Produced by Al Haines
[Transcriber's note: Extensive research found no evidence
that the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
JUGGERNAUT
BY
ALICE CAMPBELL
_FRONT PAGE MYSTERY SERIES_
GARDEN CITY -------- NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, DORAN & COMPANY, INC.
1929
JUGGERNAUT
CHAPTER I
When Esther rang the bell of Numéro 86 Route de Grasse, she felt within
her that pleasant sort of stage-fright--a mixture of dread and
exhilaration--which one is apt to experience when venturing into the
unknown. The thrill might be out of all proportion to the prosaic
character of her mission--for what is there exciting in applying for a
post as a doctor's assistant?--yet there was no gainsaying the fact
that when this door confronting her opened, anything, everything, might
happen. That is the way Youth regards things.
"Opportunity--a door open in front of one." So in earlier years her
Latin teacher had dilated on the inner meaning of the word. Esther
smiled reminiscently and congratulated herself that she was not going
tamely back to her work in America, choosing instead, when she found a
door open, to enter and explore on the other side.
Numéro 86 was a conventional and dignified villa, noncommittal in
appearance, like a hundred others. Clean windows blinked in the
sunshine, the doorstep was chalky white, the brass plate on the lintel
glittered with the inscription, "Gregory Sartorius, M.D." Beside the
gate a mimosa shook out its yellow plumage against the sky. Mimosa--in
February! ... New York, reflected Esther, was in the clutch of a
blizzard. She could picture it now, with its stark ice-ribbed streets,
its towering buildings, a mausoleum of frozen stone and dirty snow. As
for flowers--why, even a spray of that mimosa in a frosty florist's
window would be absurdly expensive; one would pay...
"_Vous désirez, mademoiselle?_"
She turned with a start to find the door open, framing the squat figure
of a man-servant, a brigand in appearance, French of the Midi; black
hair grew low on his forehead; his beetling brows met over sullen shiny
eyes which scanned her with a hostile gaze. Diffidently she mustered
her all-too-scanty French.
"_Est-ce Monsieur le docteur est chez lui?_" she ventured, hoping for
the best.
To her relief the brigand broke into a friendly smile.
"Mademoiselle come about job?" he replied in English. "Yes, come this
way, please."
He led the way through an entrance hall into a large salon of chill and
gloomy aspect.
"Take a seat," he bade her, grinning cheerfully. "I go tell doctor."
The salon was plainly a reception-room for patients. Looking about,
Esther wondered why physicians' reception-rooms were invariably so
uninviting, so lacking in personality. This one was particularly drab
and cold, though she could not say that it was shabby or in more than
usual bad taste. It was furnished in nondescript French style, a
mixture of periods, with heavy olive-green curtains at the windows
shutting out most of the light, and pale cotton brocade on the modern
Louis Seize chairs. A plaster bust of Voltaire on the mantel-piece was
flanked by Louis Philippe candlesticks, the whole reflected in a
gilt-framed mirror extending to the ceiling. Across the middle of the
room stretched a reproduction Louis Quinze table with ormolu mounts,
and on it were stacked regular piles of magazines, French and English.
Everything was in meticulous order. The parquet shone with a glassy
finish. From the corner a tall clock ticked loudly, deliberately. The
house was very still.
Suddenly Esther felt uncomfortable, oppressed. Yet why? There was no
reason to dread the coming interview. Indeed, she could think of no
plausible explanation for the absurd panic which overtook her in a
flash. Why, for a single instant she had half a mind to bolt out of
the house before the doctor appeared. What utter nonsense! How
ashamed she would have been! To steady herself she picked up the
folded copy of the morning paper facing her and opening it re-read the
advertisement that had brought her here. It was plain and to the point:
"Dr. Gregory Sartorius of 86, Route de Grasse, wishes to find a
well-educated young Englishwoman, trained nurse preferred, to assist
him in his work. Good references essential. Applicants may call
between two and four."
