Velvet Shadows (11 page)

A few of the last cards had been laid face down and these she picked up one by one, surveyed, and then stabbed down on the table top either right or left. I was so curious I arose to look over her shoulder.

The usual pips were missing from these cards. Hearts, diamonds, clubs, and spades, there were none of those. These bore instead pictures which were so overlaid by dirt that one could hardly make out the full design, save one was a hand holding a dagger, another a black snake curled around a rod.

Victorine turned over the last card, added it to one of her piles. She scowled and muttered in the patois I could not understand. With a gesture of impatience or anger, she swept the cards into a pile, put them back into the box. Before I could ask a question, she pushed aside the table with such force that it nearly crashed, and stood up.

It was only then that she appeared to remember she was not alone, and turned her head to gaze at me.

“I am very tired, I go now to rest.” Her abrupt speech had little in common with her usual half-drawl. And her bearing was not that of one fatigued. Rather her eyes glittered, her body was tense. But the door of her room closed so firmly behind her I was at a loss.

When Mrs. Deaves appeared to say that she was dining with a friend, Amélie came from Victorine's room to announce her mistress had a headache and would want only a cup of chocolate.

“But she was feeling so much better!” Mrs. Deaves was plainly vexed. “Very well, I shall send a note to the Andrews—”

“You need not give up your engagement.” I did not fancy spending the evening with a Mrs. Deaves annoyed at the loss of her pleasure. “I shall remain here, of course. And I want no more than some sandwiches and a cup of coffee. Mr. Sauvage left that package of new books that arrived this morning and I shall have plenty of entertainment with those. I shall be near if Victorine needs anything.”

She was torn two ways, but her desire for the evening's pleasure won. I sighed with relief when she left. Earlier I had dismissed Fenton so she could spend the evening with her sister, and the sitting room of the suite was very still.

In the book parcel was one of those three-volume novels from England with a most intriguing title—
The Moonstone.
I had vaguely heard of the author, Wilkie Collins, but the book was new to me and I sat down with the first volume, prepared to spend a quiet evening. If I were watched from Victorine's chamber, as I must have been, I was unaware of it.

When the light repast I had ordered arrived there was a second tray Amélie claimed. But I halted her to ask concerning Victorine. She said her mistress was better, had asked for soup and biscuits, but wanted nothing more. And she was so eager to go I could not detain her.

I found my book enthralling, too much so for an evening's reading when alone, I at last decided. Now I felt a
vague apprehension and depression, as if the troubles of the characters were communicated to my own spirit. So I put the volume firmly aside and went to bed.

It must have been close to an hour later that, still uneasy, I drew on my wrapper and slippers to make one last check on Victorine. As I stood in the doorway of her room I could see her asleep in bed. All was well, I could retire.

Yet I could not sleep. The memory of those dirty cards crowded into my mind every time I closed my eyes. Why had I not asked Victorine to explain them to me? To handle such filthy things might well cause an illness if she did it often. The ancient Black Death itself could well cling to their smeared surfaces.

Did I finally drowse? I must have, for suddenly it seemed I was back in the cabin of the
Ranee.
But the friendly Captain, Alain, Mrs. Deaves were missing. Alone I faced Victorine and there was that in her face which made her another person—evil.

Her fingers moved deftly dealing out those horrible cards, not in any complicated design but for two hands of play. While piled on the table between us was a heap of jewels from which sluggishly trickled runnels of blood. So great was my horror of touching those cards she willed me to pick up that I awoke, found myself sitting up in bed, my heart pounding.

I did not wait longer than to snatch my wrapper for I must go to Victorine, assure myself that she was not the demonic thing I had faced in my fantastic dream, so much did that nightmare still hold me.

Nor did my feeling of need to lay that illusion fade as I crossed the darkened sitting room to fling open her door. There she lay calmly and peacefully asleep. What folly to be so influenced by a dream! Yet I approached her bed. Her face was turned toward the night lamp and now I could see it clearly.

This was not Victorine!

Amélie lay there, wearing her mistress's robe and nightcap. In the dim light, if her face had been turned away,
the illusion might not have been broken. Only the chance that the dream had brought me—

Now I reached for the shoulders of the sleeping girl. My fear was lost in rising anger. What possible trickery was this?

“Wake up!” I shook Amélie with all my strength. “What are you doing here? Wake up!”

My grasp raised her from the pillows. But her head only rolled on her shoulders, her eyelids did not even flutter. I could hear her breathing, heavy, strenuous. As I shook her again I wondered if she could possibly be drunk.

