CHAPTER XV.
“Eau D’Enfer”
Inez Fratten, on hearing from the sedate Miss Gilling that the scent she had been trying to trace to Ryland’s mysterious charmer had been actually bought by Ryland himself, felt a chill of apprehension creep over her—a chill so vivid as to be almost physical. What could it mean? It was possible, of course, that Ryland had given it to the girl himself, but from the way he had spoken of it—as a possible clue to her identity—that seemed quite out of the question. A reference to Miss Gilling confirmed this view; the last purchase had been made several weeks—possibly two months—ago, and Ryland had said that he had only met the girl about a fortnight previously.
Was Ryland lying, then? The thought sickened her. That he should lie to her, and at such a time, would have seemed to Inez impossible had she not known, only too well, the streaks of baser metal in Ryland’s alloy—he was weak, if not worse, about both women and money; might he not also be a liar—a liar of this calibre? And if a liar, a liar to her, Inez, about so desperately serious a subject, might he not be even worse? Inez shuddered again as the thought forced itself upon her.
Thanking, though perfunctorily, Mr. Rodney-Phillips and Miss Gilling for their help, Inez made her way out into the street. The same chain ran repeatedly through her head and she had walked as far as the bottom of St. James’s Street before realizing where she was going. Having got so far on the way home, she decided to go straight back and have it out with Ryland—if he was still at home. But why—the thoughts kept turning over in her head—why should he have told her this silly lie? Was it just to put her off? If so, why again? To gain time? If so, what for? The thought flashed into her like a stabbing knife—to get away? To get her out of the way while he made off?—made off from her, who had practically given her word as bail to Inspector Poole! It was a terrible thought; she forced herself to stop thinking till she could get face to face with the truth.
To her intense relief, she heard that Ryland was still in the house—Golpin had seen him go into the morning-room only a few minutes previously. Inez walked straight to the door, opened, and shut it firmly behind her. Ryland was sitting at the writing table, with several sheets of foolscap, covered with what appeared to be aimless scribblings, in front of him. Inez walked across the room and dropped the handkerchief on the table in front of him.
“You bought that scent yourself,” she said. “Why did you tell me the handkerchief belonged to that girl—Daphne?”
Ryland looked up in surprise, which deepened when he saw the cold look on her face and realized the hard inflection of her voice.
“Bought it my . . . ?” Ryland picked up the handkerchief and sniffed it. A frown appeared on his face; he sniffed again, and then again.
“Good Lord!” he exclaimed. “I am a fool. That’s Julie’s handkerchief. I remember now; I bought her some of that stuff myself—from Rollinson’s probably. I quite thought that was Daphne’s scent. I am a fool, Inez. I’m most awfully sorry to give you all that trouble for nothing.”
Inez looked at him with cold contempt; the icy fingers of doubt and fear were clutching at her heart again.
“Do you expect me to believe that?” she asked. “Am I such a complete fool?”
“Inez, what do you mean?”
“I mean that you’re telling me lies. You couldn’t have made such a mistake; you deliberately deceived me. Probably the whole story’s a lie—there is no Daphne. And if there’s no Daphne. . . .”
She did not finish the sentence, but stood staring at Ryland. She saw his face turn slowly white; the colour seemed literally to drain out of it before her eyes. His eyes grew large and seemed to sink into his haggard face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but only a hoarse sound came from it. He licked his parched lips, and a gulp moved the Adam’s apple in his throat.
“Inez!” his voice was little more than a whisper, but the agony in it was unmistakable. He moved his hand towards her—“you don’t believe . . . ? You don’t . . . Inez, not you?”
A look of anguished appeal came into the dark eyes. Inez felt a quiver of doubt—of hope, almost. Was it possible that Ryland, her Ryland, could be what, for a moment, she had thought him? But there can have been no softening in her face, because Ryland’s hand dropped to his side; beads of perspiration came on to his white forehead; the look of appeal changed to one of bitter determination; without a word he turned and walked towards the door. Inez watched him go—for five steps—then:
“Ry,” she said. “Ry, I don’t mean it! I don’t believe . . . I can’t . . . Ry, tell me what it means! Tell me!”
Ryland stopped and turned slowly towards her. His lips quivered; suddenly he put his hands to his face and a deep sob shook him. Inez ran to him and flung her arms round him—pulled him down to the sofa beside her, pressing her cheek against his hair.
“Ry! Ry!”
“Oh Inez!” he sobbed. “How could you, how could you?”
“Ry, my darling! Ry, don’t! I was a beast—a swine. Oh, Ry, my darling, forgive me!”