It sounded just the thing. Suitable jobs were not plentiful in Cannes,
her three-day search had been sufficient to convince her of that fact.
She hoped she would land this one; if not, it would probably mean New
York again, and the blizzard. She hated to be beaten.
A shadow darkened the glass doors. She sprang to her feet, slightly
disconcerted to feel that the doctor had been silently inspecting her
from without, perhaps for several seconds. Again she was impatient
with herself for the odd suggestion of alarm which came upon her. She
was not usually nervous like this.
What an immense man he was! That was her first thought as he paused
for an instant in the doorway, scrutinising her. Big and rather
clumsily built, with awkward, slow movements. He had a student's
stoop, and his skin was brownish and dull, his whole heavy person
suggesting the sedentary worker. His low forehead, receding into a
bald head, was oddly flattish in shape. It reminded Esther of
something--she couldn't think what. He stood with his head slightly
lowered and regarded her deliberately, appraisingly, before he uttered
a word. She could hear his breathing.
"Good afternoon, Miss..."
He stopped inquiringly.
"My name is Rowe. I've come about the advertisement, doctor."
He approached slowly, showing a sort of lethargic reluctance towards
effort which extended even to the muscles of his almost expressionless
face. To some he might have appeared dull and stupid, but Esther knew
this was not true. There was life in the flicker of his small eyes,
deep-set, bilious in tinge, and as she looked into them she received
the impression of a great inner concentration of energy.
"You are American, I see."
"Well, Canadian, as a matter of fact. I trained in New York."
"A nurse, then. Where did you train?"
"St. Luke's."
She thought this made a good impression.
He made a chary movement of his hand towards a chair and at the same
time sank into a fragile fauteuil, which creaked with his weight. He
sighed, obviously bored with the prospect of the interview.
"What are you doing in France?"
"I came here as companion to a patient of mine who hates travelling
alone. We stopped a week in Paris; then I brought her here, where she
met some friends with whom she went on to Algeria. It was arranged
beforehand. I was only to come as far as Cannes. I've been here a
week now, and I was going back to New York, only----"
"Well?"
Esther smiled with the complete frankness which was one of her greatest
assets.
"Well, doctor, I've never been abroad before, and I may never come
again. It seems so stupid, having come so far, not to stay more than
two weeks. I love it here. Only in order to stay I must get some
work; I can't afford to be idle."
He seemed to find this reasonable, though not interesting, glancing
away from her in a bored fashion.
"I see. Now about this place. What I want is a nurse who will be in
attendance here from nine in the morning till six in the afternoon;
someone thoroughly responsible, who will make appointments, do a little
secretarial work, answer the telephone, and, of course, assist when
there are examinations. The usual thing."
"Yes, doctor, I understand."
"Can you typewrite?"
"A little. I'll improve with practice."
"Know French?"
"Not too well, but I mean to study."
"It's of no great consequence, most of my patients are English. How
old are you?"
It was a medical, impersonal question. He might have been inquiring
the age of her grandmother in Manitoba.
"I'm nearly twenty-six."
"You look younger, but no one can tell these days. Now as to
references. What can you show me?"
"I have brought my certificate from the hospital, and I have my
passport, of course----"
"Let me see them."
He examined both, not omitting to look at the libellous photograph on
the passport.
"Still, these are not really sufficient, Miss--Miss Rowe. They tell me
nothing of your reputation, your character."
"I'd thought of that," she replied quickly. "I've got a letter written
by Miss Ferriss, the patient I came with. She's known me several
years."
"Ah! And how am I to know you didn't write the letter yourself?"
She was on firm ground now.
"I thought of that, too. I got her to write it in the presence of the
manager of the Carlton Hotel and deposit it with him. You can ask him
to show it to you."
He raised his brows slightly, seeming to admit, though with a bad
grace, that she might not be as much of a fool as he first thought her.
She suspected that his opinion of women was low.