But where was Victorine? And why was Amélie wearing her nightcap and lace-trimmed gown? Why this imposture?

The maid was a dead weight in my hands, gave no sign of consciousness. I let her fall back on the pillows. What was I to do? Where had Victorine gone and why? I fought to control rising panic, make myself think rationally. Was Amélie a party to deception or in some way a victim of it? For her complete passivity awakened my fears.

With an idea of discovering what I could before I summoned help, I lit a second lamp and, with that in my hand, I moved about the room, heading for the wardrobe. When I jerked open the door I had part of my answer.

There was no doubt this had been hurriedly ransacked. A mantle lay on the floor, dresses were in disorder. And two carpetbags stored in the back were gone. A quick check of the dressing table made clear that Victorine's jewel case and some of her toilet articles were missing.

I could think of only one explanation—an elopement But why had Amélie been left so? I had thought the tie between her and Victorine was such she would have been included in such a flight.

Something lying on the hearth caught my attention as I lifted the lamp higher, a half-burned screw of paper. As I picked it up a yellowish powder shifted from the uncharred portion. There were words written on it. I smoothed out the half-sheet and read in French what was left:

“Enough for—”

I laid it carefully on a table. Enough for what, of what—? Had this contained a drug for Amélie?

Hurriedly I brushed the few grains of powder adhering to my fingers back onto the paper and folded it carefully. It might be well to know what the powder was.

Now I returned to the bed, only to face a new alarm. During the few moments I had been making my superficial search there had been a change in the girl. She seemed to be fighting for every breath she drew, and those labored gasps had longer intervals between. When I touched her forehead her skin was very chill. Amélie must have help and at once!

Putting down the lamp I rang the bell pull, which would summon the night porter. As I stood there waiting for an answer to my frantic summons, there came the grate of a key in the lock of the sitting room door, and that opened to admit Mrs. Deaves.

At the sight of me in the doorway of Victorine's room she stopped short.

“What is the matter?”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

To admit that one has failed in one's duty is never easy, and to do so to Mrs. Deaves, who I knew disliked me, was doubly difficult. But what mattered now was perhaps Amélie's life and certainly Victorine's safety.

I made the story short but before I had finished she pushed past me to see for herself. I would have followed, but there was a knock on the outer door and I answered, to front the hotel floorman I had summoned.

“Bring a doctor, as quickly as you can!”

“There's Dr. Beech, ma'am. He's just down the hall, lives here. If he's in—”

“Get him. If he is not there find someone else—but hurry!”

“Yes, ma'am.” He padded away.

Fingers jerked at my arm.

“What are you doing?” Mrs. Deaves demanded.

“Getting a doctor for Amélie—I am sure she is gravely ill.”

“Have you gone out of your mind?” she retorted. “Don't you realize what a scandal may mean to Alain? That wretched girl in there is drugged. Left alone she will recover. But if you bring in others that will start all kinds of gossip—”

I shook off her hold. “Did you really look at her? I know little about drugs, but I believe she is deathly ill. She must have help and that as soon as possible.”

Brushing past Mrs. Deaves, I returned to the bed. Amélie's breathing was worse, even to my untutored ears. I had never had experience with any serious illness before, but I was sure of the danger now. Mrs. Deaves had followed, to face me across the bed.

“You are a complete fool, and Alain will never forgive you for this. You had better think about where Victorine might be, worry about this slut later. I intend to telegraph Alain—”

“Do!” If she had meant that as a threat, it did not matter. Alain was needed here. This was what he had feared from D'Lys. I only longed to have him walk into the room this instant.

“Be sure I shall tell him
everything,”
she continued, paying no attention to Amélie's struggle for breath, just watching me, gloating in her eyes. At that moment I did not care what she told him, all that was important was that he should come.

“Someone is ill?”

Together we looked to the door. A burly man wearing a brocaded dressing gown, his tousled hair standing up like a cockscomb, stood there.

“I'm Dr. Beech. Well, ladies, what is the matter?”

Mrs. Deaves moved quickly away from the bed as if to disassociate herself from the scene.

“I shall go to send the telegram.” She spoke to me, not to him, and with her head held high she passed him without a word.

The doctor watched her retreat in some surprise and then turned to me.

“Now then, young lady, what have we here?”

I explained while he made a quick examination of Amélie.

