The Sack of Monte Carlo 19

The Sack of Monte Carlo 19

I explained that I was scarcely sufficient master of German for all

that.

 

“Keep my place, please,” she said, imperiously, and went round to the

young man, who received her with a fascinating smile.

 

“_Vous comprenez le Français?_” I heard her say to him, folding her arms

and looking him resolutely full in the face.

 

“_Oui, mademoiselle._”

 

“_Alors, allez-vous-en, sivooplay_,” she went on; “_je n’aime pas qu’un

homme me regarde comme ça. Vous me portez de la guigne. Allez-vous-en,

ou j’appelle les valets. C’est inouï! Allez-vous-en! Vous avez une de

ces figures qui porte de la guigne toujours. Entendez-vous? toujours!_”

 

With that, entirely unconcerned, she resumed her seat, while the young

German, who had hitherto been under the impression he had made a

conquest, strolled off somewhat alarmed to another table.

 

My sister I found in the farther rooms watching the

_trente-et-quarante_. “Hullo, Vincent!” she said. “Council over? Dear

me, I wish I hadn’t promised Frank not to play; my fingers are simply

tingling. However, I’ve been playing in imagination and lost 40,000

francs, so perhaps it’s just as well.”

 

I drew her to a side seat and soon told her all about Lucy and her

arrival, softening down the Bailey Thompson part for fear of alarming

her unduly; giving other reasons for the dear girl’s sudden descent on

us, all more or less true.

 

My good sister was as sympathetic as usual, only she entreated me to be

sure I was really serious and in earnest this time.

 

“You know, Vincent,” she said, “you have so often come moaning to me

about young ladies, and I have so often asked them to tea and taken them

to dances for you, and nothing whatever has come of it.”

 

“But that hasn’t been my fault,” I answered. “I have simply got tired of

them, that’s all. This time I am really in earnest.”

 

“So you always were!” she laughed, “up to a certain point. Why, you’re a

sort of a young lady-taster.”

 

“Well,” I replied, “how are you to know what sort of cheese you like

unless you taste several?”

 

“Rather hard on the cheese, isn’t it? The process of tasting is apt to

leave a mark.”

 

“Oh, not in the hands of an adroit and respectable cheesemonger’s

assistant.”

 

“Vincent,” said my sister, severely, “don’t be cynical, or I’ll do

nothing.”

 

All the same, she knew what I said was true. Men would, I believe,

always be faithful if only they could feel there was anything really to

be faithful to. But they meet an angel at an evening party, and then,

when they go to call, they find the angel fled and the most ordinary

young person in her place; one scarcely capable of inspiring a

school-boy in the fifth form to the mediocre height of the most ordinary

verse-power.

 

But with Lucy! Sympathetic readers don’t, I am sure, look for

protestations from me where she’s concerned. At least, not now.

 

The end of our talk was, it was arranged between us Lucy should go on

board the _Amaranth_ in the morning and there remain.

 

And the next morning there she was comfortably installed, and already

looking forward to the Friday evening, when she was told we were going

to make a move out of harbor, and probably go home by way of the Italian

coast, and possibly by rail from Venice.

 

Everything else was kept from her carefully, which is, I think, the

worst of an adventure of this kind; one is driven to subterfuge even

with those one loves best.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVII

 

ENTER MR. BAILEY THOMPSON—VAN GINKEL STANDS BY US—WE SHOW

THOMPSON ROUND AND EXPLAIN DETAILS—TEDDY PARSONS’S ALARM

 

 

THE Bailey Thompson problem confronted us _in propriâ personâ_ that very

same afternoon, the Thursday, at about half-past four, when, as we were

some of us sitting outside the Café de Paris at tea, I saw him strolling

round the central flower-beds in front of the rooms. He wore one of the

new soft straw hats, a black frock-coat, tan shoes, and the invariable

dog-skin gloves, and over his arm he carried a plaid shawl. In short, he

looked like what he was, Scotland Yard _en voyage_.

 

I pointed him out to Brentin, who immediately jumped up, crossed the

road, and greeted him with effusion. Then he brought him over and

introduced him to our party, among whom, luckily enough, was seated Mr.

Van Ginkel.

 

Now I don’t want to say anything uncivil in print about a gentleman who

rendered us later a service so undeniable, and, indeed, priceless; but I

cannot help observing that Van Ginkel, on the whole, was one of the

dreariest personalities I ever came in touch with.

