IV
Madame lived in a big house at St. John's Wood. A South American minister had lived there, and had spent a fortune on its interior adornment. Reputable artists had embellished its walls and ceilings, and if the decorations were of the heavy florid type, it is a style which makes for grandeur. The vast drawing-room was a place of white and gold, of glittering candelabras and crimson velvet hangings. How Madame had come to be its possessor is a long and complicated story. The minister was recalled from London on the earnest representations of the Foreign Office and a budding scandal was denied its full and fascinating development.
Madame had many friends, and her house was invariably full of guests. Some stayed a long time with her. She liked girls about her, she told the innocent vicar who called regularly, and might have been calling still, if his wife had not decided that if Madame required any spiritual consolation, she would put her own pew at her disposal.
Her object (confessed Madame) was to give her guests a good time. She succeeded. She gave dances and entertained lavishly. She made one stipulation: that her visitors should not play cards. There was no gambling at Alemeda House. The attitude of the police authorities toward Madame Ritti's establishment was one of permanent expectancy. Good people, people with newspaper names, were guests of hers: there was nothing furtive or underhand about her parties. Nobody had ever seen a drunken man come or go. The guests were never noisy only—Madame's girl guests were many. And none of the people who came to the dances were women.
Madame was bemoaning the skepticisms of the authorities to Ronnie.
She was a very stout woman, expensively, but tastefully dressed. Her lined face was powdered, her lips vividly red. A duller red was her hair, patently dyed. Dyed hair on elderly women has the effect of making the face below seem more fearfully old. She wore two ropes of pearls and her hands glittered.
Ronnie always went to Madame Ritti in his moments of depression; he had known her since he was little more than a schoolboy. She had a house in Pimlico then, not so big or so finely furnished, but she had girl guests.
"You know, Ronnie, I try to keep my house respectable. Is it not so? One tries and tries and it is hard work. Girls have so little brain. They do not know that men do not really like rowdiness. Is it not so? But these policemen—oh, the dreadful fellows! They question my maids—and it is so difficult to get the right kind of maid. Imagine! And the maids get frightened or impertinent," she laid the accent on the last syllable. She was inclined to do this, otherwise her English was perfect.
The door opened and a girl lounged in. She was smoking a cigarette through a holder—a fair, slim girl, with a straight fringe of golden hair over her forehead.
Ronnie smiled and nodded.
"Hello, Ronnie—where have you been hiding?"
Madame snorted. "Is it thus you speak? 'Hello, Ronnie,' my word! And to walk in smoking! Lola, you have to learn."
"I knew nobody else was here," replied the girl instantly apologetic, "I'm awfully sorry, Madame."
She hid the cigarette behind her and advanced demurely.
"Why, it is Mr. Morelle! How do you do?"
"That is better, much better," approved Madame, nodding her huge head. "Always modesty in girls is the best. Is it not so, Ronnie? To rush about, fla—fla—fla!" Her representation of gaucherie was inimitable. "That is not good. Men desire modesty. Especially Englishmen. Americans, also. The French are indelicate. Is it not so? Men wish to win; if you give them victory all ready, they do not appreciate it. That will do, Lola."
She dismissed the girl with a stately inclination of her head.
"What have you been doing? We have not seen you for a very long time. You have other engagements? You must be careful. I fear for you sometimes," she patted his arm. "You will come tonight? You must dress, of course. I do not receive men who are not in evening dress. Grand habit, you understand? The war made men very careless. The smoking jacket—tuxedo—what do you call it? and the black tie. That is no longer good style. If you are to meet ladies, you must wear a white bow and the white waistcoat with the long coat. I insist upon this. I am right, is it not so? All the men wear grand habit nowadays. What do you wish, Ronnie?"
"Nothing in particular; I thought I would come along. I am feeling rather sick of life today."
She nodded. "So you come to see my little friends. That is nice and they will be glad. All of them except Lola; she is going out to dinner tonight with a very great friend. You know your way: they are playing baccarat in the little salon. It amuses them and they only play for pennies."