“She's been drugged, yes,” he agreed. “We shall need hot coffee, plenty of it. Must get her roused, make her walk if we have to drag her around—keep her moving. I don't recognize the drug but the symptoms suggest a soporific of some type and certainly an overdose.”

“I'll get the coffee, Miss Tamaris.” Startled, I glanced around. Fenton had come in and never had I been so glad to see anyone. Her angular, upright figure was reassuring. I knew we could expect no help from Mrs. Deaves, but with Fenton I had a steady supporter—until Alain could arrive.

Though Amélie was in danger, I dared not forget Victorine. Where had she gone and with whom? It might be that every moment we used to fight for Amélie would allow her foolish young mistress to get farther out of our reach. Yet I did not see what else I could do. Perhaps when Amélie recovered consciousness she could tell us that which would help.

Fight we did during the next few hours, forcing the hot black coffee down the maid's throat. After the first cup she was wretchedly ill and the doctor found that promising.

“Gets some of the stuff out of her,” he explained.

Fenton was a tower of strength, though we saw no more of Mrs. Deaves. We worked hard, two of us at a time leading Amélie about. She moaned, fought us weakly. However, I doubted if she was conscious of her condition. When her eyes did open now and then, she did not seem to know who we were. Or did she pretend that for reasons of her own?

At last Dr. Beech was satisfied she had thrown off the worst effects and we settled her back in bed. I collapsed on the chaise longue, suddenly aware that I was shaking
with fatigue and nervous reaction. As I sat so the doctor came to me, holding that fan with the hiding place in the end sticks. He sniffed at the hollow.

“Do you know what was in here?” he demanded.

“That there's nothing of Miss Tamaris'!” Fenton was at my side in an instant. “You'd better ask Miss Victorine. This here is
her
room, and that girl is
her
maid!”

“Please, Fenton,” I curbed her, though her championship warmed me. “What is it, Doctor?”

“Something I can't name.” He stared at me as if trying to search my mind. “I've seen, or rather smelled, that before—but when or where—” He shrugged.

Abruptly he stalked away from me to the bed. Picking up the lamp and holding it closer to Amélie, he studied her closely. Her nightcap had fallen off and her black hair lay in rippling waves across the pillows. The usual deep cream of her complexion was now yellowish and her features seemed sharper, as if she had been ill for days. Setting down the lamp at last, Dr. Beech turned back to me.

“Is that girl from New Orleans?” I was surprised; what did it matter where Amélie came from?

“No—from France. Or the West Indies—I am
not
sure.”

“Yes, she has all the look of
les sirenes.
”

I had never heard that expression before. He must have noticed my questioning look. Though he did not flush, his eyes dropped from meeting my gaze as if he were embarrassed. “Just a term. Used to describe certain young women of color.” He picked up the fan again. “I'd like to take this with me.”

“Can't you tell me what you suspect?”

Dr. Beech shook his head. “I'm not sure myself. Just a guess and nothing to discuss with a young lady either. When Mr. Sauvage returns I would like to see him as soon as possible.”

“Of course.”

“Now”—he became the authoritative man of medicine —“I have arranged for one of the hotel maids to sit with this girl. You, young lady, had better go to bed also.
Here”—he rummaged in his bag to produce a packet he gave to Fenton—“see that she takes that in a glass of warm milk. Then do not let her be disturbed until she wakes of her own accord.”

I had no intention of following his orders, though I did not say so. Having just witnessed the result of a sleeping potion, I would never, I determined with a shudder, take one myself. Also—sleep could not be thought of. We had saved Amélie, but what of Victorine?

That I had failed in my responsibility was painfully true. Also there was little hope of redeeming that failure. But if I could discover some clue before Alain arrived I would have that much to offer him.

In my own room I faced Fenton. I must talk her into helping me, tired and shaky as I was.

“Fenton, we have to find Miss Victorine!”

She nodded, did not voice the protest I had half expected.

“You have been worrying about that all along, miss, that I know. But where do we look?”

Her prompt offer of alliance in that “we” heartened me.

“Someone must have seen her leave the hotel—”

“If you ask a lot of questions, Miss Tamaris, there can't help but be talk. The quieter we keep this the better when she comes home again. This is a town which talks a lot, and when mud's thrown, it's bound to stick—some of it—real hard.”

Fenton was right. Yet I was sure that time mattered, that Victorine's danger might be, in another way, no less serious than Amélie's.

“There are people who'd know a little,” Fenton continued, hesitatingly, as if she were not quite sure how she should word this.

