Call Mr. Fortune · Case V (2/3)

He took from his pocket the Hottentot Venus and contemplated her severely. “I don’t know which of you is worse, darling,” he said. “You or Mlle. Ducher. What are you at, anyway? Lord, I wouldn’t have thought she had anything to do with palaeolithic dolls! What’s the connection, darling?” The Hottentot Venus was naturally silent.

Reggie sighed and put her away, and began to contemplate the beauties of nature. Tormouth, you know, is placed upon an agreeable bay, its sands are white, and its headlands of a dark rock which in a flood of sunshine discover gleams of crystal amid a reddish glow. So Reggie saw them as the western sky grew crimson and the flood-tide sparkled in a thousand golden jewels. A delectable scene. It was laborious to go on thinking. Tormouth is an anchorage favoured by yachts, and though it was early summer two or three white craft lay out in the bay. Reggie went into his room and came out again to the balcony with a binocular. The influence of the evening was upon him and he felt a need of futile diversion. He focused the glasses upon the yachts. There was a big schooner and two steamboats⁠—one a small packet with the white ensign of the R.Y.S., the other a big craft under the Italian flag. He could not make out the names.

A waiter came to take his tea away. “I want the local paper. And do you keep Shearn’s Yacht List?”

Both were brought. The yachts in Tormouth Bay were reported as Sheila, Lorna, and Giulia. He turned them up in the list and whistled. The owner of the Giulia was the Prince of Ragusa.

“This is getting relevant,” said he.

The Prince of Ragusa, hereditary ruler of some ten square miles and fabulously wealthy, was known to the learned as a zealous archaeologist. He was one of the half-dozen men in the world whose collection might contain a Hottentot Venus. But, unless his reputation belied him, he was very unlikely to know or care anything about a soubrette from Paris. And why should he send his Hottentot Venus to a girls’ school?

“Still several unknown quantities,” Reggie reflected. And yet there was the Hottentot Venus in the Tormouth school and there off Tormouth lay the Prince of Ragusa. “I think we’ll make Brer Lomas sit up and take notice,” said Reggie, and devoted himself to the composition of Latin prose. Thus:

“De academia sororis nonnihil timeo nec quid timean certe scio. Sunt qui conjurarint et fortasse in flagitium. Si quid improvisum vel mihi vel academiae eveniret principem de Ragusa et navem eius capere oporteret.”

This he wrote on telegraph forms, and with his own hand presented to the lady at the post office, who was justly horrified.

“But what language is it?” she protested.

“There you have me,” Reggie confessed. “It would like to be Latin, but I left school when I was young.”

The lady sniffed but, looking at it again, saw that it was addressed to Scotland Yard, and said, “Ah, I understand.”

“I wish I did,” Reggie murmured. For the sense of that mysterious telegram is: “I am anxious about your sister’s school, and don’t quite know what I am afraid of. There is a conspiracy on foot which may be criminal. If anything unforeseen happens to me or the school, catch the Prince of Ragusa and his yacht.” “Yes. Nuts to crack for Lomas,” said Reggie. And he went to dinner.

It is now necessary to employ the narrative of Miss Somers, B.Sc. On the next day there was a lecture given in the Tormouth assembly rooms by Mr. Horatio Bean, the photographer of a recent expedition to the Arctic regions. To such edifying entertainments Miss Lomas was accustomed to send her girls. Miss Somers, B.Sc., was in charge of the detachment which marched to the assembly rooms on this occasion. Her narrative, purged of emotion unfit for a female bachelor of science, goes like this: She noticed nothing till the pictures began⁠—that is, till the room was darkened. Then two girls got up in a hurry. One of them, who was Alice Warenne, whispered to her as she passed that Hilda Crowland didn’t feel very well. Alice was going out with her and would look after her. They went. At the close of the lecture, one of the attendants approached Miss Somers and said he had been asked to tell her that the two young ladies had gone back to the school.

Upon this naturally follows the report of Constable Stewer of the Tormouth borough police. To this effect: Was on duty 3:30 p.m. on the quay; motor-launch from Italian yacht came in and lay by number one steps; two young ladies came in a hurry and entered launch; gentleman who had been smoking cigar in vicinity thrust paper and half-crown into my hands, saying “Constable, wire that immediate”; gentleman then took flying leap into launch, which was already shoved off, and engine started; launch steered for Italian yacht; returned to station to make report.

The paper when examined by inspector on duty was found to bear these words: “Lomas, Scotland Yard. Two girls on Giulia. Me too.⁠—F.” A telegram was sent. About teatime Scotland Yard telephoned to know whether the yacht Giulia was still at Tormouth. A serjeant hurrying to the harbour found P. C. Stewer back at his post watching a smudge of smoke on the horizon. About that time Miss Lomas called at the police station to ask if anything had been heard or seen of two of her girls. So we leave the inspector almost exploding with a sense of the importance of his office.

