She did not know why she should attach so much importance to the
incident just related, nor why, during the next few days, she should
keep seeing in her mind’s eye the white, dull skin and pale, staring
eyes of the little man in the rue d’Amsterdam. Again and again the
vision recurred to her, always with a sense of distrust and vague
repulsion, akin to the antipathy with which one regards certain
specimens of the saurian kingdom.
As a matter of fact she was now acquainted with his name and
occupation, for on the way out from the milliner’s she had read upon
his door the words, “_A. Blom, Notaire_.” A _notaire_ was probably a
humble sort of lawyer, which offered a reasonable explanation for the
man’s connection with Jeanne. In France upper-class servants
invariably have their legal advisers who help them with the investment
of their savings. Jeanne, the soul of thrift, was undoubtedly putting
aside every available sou against her old age, so that it was quite
natural for her to consult an expert on the subject of stocks and
bonds.
As Catherine turned this over in her mind a sudden thought struck her.
Very likely Eduardo put the bolt on the door the other night to
prevent her walking in and finding the _notaire_ there. Then as the
visitor had gone out by the private entrance the precaution was
forgotten till the knocker woke the sleeping occupants.
Her position in the household was now less positively unpleasant, and
while she felt that she was still regarded as a thorn in the flesh,
she fancied the servants had accepted her presence as inevitable and
were making the best of things. She even noticed an improvement in
their attitude towards her. Eduardo was not actually insolent, and
Jeanne, though distant, was for the most part as suave as in former
days. Occasionally she betrayed a slight gleam of resentment, but for
this the girl was ready to make allowances.
“Poor, warped creature!” she mused, full of compassion. “It’s not that
she dislikes me personally. It’s only that she doesn’t want to share
her mistress’s affection with anyone. What a starved life she must
have lived, to be so completely centred on one object!”
It did, indeed, seem that the woman had but a single passion, her
devoted attachment to Mme. Bender. Impossible not to admire the
indefatigable care with which she surrounded her charge, her quickness
to forestall the invalid’s slightest wish. Steadfastly she refused
Catherine’s offers of assistance, and remained hour after hour on
duty, scarcely ever quitting the apartment. If in the evening she
slipped out for an hour, Eduardo took up his post in the converted
dressing-room adjoining Mme. Bender’s bed-chamber, and remained there
until she returned.
Daily Catherine spent an hour or two with her cousin, trying to cheer
her and at the same time to study her condition, but after a week she
was as far as ever from coming to any definite conclusion. She was
chiefly struck by the invalid’s total lack of confidence in herself,
her unwillingness to affirm anything positively, cunningly waiting to
take her cue from the opinions of those about her. It suggested that
she was distressingly aware of blank patches in her memory, which she
was anxious to conceal.
Mme. Bender’s spirits varied startlingly, passing from a childish,
hectic gaiety to periods of moodiness impossible to lighten. At times
she chattered volubly, jumping from topic to topic with utter
inconsequence; then again she would sit for hours without opening her
lips. It was on the latter occasions that Catherine noticed the look
of terror before mentioned, but every effort to fathom the cause of it
met with failure. All she succeeded in rousing was a hint of something
very like suspicion towards herself.
Another thing puzzled the girl. This was neither more nor less the
extreme readiness of Mme. Bender to agree with her maid on every
subject, complaisance carried to the point where it seemed as though
she were actually trying to curry favour in Jeanne’s eyes. Absurd, of
course! Yet so it appeared when again and again the weak personality
bolstered itself up by leaning upon the strong one. Sometimes
Catherine told herself that if Jeanne had declared black to be white
her mistress would have hastened to say that it was so. Reluctantly
she began to see that there were some grounds for Miss Cushing’s view
of affairs, and that for good or for bad her cousin was, to an
alarming extent, under the maid’s influence.
“I suppose it’s only to be expected in the circumstances,” she
reflected. “So long as there’s no harm in it, one oughtn’t to care.”
