wrong about her, Maitland. I’m convinced that this girl is four-square. I found her here locked in and terrified. She’s evidently hiding from someone.”

There was a slight pause, and then:

“What’s her name? Has she mentioned anything?”

“I haven’t had time to question her yet. I rang you immediately. Someone has traced me here, I believe, Maitland.”

“I should be surprised if someone hadn’t! I know you are being covered. Stay right where you are—and whatever you do, keep a tight hold on that girl—”

“I aim to do so!”

“Watch you step! I’ll call Inspector Ives now. Directly he gets here from the Yard, we’ll be straight along—98 Shepherd Market …”

3

Some two minutes later, a girl at a switchboard in the big building on the Embankment, said for perhaps the hundredth time that night:—

“Scotland Yard.”

“Dr. Steel Maitland here. Put me through immediately to Chief Inspector Ives.”

“Yes, sir.”

There was a pause, and then:

“Chief Inspector Ives, here.”

“Steel Maitland speaking. Listen, Ives—Mr. Donovan appears to have blundered on to the track of the woman, Sumuru! He has just rung me up from an address in Shepherd Market. He’s standing by with a very important witness—or it may be the woman herself! Pick me up at Mr. Donovan’s flat in Bruton Street. Bring two good men—right away.”

“Be with you in eight minutes, sir!”

“Good! Someone’s ringing away at this doorbell. Expect you in eight minutes.”

And in fact little more than that time had elapsed when a police car came whirling into Bruton Street and was pulled up at Donovan’s door. Inspector Ives jumped out.

“Stand by here, Ford. I’ll be right down.”

“Very good, sir.”

Ives raced up to the first landing and rang. He repeated this ringing three times. Then, he stooped to the letter-box and called.

“Hullo there, Dr. Maitland! Open the door, sir! Inspector Ives here.”

But no one answered; and the inspector, kneeling, peered in through the narrow slot… and saw something. He sprang upright.

“H’m! Looks bad!”

He raced downstairs and out into the street in a matter of seconds. Scotland Yard was on its mettle in these days.

“Quick, Ford! Something’s wrong… We shall have to take a chance and break the door open if necessary. Can’t get any reply. He may be dead inside. Signs of a struggle. Stand by the car, Foster. Come on, Ford.”

“Very good, sir.”

Sergeant Ford followed Ives into the building.

“Rouse out the porter, Ford. He’s probably asleep. He may have a pass-key. Then follow me up, quickly.”

“Right, sir.”

4

The sweet note of a silver gong was still echoing around that marble room as Caspar crossed and drew the rose coloured curtains apart. The woman before whom he bowed low sat upright, now—and she was dressed in a filmy Grecian robe, violet in hue. She resembled Circe, exacting homage.

“Your orders, My Lady?”

“Send Philo to me.”

“At once, My Lady.”

“And Caspar, I must reprove you. See to it that I am not offended any longer by the presence of a fish white with fungus in the mimosa pool. You will remove this distressing creature and procure one of similar colour and size, in order that the harmony of my pool shall remain undisturbed.”

Caspar bowed ever lower.

“If it is possible, dear My Lady, it shall be done.”

“The execution of my orders, Caspar, is not only possible, it is unavoidable. Nothing is impossible. Everything can be Preserve the harmony of the mimosa pool. In contemplating it I find peace. Send Philo to me “

“My Lady—forgive me. I will send Philo to you.”

He withdrew, the whispering of his red slippers fading into silence.

“Philo! Our Lady is waiting …”

“Philo… Philo…”

The sibilant slippers returned.

“Philo is here. Madonna.”

The man who entered now, and behind whom Caspar drew the tinkling curtains, must have offered a puzzling problem to any student of humanity.

He wore a chauffeur’s livery, with black top-boots which displayed the possession of bulging muscular calves. His shoulder span was phenomenal, although he was a man of no more than average height, so that these mighty shoulders as well as his long arms seemed out of all proportion. Thick black hair grew low on his forehead and the pale, lined face might have belonged to a sheer ruffian if it were not for a pair of hazel eves sparkling with intelligence.

His walk was a silent lope—the movement of a leopard, or of a puma. His eyes burned with passionate devotion.

He stood motionless, silent, until that exquisite voice uttered an order.

“Sit there, Philo, and answer me.”

“Yes, My Lady,” the man replied in deep, vibrant tones, and obeyed. He spoke with a faint but indefinable accent.

“Draw the stool nearer. Look at me.”

“Yes, My Lady.”

But the worshipful eyes resembled those of a dog fearing the whip—as they strove to sustain the scrutiny of the unfathomable eyes which watched them.

“No man has anything to fear if his duty has been performed to the best of his ability. Look down only if you would lie. It is easier. Tell me: what occurred at the flat in Bruton Street?”

“The journalist, Mark Donovan …”

“The interfering American. Continue.”

“He left his apartment—and was followed. Shortly afterwards, Dr. Steel Maitland returned and let himself in. The porter went off duty. I, Abdul and Varro, stole up the stairs to the landing. We heard Dr. Maitland speaking on the telephone. We rang the doorbell…”