“Mille pardons, mademoiselle,” said Reggie, as he arrived in the launch and grabbed at his hat and, involuntarily, sat down upon Miss Crowland. With a firm and friendly hand she assisted him to recover his balance. She was in all respects made to sustain shocks. Her grey eyes smiled at him.

A man⁠—an oldish, solemn man who was horrified⁠—confronted Reggie. “You cannot come here, monsieur,” he cried in French.

“I dare to assure you of the contrary,” says Reggie in the same language.

“This is a private launch.”

“Perfectly. Of the Prince of Ragusa. It is why I have arrived. I have news for the Prince of Ragusa⁠—news which will surprise him marvellously.”

The solemn man was embarrassed. “Nevertheless I protest, sir.”

“I make a note of your protest,” said Reggie, and bowed.

The solemn man bowed⁠—and seemed satisfied.

Reggie sat down beside the little Alice Warenne, who had been watching all this very demurely, a contrast to Miss Crowland, who was frankly amused. “Permit a lover of art to address you, mademoiselle,” said he. “I desire infinitely to thank you for the great pleasure which you have given me.”

“How, sir? I do not understand.” She looked more a baby than ever.

“Your little sleeves of satinette,” Reggie murmured. “Your adorable little sleeves of satinette.”

And then she laughed, and Reggie knew that he had made no mistake. She was the soubrette of the Variétés. The laugh of Mlle. Ducher was unforgettable. “I am a great artist, sir, am I not?”

Hilda Crowland smiled at her. “Monsieur is a friend of yours, Alice?” she said in English.

“All in good time. Only an admirer at present, darling.” She gave Reggie a glance which was not the least childish.

“I dare to hope,” Reggie said, and again she laughed.

They were alongside the yacht. The ladies were handed to the gangway, and Reggie went up it close on their heels. There seemed to be a deputation waiting for them on deck, a middle-aged deputation which, on the coming of the girls, bared its grey and bald heads. Two men stood out from it who lifted their caps, but put them on again, one a young fellow of a sprightly air, the other grey and grave, with a certain assured stateliness. At him Alice made a saucy curtsy. He came forward and took Hilda Crowland’s hand. “My dear child,” he said in English, “be very welcome,” and he kissed her on both cheeks.

She flushed faintly. “I do not understand you, sir.” She withdrew herself.

“I present to you your cousin, the Comte de Spoleto.” The young man smiled at her and kissed her hand. The elder man turned to the others. “Gentlemen⁠—I receive today my daughter, the Duchesse de Zara.” One by one they came forward and were presented and kissed the wondering girl’s hand. And at the end of them marched Reggie and stood before His Highness the Prince of Ragusa, who became immediately the most amazed of men. “I do not know you, sir,” he said, with intense disgust. “Who is this, Audagna?” He turned to the man who had been on the launch.

“I represent her mother,” said Reggie.

A wave of emotion shook the deputation. Hilda flushed and looked at Alice, who laughed. His Highness stood very stiff.

“I have not desired that her mother should be represented,” he announced.

“I cannot defend the conduct of your Highness,” said Reggie blandly.

“I do not admit your right to be here, sir,” the Prince cried.

“That makes your conduct still more suspicious,” said Reggie.

“Suspicious!” The Prince gasped and turned upon the others. “He says suspicious!” Horror overwhelmed them all. The Prince was the first to recover his self-control. “Be pleased to follow me, sir,” he said, with awful courtesy. “Hilda, my dear child.” He gave her his arm. “Spoleto!”

The family party and Reggie went down to His Highness’s cabin. Only Hilda was asked to sit, and in perfect calm she sat. Nothing but a shade more colour in her cheeks, a brighter gleam in her eye, confessed that her stately head deigned to take any interest in her strange situation.

The Prince of Ragusa turned to Reggie. “I do not yet know your name, sir.” So Reggie gave him a card. “Mr. Reginald Fortune⁠—a lawyer, sir?”

“I am a surgeon. But let’s hope we shan’t need my professional qualifications.”

“It is very well. You are here to represent my wife. I do not allow that my wife has any right to share my plans for my daughter. But since you have intruded, sir, I do not choose to conceal my intentions. I have resumed my control of my daughter because she is now of an age to take her proper place at my side, to perform her duty to her family, and to carry out the plans which I have formed for her.”

“Admirable. And shall we hear Miss Crowland’s intentions in the matter?” Reggie looked at the girl.

“Be pleased to speak of my daughter as the Duchesse de Zara.”

A throb passed through the yacht. Reggie looked out of the porthole and saw the water sliding by. “So we’re off,” he smiled.

“The yacht sails immediately for Ragusa. I shall not be able to put you ashore, sir. For any discomfort you undergo be pleased to blame yourself and your employer. I see a rashness in your actions which I should have expected from my wife.”

Reggie chuckled. “Well, well. And, of course, you don’t like being rash!”

“On our arrival at Ragusa you may, if you choose, remain and be present at my daughter’s marriage.”