On the latter point she could not quite make up her mind. She
continued to hold a high opinion of Jeanne, but as the days went by
little doubts crept across her mental sky like clouds, each leaving
its shadow beneath. Perfect as the woman showed herself in her
devotion to the invalid, in other respects she was not so flawless. It
became more and more evident that the establishment was badly run,
that the maid did not trouble in the least what happened outside the
patient’s own room. The second week passed, and the sheets on
Catherine’s bed had not been changed. The windows wanted cleaning, not
only in her bedroom but all over the apartment. The food served to her
was carelessly cooked and all but insufficient. This neglect in a rich
woman’s dwelling was inexcusable. In spite of herself, Catherine could
not help thinking of the singer’s declaration that Jeanne was pinching
and saving in order to put money into her own pocket. It must be so,
for what other reason could there be for so niggardly an economy?
Petty pilfering, for which one must not use too harsh a term, yet for
all that it was distasteful to find the quality prompting it linked in
the same character with motives of sterling excellence.
Meanwhile she was enjoying Paris. She presented introductions, made
many acquaintances, and went about shopping and visiting
picture-galleries to her heart’s content. Each day brought a fresh
invitation, so that soon she was caught up in a gay and active life.
More and more often she saw Geoffrey Macadam, and it was somehow
gratifying to note the frequence with which he sought her society,
yet, although she was getting to know him extremely well, he continued
to preserve towards her an unbroken attitude of matter-of-factness, as
impersonal as that of a brother. Sometimes the feminine part of her
was piqued by this unexciting behaviour, but presently she came to
regard him as one of those beings preordained for bachelordom, and
having settled this to her satisfaction felt even more than before
that she could confide in him with freedom. Undoubtedly there was
something solid and worth while about him which counted higher than
the facile attractions of the other men she had met, and though he
seldom paid her a compliment and had never once tried to hold her
hand, she began to look forward eagerly to her meetings with him, sure
of mental stimulation and sympathetic accord.
Existence flowed on, outwardly serene, yet there was a sub-current to
affairs which rendered Catherine ill at ease. Was she imagining
things, or was it perhaps true that Jeanne, under cover of her
unremitting labours, was conducting some secret game for her own
advancement? She could not be sure.
Take the single instance of Mme. Bender’s car. Not once had she set
eyes upon it, although her cousin appeared to assume that it was
always at her disposal. What had become of it? No effort, she was
sure, was being made to engage another chauffeur. Naturally she did
not broach the subject to Jeanne, for at all cost she was anxious to
avoid friction. At best her presence here was merely tolerated, and to
stir up latent antagonism against herself would make life unbearable.
For the same reason she kept silent when, with a shock of surprise,
she found that several of the best rooms in the apartment were under
lock and key. Why was this so? Lying in bed at night she puzzled over
the circumstance, unable to come to any conclusion. With one exception
she had no desire beyond that of curiosity to penetrate the closed
portions of the flat. Their contents did not concern her, but it was
true she would have liked to go into the picture-gallery on the ground
floor. Here were hung all the best of Harry Bender’s collection, which
included many interesting examples of the modern French school--a
number of the Barbizon group, a couple of Claude Monets, a fine
Cézanne, and three or four Renoirs. In particular she recalled with a
thrill of pleasure a small still-life of apples and pears, executed by
Manet during his sojourn at Boulogne--a gem of a painting, highly
treasured by her dead cousin.
Several times she was on the point of asking Jeanne for the key, but
always something--instinct or premonition--held her back. In the end
an incident occurred to render the request unnecessary.
Returning home one afternoon, she saw in the street outside the
private entrance a luxurious Rolls-Royce standing by the kerb. For a
moment she wondered if someone were calling upon Mme. Bender, but that
could hardly be, for there was no sign of a chauffeur. Then she
noticed that the car was black, inside as well as out, and the
knowledge flashed on her that it was her hostess’ own. What was it
doing here, and who was going to drive it?
As she fumbled for her key the question was answered. Eduardo came
hurriedly out carrying a long cylindrical parcel wrapped in brown
paper, took one startled look at her, and headed straight for the
driver’s seat.
So the car was being used, but only for the servants’ convenience! The
knowledge angered her, but hardly had she taken it in when she saw in
front of her the door of the gallery standing wide open.
