“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.