“Oh. Shall I be present, sir?” said Hilda, with a dangerous meekness.

“My dear child!” His Highness said affectionately. “Mr. Fortune⁠—you have the happiness to be present at the betrothal of my daughter, the Duchesse de Zara, to my nephew, the Comte de Spoleto.”

It was Reggie who preserved an appropriate calm. He only gave one chuckle.

“How? But⁠—but it is incredible!” Spoleto cried in French, and recoiled, gesticulating.

The Prince flushed and glared at him.

Hilda stood up. “This is ridiculous, sir,” she said, and was pale.

“Ridiculous, that is the word,” Spoleto cried.

“Be silent, Spoleto. My dear child, you do not understand.”

“I understand enough. You say you are my father. I think I ought to know my father. I⁠—I do not mind knowing you. But this⁠—it is absurd and insulting. I will not hear any more about it. This gentleman⁠—I know nothing about him.” She surveyed Spoleto with disdain. “I do not wish to make his acquaintance.”

“Thank you very much,” Spoleto cried.

“Hilda! Be pleased to remember that you are now to do your duty as my daughter. I do not permit disobedience.”

“It’s no use to talk so,” said Miss Crowland. “I am not a baby.”

His Highness, whose grey hair was becoming dishevelled, made a violent gesture. “English! She is as English as her mother.”

“Oh. If you are going to say things against my mother I will go,” said Miss Crowland. “You came from my mother, sir. I should like to speak to you.”

Reggie bowed and opened the door for her. As they went out he heard Spoleto say in French, “Do you see, my uncle, this does not do,” and then a storm. The house of Ragusa was divided against itself in throes.

On deck, Miss Crowland seemed to have some difficulty in making up her mind what to say. “Does my mother know about this?” she broke out at last.

“That’s between you and your conscience, isn’t it?” Reggie smiled.

“I haven’t told her anything, but she has never told me anything,” Miss Crowland said fiercely. “How did she come to send you here?”

“Some rather odd things happened at school, you know.”

“Did they?” said Miss Crowland, in delighted amazement. “What things?”

“I wonder if you know who little Alice Warenne really is? She is an actress from the Theatre des Variétés in Paris.” Miss Crowland laughed. “She was employed to get a photograph of you, to find out all about you, to arrange for you to be kidnapped like this, and to persuade you to come aboard.”

“Monsieur is a detective!” Alice slid up between them. “Oh, but a very great detective.”

“I knew all that. Except that she is an actress.” Miss Crowland turned to her. “Are you an actress?”

“Darling!” Alice laughed all over her baby face. “That is the prettiest compliment, is it not, M. the detective?”

“If you think she has cheated me, she has not. She told me that the Prince of Ragusa said he was my father, and that he wanted me to come on his yacht. My mother never would tell me anything about my father. I didn’t think that was fair. So I came. And now, Mr.⁠—Mr. Fortune, what will my mother do?”

“What shall we all do?” Reggie laughed. “You’re in a hole and your mother’s in a hole, and the Prince of Ragusa is in the deepest hole of the three.”

“Excepting always M. the detective,” Alice laughed. “Look, monsieur⁠—the beautiful England⁠—she vanishes! Adieu, the respectable country and the nice policemen!”

“Do you imagine you are here to look after me?” said Miss Crowland fiercely.

“Think of me as a mother,” said Reggie, and she went away in a rage.

“Well, monsieur?” Alice laughed at him. “You are making friends everywhere. You are content?”

“If I had a razor and a clean shirt,” Reggie said.

“Alas, monsieur, I have none. I do not play⁠—how do you call them?⁠—principal boys. Bon voyage, monsieur.” She tripped away.

It was made clear to Reggie that he was not going to be popular on board. The retinue of the Prince avoided him emphatically. The royal family remained below. He was taken to a cabin, and there dinner was served him.

“And not a bad dinner either,” said Reggie, as he went on deck again.

It was dark and a moonless night. The yacht was meeting a southerly breeze and the first of the ocean swell and grew lively. Reggie had the deck to himself. He was nearly at the end of his cigar before anyone disturbed his humorous meditations.

“Mr. Fortune? You amuse yourself?” It was the Comte de Spoleto.

“I can smile.”

“In effect, my friend, we are ridiculous. My uncle he is a dreamer⁠—a student. He sees a thing in his mind, it is logical, it is to his desire, and he conceives it done. He has been like that always. A temperament! He is not a man of the world.”

“I guessed that,” Reggie murmured.

“But what to do? The situation is impossible, my friend. Conceive my feelings. This young girl⁠—she is fresh, she is superb as a morning in the mountains⁠—and by me she is exposed to this humiliation. And I⁠—whatever I do, I am ludicrous. I beg of you, my friend, believe that I feel it. Imagine my position.”

“Imagine mine. You might lend me a razor. But hardly a toothbrush.”

“He will not touch land before Spain. Oh, yes, he is capable of it, my friend. But this young girl⁠—”

“Did you bring a toothbrush for her?”