 

He was about Brentin’s age, fifty-four or so, but he appeared years

older; his hair and beard were almost white, and his face was so lined,

the flesh appeared folded, almost like linen. He had some digestive

troubles that kept him to a milk diet, and he would sit in entire

silence looking straight ahead of him, searching, as it were, for the

point of time when he should be able to eat meat once more.

 

Brentin had boarded the _Saratoga_ early that morning on its return, and

given a full account of our scheme and its difficulties. Van Ginkel had

listened in complete silence; and when Brentin had told him of Bailey

Thompson, and our earnest desire to get him out of the way, ending by

asking him to be so friendly as to take him on board and keep him there

till we had finished, Van Ginkel had just remarked, “Why, certainly!”

and relapsed into silence again.

 

“He has very much altered,” Brentin had whispered, after presenting me;

when Van Ginkel shook me by the hand, said “Mr. Vincent Blacker,” in the

American manner, and was further entirely dumb. “He was the liveliest

freshman of my class and the terror of the Boston young ladies,

especially when he was full. As, of course, you know from his name, he

is one of the oldest families of Noo York State.”

 

“Yes,” I replied, “and he looks it.”

 

Bailey Thompson sat with us for some little time outside the “Café de

Paris,” and made himself uncommonly agreeable, according to his Scotland

Yard lights. He told us, the hypocrite, he usually came to Monte Carlo

at this time of the year, and usually stayed at the “Monte Carlo Hotel,”

just where the road begins to descend to the Condamine, once Madame

Blanc’s villa.

 

Where were we? Oh! some of us were at the “Monopôle” and some on board

the yacht. Really? Why, the “Monopôle” was the hotel he had recommended

us, wasn’t it? He hoped we found it fairly quiet and comfortable, and

not too dear, did the arch-hypocrite!

 

When my sister rose to go back to the rooms and look after Miss Rybot,

Van Ginkel roused himself to ask her to lunch with him the next day,

Friday, on board the _Saratoga_, and go for a sail afterwards to

Bordighera. He managed the affair like an artist, for he didn’t

immediately include Bailey Thompson in the invitation, as though he knew

too little of him just for the present. It was not till later, as we

strolled down to the Condamine—he, Thompson, Brentin, and I—that he

asked us to come on board the yacht and see over it, and not till

finally as we were leaving that (as though reminding himself he must not

be impolite) he begged the detective to be of the party, if he had no

other engagement of the kind.

 

Thompson—simple soul!—was enchanted to accept, and, as we went back on

shore in the boat, went off into raptures at the beauty of the yacht and

the politeness of the owner in asking him on so short an acquaintance.

 

As we three strolled up the hill, Brentin, with the most natural air of

trust, at once launched out on the subject of our plan.

 

“Well, here we are, sir, you see,” he said; “everything is in train. We

approach the hour.”

 

“Here am I, too,” smiled the cool little man. “I told you I should most

likely be over.”

 

“We are real glad to see you.”

 

“And you really mean it, now you’re on the spot and can measure some of

the difficulties for yourselves?”

 

“So much so that we have decided for Saturday night,” was Brentin’s

light and untruthful reply. “We have observed the rooms are at their

fullest then.”

 

“Where are the rest of your party—the other gentlemen I saw at ‘The

French Horn?’”

 

“Mr. Hines is gambling, having unfortunately developed tastes in that

direction. Mr. Masters is in attendance on a lady friend—”

 

“The ladies of your party know nothing of your intentions, I presume?”

said Thompson.

 

“Nothing, sir; nothing. For them it is a mere party of pleasure all the

time. Then Mr. Forsyth is playing that fool-game, tennis, with his late

colonel, behind the “Hôtel de Paris,” and Mr. Parsons is somewhere way

off on the Mentone Road, choking himself with dust on ay loaned

bicycle.”

 

“That’s the six of you. But now you have seen everything, do you really

think six will be enough?”

 

“Sir,” said Brentin, “six stalwarts of our crew have been confided in.

They will be furnished with linen bags to collect the boodle, directly

the tables are cleared of the croupiers and gamblers by us; in fact,

acting on your kind hint, longshore suits have been provided them in which they have already rehearsed.”