Ryland lifted his face and looked at her with deepening wonder in his eyes.
“Inez! You’ve never called me that before! Why do you call me that?”
“Oh Ry, you little fool—can’t you see?”
She looked into his eyes, the delicious smile twitching at the corner of her mouth, while tears sparkled in her eyes.
“Inez—but I was—till yesterday I was your brother!”
“No, never, never! I’ve always known you weren’t.”
“And yet . . . ?”
Inez nodded vigorously, a sob still choking her voice.
“Yes, and yet . . . and yet. . . . Aren’t I a fool, Ry?”
Ryland looked deeply into her lovely face. It was more than a minute before he spoke.
“Inez, I’m the most unworthy beast any girl could love—and especially you. I’m a waster, a liar, a dissolute rotter, a fool, pretty nearly a thief, pretty nearly everything—except what, for a minute, I thought you thought I was. How can you love me?”
Inez smiled at him calmly.
“That’s not the point, Ryland. The point is that I’ve just told you, in the most immodest way, that I love you—that I’ve always loved you—and you haven’t said a word about loving me. Do you?”
The man would have been inhuman who could have turned his back on the wistful loveliness of her expression. Ryland shyly took her hands in his.
“Inez, I’ve only known you about twelve hours—except as a sister—and being a sister is the most complete disguise imaginable. I wonder if you’ll believe me; since last night—since you told me about my not being your brother—you’ve appeared to me someone entirely different. I’ve thought about you—I couldn’t think why. I haven’t consciously thought about you, but when I was trying to think about something else—about this horrible muddle—I have found myself thinking about you. I didn’t know what it was—I was rather annoyed even. Oh, Inez, what a fool I am! What a fool I’ve been! I’m simply and absolutely unworthy of you!”
Inez rose to her feet.
“Yes, I think you are, Ry,” she said, “at the present moment. It’s for you to decide whether you want to stay like that. In the meantime you can just forget what I’ve told you. Now, what about this handkerchief?”
Ryland slowly flushed—a healthier colour than the ghastly whiteness of ten minutes ago.
“What I told you was true, Inez. I did make a mistake.” He grinned feebly. “I believe it was partly your fault. I told you just now that I kept on finding myself thinking about you when I wanted to be thinking about this Daphne business. Good Lord, doesn’t that seem a ghastly business now—how could I ever—but I’m not going to talk about that. You know I’m a fool—you’ve always known I was a fool—and yet . . . ! Now, I’ve got to show you whether I’m always going to be one—or not.”
Inez nodded gravely. There was a minute’s silence, each deep in thought. Inez was the first one to break it.
“Look here, Ry,” she said. “You were very positive this morning about that handkerchief—you said you remembered her dropping her handkerchief when she got out of the car and your bagging it. Now you say that you made a mistake and that it was one of Julie Vermont’s. Do you mean that you didn’t pick up one of Daphne’s handkerchiefs?”
Ryland looked perplexed.
“Yes, of course I did—I know I did—but this can’t be it.”
“Then,” said Inez triumphantly, “where is the one you did pick up—Daphne’s?”
“Good Lord, Inez—I see what you’re getting at; probably I’ve still got it somewhere! By Jove, that’s an idea; I’ll go and hunt for it.”
He sprang to his feet and dashed impetuously out of the room.
“Hi, Ry, come back a minute!” called Inez, but the slamming of the front door told her that he was gone. The girl smiled happily, almost for the first time since the trouble had begun; it really seemed as if Ryland was making an effort at last—and at least she had destroyed the old false relationship between them, whatever might come of the new.
Leaving the morning-room, Inez walked across the hall to the little room on the other side of the study. She knocked at the door and, in response to Mangane’s answer, opened it and walked in. The secretary’s face brightened as he saw her. He sprang to his feet and offered her the small arm-chair beside her table.
“I don’t believe I’ve been in here before, Mr. Mangane,” said Inez—“not since you came. Mr. Dune always had the window shut—I couldn’t face it—I did come in once to ask him about something—it was awful.”
Mangane laughed.
“I can promise you fresh air, Miss Fratten—and a welcome. As I face north, the only sunshine will be what you bring yourself—that’s terribly old-fashioned and stilted, isn’t it? But the door does face south, so even the gloomy Golpin brightens the room a bit when he comes in.”
“What you want are some flowers; how rotten of me not to have thought of it before. I’m so sorry.”
Inez whisked out of the room and returned in a minute with two vases of chrysanthemums—yellow and russet—from her own sitting-room.