What luck! At once she stepped inside, then stood looking round her
with blank disappointment.
Every painting was shrouded in ghostly muslin, not an inch of frame
visible. Chairs and canapes, too, wore covers of linen, while even the
carpet--a valuable Aubusson, if she remembered rightly--was hidden by
an enormous dust-sheet.
“What a shame!” she murmured aloud.
She would have liked to remove the wrappers, but most of the pictures
hung too high for her reach. The little Manet, though--that she might
manage, for she remembered its position, lower down, at the end of the
room.
“That’s it, I’m sure,” she thought, identifying a small rectangular
shape. “No harm in having a peep at it--” and she loosened the muslin
bag.
A cry of dismay escaped her. The gold frame, robbed of its precious
canvas, stared her in the face.
What an odd thing--to part with the picture and leave the frame
behind! She had never heard of such a thing. She stared at the open
space, while in her brain a disagreeable suspicion began to take form.
Quickly she made the round of the other paintings, feeling the
canvases through the material. There were several missing, she could
not say which. Very strange, this.…
Next, her heart beating fast, she tugged at the enveloping linen upon
the furniture, only to meet with a fresh shock. Every scrap of the
eighteenth-century tapestry, fit for a museum, had been removed,
leaving the coarse lining. Last she turned over a corner of the
dust-sheet underfoot. As she expected, there was nothing between it
and the perfectly laid parquet.
She remained rooted to the spot, while the blood sang in her ears.
Who, she asked herself grimly, was responsible for these depredations?
For that they were depredations she could not doubt. The artful
concealment told its own story. Carpet and tapestries alone
represented many thousands of francs, while the missing pictures might
run into millions. Had they been secretly abstracted and sold?
A step ran lightly down the stairs outside. A pause, then in the
doorway Jeanne appeared, a bunch of keys in her hand. Her brown eyes
shot a rapid glance from Catherine to the muslin bag upon the floor
and back again. In their hard gaze the girl caught the same expression
she had seen in the mirror nearly three weeks ago--something alien,
hostile. Now she fancied there was another emotion in them. Was it
fear?
“Mademoiselle is searching for something?” inquired the crisp voice,
edged with irony.
Catherine braced herself.
“Yes, Jeanne, I was looking for the little Manet. What has become of
it?”
The maid raised her brows regretfully.
“Ah, the little Manet! It is sad, is it not? Monsieur parted with it,
only a few weeks before his death. No wonder you are astonished to
find it gone.”
Incredulity swept over the girl. Cousin Harry part with the pearl of
his collection? She could not possibly believe it. She still recalled
the pride with which he had shown it to her four years ago. She kept
her gaze rivetted to the composed face opposite.
“Why did monsieur let the painting go without the frame? It is most
extraordinary.”
A shrug answered her, indifferent, chill.
“Who knows? A whim, perhaps. I believe I heard them say that the
picture was bought by some gentleman from South America. No doubt he
paid a large price; but why he did not take away the frame I have no
idea.”
“There are other pictures gone, also the carpet and the tapestry from
the furniture. Were those sold as well?”
“At the same time, I imagine, but as I was away on my holiday I know
nothing about them. We sailed immediately afterwards for America, and
when we returned, madame and I, the room was as you see it now.”
“But madame? Has she never mentioned them to you?”
“Ah, poor madame? She does not occupy herself with these affairs. I
doubt if she even remembers they were sold. I never dare speak of
things which make her think of monsieur, as you well know!” She
bestowed a cursory glance round the walls, then turned to Catherine
with an air of polite dismissal. “And now, mademoiselle, if you have
quite finished, I will lock up the room. It is safer, is it not?”
A plausible answer, which it was impossible to refute; yet as
Catherine heard the key turn in the door instinct warned her that
every glibly-uttered word was a lie. The servants themselves had
disposed of those paintings, were probably planning the sale of
others. She had wondered just now what the butler was carrying in that
oddly-shaped parcel. Of course, it was a rolled-up canvas!
Her knees trembled as she walked up the stairs.