XI
What a mess! What a perfect hell of a mess he was in. He stood by the window, biting his nails. Suppose Beryl told? He wiped his forehead. Girls had queer ideas about their duty in that respect. He knew of cases. One of those threatening gestures which had come his way was the result of such a misguided act of confession on the part of a girl whom he had treated very handsomely indeed. A baser case of ingratitude it would be difficult to imagine. Beryl might. She had principles. Phew!
He heard the trill of the telephone in François' pantry.
"Mr. Moropulos," said François, emerging from his room.
Ronnie scowled. "Tell him—no, put him through." He laid down his walking stick and gloves.
"Yes, Moropulos—good morning—lunch? Well, I was going out to lunch with some people."
Moropulos said that his business was important.
"All right—oh, anywhere—one of those little places in Soho." He slammed down the instrument viciously. But this was a time to consolidate his friends and their interests. Not that Moropulos was a friend, but he was useful and might be more so.
The Greek arrived at the restaurant to the minute and was looking more spruce than usual.
"Have you seen Steppe?" was his first question.
"I understood he was on his way to see you—he seemed angry," said Ronnie.
"Our dear Steppe is always angry," answered the Greek coolly. "This time, however, he has no cause. If he has gone to my house, he will not see me."
"What is the trouble?"
Moropulos shrugged. "He has been informed by evil-minded people that during his absence I was—well, not to put too fine a point on it, very drunk."
"And were you?"
"On the contrary, at the very hour, when his spies informed him I was dancing on a table in a low part of the east end, and shouting that the Mackenzie report was a forgery—"
Ronnie went pale. "Good God! You never said that?" he gasped.
"Of course not. If I had, it would be a serious thing for me. I, Paul Moropulos, tell you, Ronald Morelle, that it would be a disastrous thing for me. Just now my relations with dear Jan are—er—strained. I do not wish a breach."
"But surely if Steppe's men say—"
"'Let them say,'" quoted Moropulos, "it is what I say, and you say, and somebody else says, that counts, for at the very moment I was supposed to be misbehaving," he emphasized his words, "I was dining with you and the lovely Miss Merville in your flat."
"What! Why, that is a lie!"
"What is one lie worse than another? Observe I give you the date; it was one day before the charming Miss Merville spent the night with you alone in your very beautiful flat." Had the floor collapsed, Ronald Morelle could not have received a worse shock.
"I recognize your embarrassment and sympathize with you," said Moropulos, "but it is essential for my happiness and ultimate prosperity, that both you and Miss Merville should testify that I dined with you on the previous night."
Ronnie had nothing to say. He had not yet realized the tremendous import of the man's threat.
"I will save you a lot of trouble by telling you that I followed you from the Pavilion to Knightsbridge. I spent the whole of the night outside, wondering when she would come out, and I photographed her as she got into the cab. The photograph, an excellent one, is now in a secret place. Steppe, I hope, will never see it," he added, looking at his vis-à-vis from under his eyelids. "Steppe is angry with me; how unjust! It was impossible that I could have been making a fool of myself, at the very hour we three together were talking of—what were we talking of?—Greece, let us say, the academies. Steppe would not believe you, of course, but he would believe Miss Merville and a great unpleasantness would be avoided. I am sorry to make this demand upon you, but you see how I am situated? I swear to you that I had no intention of using my knowledge. It was an amusing little secret of my own."
Ronald found his voice. "Am I to tell—Miss Merville that you know? That you have a photograph?"
Moropulos spread his hands. "Why should she know? It is not necessary."
Ronnie was relieved. It was something to be spared the scene which would follow the disclosure that a third person was in their secret. He asked for no proofs that Moropulos knew, and any thought of the girl and what this meant to her, never entered his head. If Steppe knew! He grew cold at the thought. Steppe would kill him, pull his life out of him. Ronald Morelle was prepared to go a long way to keep his master in ignorance.
"I will see Miss Merville," he said, and then feeling that a protest was called for: "You have behaved disgracefully, Moropulos—to blackmail me. That is what it amounts to!"
"Not at all. It was a simple matter to tell Steppe that on the night in question I was waiting soberly outside your flat, watching his interests. He is immensely partial to Beryl Merville. A confusion of dates would not have been remarked; he would be so mad that the lesser would be absorbed in the greater injury. He, he would forgive—you—"
Ronald shuddered.
In the afternoon he made his call. "It is lucky finding you alone, dear," he began, awkwardly for him, "you'll never guess what I've been through during the past few days—"
She was very calm and self-possessed. A shade paler, perhaps, but she was of a type that pallor suited. And she met his eyes without embarrassment. That made matters more difficult for Ronald. He plunged straight away into the object of his visit.
"Where were you on Tuesday night, Beryl?"
She was puzzled. "Tuesday—? I forget, why?"
"Try to think, dear," he urged.
"I was dining at home. Father was out, I think. I'm not sure. I went to a concert after with the Paynters. Yes, that was it—why?"
"You were dining with Moropulos and I."
She stared at him. "I don't understand."
"Moropulos is in trouble with Steppe. He has been drinking and some of Steppe's watchers have reported that he made an ass of himself, gave away some business secrets, and that sort of thing. Steppe is naturally furious and Moropulos wants to prove an alibi."
"That he was dining with us, how absurd! Where?"
"In my flat."
She surveyed him steadily. He was unusually excited. She had never seen Ronnie like that before. Nothing ever ruffled him.
"Of course, I can't tell such a lie, even to save your friend," she said. "I was dining at home, although father has such a wretched memory that he won't be sure whether I was here or not."
"Where did you meet the Paynters, did they call for you?" he asked eagerly and she shook her head.
"No, I met them at Queens Hall. I was late and they had gone into the hall. But that is beside the point. I am not helping you in this matter."
"But you must, you must," he was frenzied. "Moropulos knows—he saw you come into the flat—and come out."
There was a dead silence.
"When—on that night?"
She walked across the room, her hands clasped behind her. Ronnie had expected hysteria—he marveled at her calm.
"Very well," she said at last. "I dined with you and Moropulos. You had better invent another lady. Let us be decent, even in our inventions. And Mr. Moropulos entertained us with talk about—what?"
"Anything," nervously, "I know that you think I'm a brute—I can't tell you what I think about myself."
"I can save you the trouble. You think you are in danger and you are hating me because I am the cause."
"Beryl!"
She smiled. "Perhaps I am being uncharitable. The complex of this situation doesn't allow for very clear thinking. I may take another view next week. Will you post this letter for me as you go out?"
He went down the stairs dumbfounded. Her quietness, the unshaken poise of her, staggered him. "Will you post this letter!"—as if his visit had been an ordinary call. He glanced at the envelope. It was addressed to a Bond Street milliner, and on the back flap was scribbled: "Send the blue toque also."
"H'm," said Ronnie as he dropped the letter into the post box. He felt in some indefinable way that he was being slighted.