Mangane almost blushed with pleasure and stammered his thanks.
“Now, Mr. Mangane,” said Inez, “I want your help. I believe Inspector Poole has asked you about it already—I told him to. It’s about those papers that father was fussing over every night just before he died. Do you know what they were?”
“The Victory Finance Company, I expect you mean. Yes, Poole did ask about them; he’s got them now.”
Inez’s face brightened.
“Has he? Then that means that he’s following up that line!”
“Not necessarily, I’m afraid, Miss Fratten. He took all the Company papers he found in your father’s table, and the Bank papers, and his private accounts. The Victory Finance just happened to be among them; he didn’t seem specially interested in them.”
Inez’s face fell. Then her air of determination returned. “Then we must follow it ourselves,” she said. “Can we get those papers back?”
“I expect so; he said he’d bring them back in a day or two. We shall have to get Mr. Hessel’s leave.”
“Oh bother Mr. Hessel; you must get hold of them, Mr. Mangane. In the meantime, will you talk to Ryland about them? Explain to him what they are—you know something about them, I expect?” Mangane nodded. “Make him understand about them—see if he can’t find something to take hold of. There must be a clue somewhere—there simply must. I know the police think Ryland killed father but of course he didn’t! Anyone who knows him, knows that.” (Inez had forgotten her own terrible doubts of an hour ago.) “I don’t believe it’s got anything to do with the will. I believe it’s some business enemy. You don’t know of anyone, do you?”
Mangane shook his head.
“I’m afraid I don’t, Miss Fratten. Poole asked me that.”
“Then we must hunt for him. I believe those papers are the key. You understand that sort of thing; you could see things that we should miss. Oh, I’m asking you an awful lot! But you will help us, won’t you?”
Mangane looked steadily into her eager face.
“I’d do anything to help you, Miss Fratten,” he said quietly.
The front door opened and shut and Ryland’s voice was heard talking to one of the servants. Inez excused herself and hurrying out led the way to her own sitting-room. Ryland’s face was serious; there was none of the jubilation of the early morning, but he held out his hand and again there lay in it a woman’s cambric handkerchief. Inez seized it eagerly and put it to her nose.
“Pouf!” she said, dropping it hurriedly. “My aunt, what stuff!”
“It is a bit fierce, isn’t it? I rather like it, though.”
“You would; it’s the sort of stuff men do like.”
She sniffed the handkerchief again; it gave off a strong, pungent, almost burnt, odour—much too strong to be attractive to a woman, and yet clearly possessing a quality of rather oriental fascination.
“Hot stuff.”
“It is, and it’s Daphne’s; I remember it unmistakably now. Can we trace it, do you think?”
“We can try. I doubt if it’s Rollinson’s—or any respectable London perfumers. It’s more likely Paris—a small shop behind the Opéra; more likely still, it’s Port Said. But we can try.”
Ryland held out his hand for it.
“No,” said Inez. “This is my job; you’d make a mess of it—men are too bashful to worry shops. You go and talk to Mangane now; he’s got a job for you—I’ve been talking to him.”
Laid on to her new scent, Inez once more set out upon the trail. Returning to Rollinson’s, she found Mr. Rodney-Phillips noticeably less accommodating than upon the occasion of her previous visit. One sniff of the handkerchief was enough for him; he had never sold, nor ever would sell such a low-class perfume; he knew of no establishment (he had no cognizance of “shops”) which might be likely to deal in it; he wished her good morning.
Duhamel Frères were slightly more helpful. They produced no such article themselves, though they believed that there was a certain demand in Paris for similar effects. They were willing to refer the enquiry to their Paris house if Madam would leave the handkerchief with them. After a moment’s thought, Inez borrowed a pair of scissors and snipped a quarter off the unknown Daphne’s five-inch square of absurdity.
“Pompadour” was interested. Madame Pompadour, who ran the business herself, with two good-looking assistants, knew Inez by name, and was intrigued by what she had read of the Inquest on Sir Garth’s death; she was still more intrigued by what Inez, taking one of her quick decisions (which seldom erred on the side of discretion) told her. She did not agree with Mr. Rodney-Phillips that it was a low-grade perfume; on the contrary, it was in its way a work of art, though the taste which demanded it might not be high. She made nothing of the kind herself, but she knew one or two small undertakings which might have produced it. She gave Inez, in the first place, two addresses: “Orient Spices” in North Audley Street and “Mignon” in Pall Mall Place.
