reliance.
The following day he introduced Franklin Rudge and Elizabeth Martin to his friend Mr Harley Quin. He was pleased to see that they got on together. The Countess was not mentioned, but at lunch time he heard news that aroused his attention.
‘Mirabelle is arriving in Monte this evening,’ he confided excitedly to Mr Quin.
‘The Parisian stage favourite?’
‘Yes. I daresay you know – it’s common property – she is the King of Bosnia’s latest craze. He has showered jewels on her, I believe. They say she is the most exacting and extravagant woman in Paris.’
‘It should be interesting to see her and the Countess Czarnova meet tonight.’
‘Exactly what I thought.’
Mirabelle was a tall, thin creature with a wonderful head of dyed fair hair. Her complexion was a pale mauve with orange lips. She was amazingly chic. She was dressed in something that looked like a glorified bird of paradise, and she wore chains of jewels hanging down her bare back. A heavy bracelet set with immense diamonds clasped her left ankle.
She created a sensation when she appeared in the Casino.
‘Your friend the Countess will have a difficulty in outdoing this,’ murmured Mr Quin in Mr Satterthwaite’s ear.
The latter nodded. He was curious to see how the Countess comported herself.
She came late, and a low murmur ran round as she walked unconcernedly to one of the centre roulette tables.
She was dressed in white – a mere straight slip of marocain such as a débutante might have worn and her gleaming white neck and arms were unadorned. She wore not a single jewel.
‘It is clever, that,’ said Mr Satterthwaite with instant approval. ‘She disdains rivalry and turns the tables on her adversary.’
He himself walked over and stood by the table. From time to time he amused himself by placing a stake. Sometimes he won, more often he lost.
There was a terrific run on the last dozen. The numbers 31 and 34 turned up again and again. Stakes flocked to the bottom of the cloth.
With a smile Mr Satterthwaite made his last stake for the evening, and placed the maximum on Number 5.
The Countess in her turn leant forward and placed the maximum on Number 6.
‘Faites vos jeux,’ called the croupier hoarsely. ‘Rien ne va plus. Plus rien.’
The ball span, humming merrily. Mr Satterthwaite thought to himself: ‘This means something different to each of us. Agonies of hope and despair, boredom, idle amusement, life and death.’
Click!
The croupier bent forward to see.
‘Numéro cinque, rouge, impair et manque.’
Mr Satterthwaite had won!
The croupier, having raked in the other stakes, pushed forward Mr Satterthwaite’s winnings. He put out his hand to take them. The Countess did the same. The croupier looked from one to the other of them.
‘A madame,’ he said brusquely.
The Countess picked up the money. Mr Satterthwaite drew back. He remained a gentleman. The Countess looked him full in the face and he returned her glance. One or two of the people round pointed out to the croupier that he had made a mistake, but the man shook his head impatiently. He had decided. That was the end. He raised his raucous cry:
‘Faites vos jeux, Messieurs et Mesdames.’
Mr Satterthwaite rejoined Mr Quin. Beneath his impeccable demeanour, he was feeling extremely indignant. Mr Quin listened sympathetically.
‘Too bad,’ he said, ‘but these things happen.’
‘We are to meet your friend Franklin Rudge later. I am giving a little supper party.’
The three met at midnight, and Mr Quin explained his plan.
‘It is what is called a “Hedges and Highways” party,’ he explained. ‘We choose our meeting place, then each one goes out and is bound in honour to invite the first person he meets.’
Franklin Rudge was amused by the idea.
‘Say, what happens if they won’t accept?’
‘You must use your utmost powers of persuasion.’
‘Good. And where’s the meeting place?’
‘A somewhat Bohemian café – where one can take strange guests. It is called Le Caveau.’
He explained its whereabouts, and the three parted. Mr Satterthwaite was so fortunate as to run straight into Elizabeth Martin and he claimed her joyfully. They reached Le Caveau and descended into a kind of cellar where they found a table spread for supper and lit by old-fashioned candles in candlesticks.
‘We are the first,’ said Mr Satterthwaite. ‘Ah! here comes Franklin –’
He stopped abruptly. With Franklin was the Countess. It was an awkward moment. Elizabeth displayed less graciousness than she might have done. The Countess, as a woman of the world, retained the honours.
Last of all came Mr Quin. With him was a small, dark man, neatly dressed, whose face seemed familiar to Mr Satterthwaite. A moment later he recognized him. It was the croupier who earlier in the evening had made such a lamentable mistake.
‘Let me introduce you to the company, M. Pierre Vaucher,’ said Mr Quin.
The little man seemed confused. Mr Quin performed the necessary introductions easily and lightly. Supper was brought – an excellent supper. Wine came – very excellent wine. Some of the frigidity went out of the atmosphere. The Countess was very silent, so was Elizabeth. Franklin Rudge became talkative. He told various stories – not humorous stories, but serious ones. And quietly and assiduously Mr Quin passed round the wine.
‘I’ll tell you – and this is a true story – about a man who made good,’ said Franklin Rudge impressively.
For one coming from a Prohibition country he had shown no lack of appreciation of champagne.
He told his story – perhaps at somewhat unnecessary length. It was, like many true stories, greatly inferior to fiction.
As he uttered the last word, Pierre Vaucher, opposite him, seemed to wake up. He also had done justice to the champagne. He leaned forward across the table.
‘I, too, will tell you a story,’ he said thickly. ‘But mine is the story of a man who did not make good. It is the story of a man who went, not up, but down the hill. And, like yours, it is a true story.’
‘Pray tell it to us, monsieur,’ said Mr Satterthwaite courteously.
Pierre Vaucher leant back in his chair and looked at the ceiling.
‘It