Ronnie strolled off to seek entertainment in the little salon.
He was rung up at his flat that evening four times. At midnight Steppe called him up again.
"M'sieur, he has not returned. No, M'sieur, not even to dress."
Madame Ritti, for all the rigidity of her dress regulations, made exceptions seemingly.
Ronald was sleeping soundly when Steppe strolled into his room and let up the blind with a crash.
"Hullo?" Ronnie struggled up. "What time is it?"
"Where were you last night?" Steppe's voice was harsh, contumelious. "I spent the night ringing you up. Have the police been here?"
"Police, no. Why should they?"
"Why should they!" mimicked the visitor, "because Sault stopped his car before the entrance of these flats. Luckily, they are not sure whether he went in or not. The detective who saw the car did not notice where Sault had come from. They asked me if there was anybody in Knightsbridge he would be likely to visit, and I said 'no', d'ye hear? No! I can't have you in their hands, Morelle. A cur like you would squeal and they would find out why he came. And I don't want to know."
The dark eyes bent on Ronnie were glittering.
"You hear? I don't want to know. Moropulos is dead. In a week or two Sault will be dead and Beryl will be married. Why in hell do you jump?"
Ronnie affected a yawn and reached out for his dressing gown.
"Of course I jumped," he was bold to say, even if he quaked inwardly. "You come thundering into my room when I'm half asleep and talk about police and Moropulos. Ugh! I haven't your nerve. If you want to know, Sault came here to ask me where you were. I thought he was a little mad and told him you were out of town."
"You're a liar—a feeble liar! Get up!"
He stalked out of the room slamming the door behind him, and when Ronnie joined him, he was standing before the mantelpiece scowling at the Anthony.
"Now listen. They will make enquiries and it is perfectly certain that they will trace you as being a friend of Moropulos. I want to keep out of it, and so do you. At present they cannot connect me with the case except that I had dealings with Moropulos. So had hundreds of others. If they get busy with you they will turn you inside out; I don't want you to get it into your head that I'm trying to save you trouble. I'm not. You could roast in hell and I'd not turn the hose on to you! I'm thinking of myself and all the trouble I should have if the police got you scared. Sault didn't come here, huh? Was anybody here beside you?" he asked quickly.
"Only François."
"Your servant!" Steppe frowned. "Can you trust him?"
Ronnie smiled.
"François is discreet," he said complacently.
A shadow passed across Steppe's dark face.
"About the women who come here, yes; but with the police? That is different. Bring him in."
"I assure you, my dear fellow—"
"Bring him here!" roared the other.
Ronnie pressed a bell sulkily.
"François, you were here in the flat on Saturday night, huh?"
"Yes, M'sieur."
"You had no visitors, huh?"
François hesitated.
"No visitors, François: you didn't open the door to Sault—you know Sault?" The man nodded.
"And if detectives come to ask you whether Sault was here, you will tell them the truth—you did not see him. Your master had no visitors at all; you saw nobody and heard nobody."
He was looking into a leather pocketbook as he spoke, fingering the notes that filled one compartment.
François' eyes were on the note case, too.
"Nobody came, M'sieur. I'll swear. I was in the pantry all evening."
"Good," said Steppe, and slipped out four notes, crushing them into a ball.
"Do you want to see me, today?" asked Ronnie, and his uncomfortable guest glared.
"Not today. Nor tomorrow, nor any day. Where were you last night?"
François retired in his discretion.
"I went to Brighton—"
"You went to Ritti's—that—!"
He did not attempt any euphemism. Madame Ritti's elegant establishment he described in two pungent words.
"God! You're—what are you? I'm pretty tough, huh? Had my gay times and known a few of the worst. But I've drawn a line somewhere. Sault in prison and Moropulos dead—and you at Ritti's! What a louse you are!"
He stalked into the hall, shouted for François and dropped the little paper ball into his hand. François closed the door on him respectfully.
"A beast—!" said Ronnie, disgusted.