"I see. Of course it won't tell me what I chiefly want to know, but
I'll look it up. What I must have," and he brought his hand down
weightily on the table, "is accuracy. Accuracy and precision ... you
see, I shall want you sometimes to help me in the laboratory."
"I thought you were a scientist!"
He looked at her with a flicker of interest.
"Oh? Why did you think that?"
She felt confused.
"I'm not quite sure. Something about you suggests a scientist. I
worked one summer with a Rockefeller Institute man who was doing
research. Perhaps that's why."
"Who was he?"
"Dr. Blumenfeld. He was working on infantile paralysis."
He nodded. "Blumenfeld; yes, I know him. He's on the wrong tack."
Slowly he hoisted his big body up out of the chair, giving the
impression that the interview was finished.
"What am I to understand, then, doctor? Do you think you will want me?"
He bent his cold and impersonal gaze on her and again she felt
oppressed. Her eyes dwelt on his rather ugly, flattish forehead, which
somehow fascinated her. He appeared to be thinking of something else
and trying at the same time to bring his attention to bear on the
problem of the moment.
"Ah yes. I'll probably let you know this evening, after I've seen that
letter. What is your address?"
She gave him the name of her small hotel and he wrote it down. Then
suddenly she recalled the question of salary, which had escaped his
notice altogether.
"One thing more, doctor. You haven't told me what you pay."
He mentioned a sum in francs; she put it quickly into dollars. It was
a much smaller amount than she made in America, but she thought she
could live on it. After all, was it not worth a little managing to
stay on in this beautiful sunny place?
"You'll get your lunches here--and your tea," the doctor informed her.
He moved towards the door, plainly anxious to be rid of her. It
crossed her mind that seldom had she seen a medical man with a less
genial personality. She found it an effort to answer naturally,
suddenly wondering what it would be like to have her lunch in this
house, and whether she had to have it with him.
"All right, doctor, I won't look further till I've heard from you."
At the front door she looked up at him and was about to hold out her
hand, but one glimpse of his dour, preoccupied face made her change her
mind. Still, it was so incurably her habit to be trusting and friendly
that on the doorstep she turned to shed on him her candid smile--only
to find the door already closed. The rebuff was like a cold shower; it
made her catch her breath. Had she made a bad impression on the man?
Did he consider her rather confiding simplicity unbusinesslike? She
resolved hastily to cultivate a severer demeanour for European use.
"Never mind," she reflected philosophically. "I have a feeling I'll
land the job, which is the main thing. And as for the doctor--however
queer he is, he'll be safe in one respect--he'll never make love to me!"
This, in her eight years' experience on her own, she had learned to
consider. Not that all doctors and male patients made love, but there
were a sufficient number who did, in spite of what certain invidious
colleagues might say about girls getting only what they asked for.
For a moment she looked up at the house, its red-brick front and
painted door so blank and non-committal, so little revealing, then with
a laugh at her recent discomfiture she drew her fur closer about her
throat and set off briskly towards the centre of the town.
She had not taken a dozen steps when the loud bang of a door made her
look suddenly behind. Yes, it was the doctor's door, the same that had
been shut in her face a moment ago. A young man--English by the look
of him--had issued hastily from the house and was now getting into a
small, rather smart car that stood by the curb.
In another moment the car and its occupant glided past her, the young
man sullenly intent on the road ahead. Esther had a close view of his
face, clean-shaven, healthily bronzed, with a sort of neat and
inconspicuous good looks, somehow marred by a shallow hardness in the
eyes and fine lines that spoke of high-living. Not a person one would
notice very especially, yet at sight of him the girl's thoughts were
instantly diverted into a new channel. She frowned as she watched the
disappearing car.
"Now where is it I have seen that man before?" she pondered.
She had certainly met no one in Cannes; she knew few if any Englishmen,
yet the face, with its combined hint of cynicism and petulance, was
undoubtedly familiar. It stirred some vibration in her memory, recent,
and in an indefinable way unpleasant. Where had she seen him?
She gave it up.