Inez took the nearest one first. She found “Mignon” to be a small, dark shop in the celebrated passage which leads from Pall Mall, nearly opposite Marlborough House, into King Street. It was faintly lit by electric candles in peculiar-looking sconces. There was a heavy reek of exotic perfume, and a very pretty but too highly coloured houri was in attendance. The girl looked as if she were more accustomed to being cajoled by members of the other sex, but she was not proof against the ingenuous (and ingenious) charm of Inez’s appeal; she proved, in fact, to be, beneath her rather spectacular exterior, a very simple and friendly girl, deriving from no more dashing a locality than Fulham.
Once more Inez revealed the nature of her quest; Mignon’s assistant—she answered popularly to the name of “Mignonette”—was thrilled to the tips of her pink and pointed finger-nails. She applied the remaining three-quarters of Daphne’s handkerchief to her pretty nose and, after one sniff, exclaimed excitedly:
“Why, it’s our Eau D’Enfer!”
“What?” cried Inez, eagerly. “You know it?”
“We make it! Or rather it’s made for us—exclusively. Fearfully distangy—quite unique.”
“But could you trace it to anyone particular?”
“Might; there aren’t so many that buy it. I believe I can remember most of them that’s had it this year. D’you want men or women?”
Inez thought for a moment.
“Women in the first place,” she said. “It’ll be almost impossible to trace it through men, unless you know the woman they were buying it for.”
Mignonette screwed her face into a pretty frown of thought.
“There’s old Lady Harlton—nasty old hag—sixty if she’s a day—’twouldn’t be her. Then there’s Mrs. van Doolen—she’s no chicken either—pretty hot stuff though.”
“No, no,” said Inez. “Daphne must be fairly young.”
“Well then, there are a couple of actresses—Gillie Blossom—you know her, of course—and Chick Fiennes” (she pronounced it Feens) “—she’s at the Duke’s Cabaret show now, I think.”
“What’s she like?”
“Very small—petite, she calls herself—strong American accent.”
“No good,” exclaimed Inez impatiently. “Isn’t there one with dark hair—must be attractive, voice and all.”
Neither of the girls noticed that the small door at the back of the shop had opened and that a woman dressed in black, her large chest draped with a string of huge artificial pearls, was listening to them. The proprietess’ face was hard now, but years ago it must have been beautiful.
“Nobody dark except Gillie,” said Mignonette.
“She’s no good—Ry would know her,” said Inez.
“Well, the only other good-looker I can think of is . . .”
“Miss Vassel!”
Both girls started and turned towards the figure in the doorway.
“What do you mean by revealing the names of customers? It is absolutely forbidden.” Turning to Inez: “I don’t know who you are, Madam, or what you want, but will you please leave my shop.”
A glance showed Inez that neither argument nor appeal would be the slightest use here. She shrugged her shoulders and turned to the door. As she did so, she shot a glance at Mignonette and saw that unrepentant young woman jerk her head as if to indicate “round the corner.” At the same time she spread out the fingers of one hand.
Outside, Inez glanced at her watch; it was ten minutes to five—the girl’s meaning was obvious. Turning in the direction that Mignonette’s nodded head indicated, Inez walked up the passage into King Street and there waited, looking at the bills outside the St. James’s Theatre. She had not long to wait; at five minutes past five Mignonette appeared, in a neat mackintosh and small black hat.
“I always come out for a cup of tea at five,” she said. “We don’t close till eight, so as to catch the swells going to their clubs. The old woman’s in a tearing hair.”
“Come and have some tea with me,” said Inez. In five minutes they were in Rumpelmayer’s, with an array of marvellous cakes before them.
“There is one other,” resumed Mignonette, “but she’s not dark. She’s jolly good-looking though—scrumptious figure. Matter of fact I believe she lives somewhere near me—I’ve got a dig in the Fulham Road and I’ve seen her walking along it several times in the morning when I start for work. She’s generally rather quietly dressed then—looks as if she might be in a job herself—but I’ve seen her on Sunday mornings too in a car, looking pretty posh—same chap with her each time—nice-looking chap, too.”
“What sort of a car?” asked Inez eagerly.
“Don’t know, I’m afraid. I’m not up in them. But it’s a two-seater of sorts, one that shuts up if you like.”
“But who is she?”
“Funny thing is I don’t know her name. Whenever she’s been to us, she’s paid for the stuff and taken it away.”
“But could you show her to me?”
“I should think so; if you like to come down to my place one morning early we’d look out for her.”
“Of course I will—I’ll come tomorrow. Bother it, I wish she’d got dark hair.”
“P’raps she has—sometimes,” said Mignonette laconically.