“You mean the servants. They might not talk to me, but would they to you?”

“That's a way for us to start, yes, miss.”

“Then—try it, Fenton! If you are able to uncover even the slightest clue—”

“I'll do my best, Miss Tamaris.”

She left and I went to the bathroom, bathed my face
in cold water, which I hoped would help me to think more clearly. Then I hurried to my wardrobe and surveyed the garments hanging there.

From among them I chose a very plainly made alpaca which Fenton had so disdained she had suggested giving it away. Instead I had brought it with me, thinking it acceptable to wear to the shore where Alain had proposed taking us. It was of a dull dark blue with only a little braiding in black, made with a shorter “walking skirt”—what we had referred to at Ashley Manor as a “rainy-day dress.”

If I were to venture forth to search for Victorine I must be as inconspicuous as possible. Wearing such a dress, a waterproof cape for a wrap, my hair plainly caught back under my oldest hat, perhaps I would not be remembered.

Where I would go and how I did not know. No lady of standing ventured out alone. If she had no other companion she took her maid. But there might be reasons why I could not take Fenton. I brought out my purse, counted out some silver and gold coins which I tied into a handkerchief and pinned into the seam pocket of my dress. Then I put on my stoutest shoes, though even those were meant for carriage travel and not walking.

So dressed, save for hat and cape, I returned to Victorine's room. There was someone visible in the half-light by the bed, bending over the sleeping girl. I saw a hand slipped under the top pillow as if in search.

“What are you doing!” I demanded.

She straightened with a start and I saw this was Submit. As she turned to look at me I was astounded by her expression.

If fear had ever looked at me from human eyes it was at that moment. The hand which had been under the pillow curled into a fist as if she now grasped some object. I thought I caught a glint of gold.

“What do you have there?” With a hasty step I reached her side, caught her wrist. She tried to jerk away, then stood quiet, her face still a mask of terror.

“What have you?” I repeated, pulling her hand into the full light of the lamp.

“Look then!” she spat out the words, opened her fingers.

The spider bracelet fell onto the bed. Against the soft pink coverlet it looked even more loathsome.

“Z'araignée!”
Submit actually spat now. A drop of saliva struck not far from that distasteful thing.

“You were taking it!” Why did she wish to steal an object toward which she had so great an aversion?

“I take it because it is evil. She is evil—but not so much as—”

Then her torrent of speech dried as if she had been choked into silence. Submit was in the grip of fear and, I thought, judging by her expression, I would get little more out of her now.

I went to Victorine's dressing table, found a handkerchief. That I threw over the bracelet, picked it up with the lawn between my fingers and it, for I shrank from touching it otherwise. Why anyone had designed such a horrible object was a mystery to me. That Amélie had worn it had added, I believe, to my dislike for the girl. Had I been too deeply prejudiced by so small a thing?

Our fight to save Amélie's life had taught me pity. Whatever else she was, she was the product of a heritage which carried a heavy burden. How dared I judge anyone more straitly than I did myself? I held the wrapped bracelet in my hand, tried to think of what must be done. But I was so tired, and I could not make a clear decision.

“What you do with that? It is bad—very bad—”

“What were
you
going to do with it?” I counterquestioned.

“Take it to—” Again she stopped short. Then, knowing she must give me some answer, she added, “I take it where it do no more bad things. Then she”—Submit pointed to Amélie—“she can do no more bad either!”

“Submit—” Was there a chance to learn here something about Victorine? In this hotel most of the servants were Negroes; would they talk to Fenton? Submit was plainly shaken, in such an emotional state she might answer me more freely. “You know Miss Sauvage is missing?”

She replied with a swift nod.

“Could you find out whether anyone saw her leave the hotel tonight? Let me know if she was with another person, or went alone, possibly even
where
she went?”

All expression was gone from her face. She turned on me one of those blank masks those of another race use when they refuse communication. I had seen this with the Chinese, and in the Islands with the Polynesian people. Fronted by that I knew the uselessness of further probing.

“What you do with that?” Ignoring my question, she returned to her own, pointing to the bracelet.

“I don't know. Keep it, I suppose, until Amélie asks for it.”

“It will bring you bad luck, very bad luck. It's nothing for a lady like you to have. Give it to me and I shall make better—you will see! Keep it and bad things will happen to you.”

Though in that prophecy she was wrong as I was later to prove.

For the time being I put it into my inner pocket as she watched me slyly. Apparently she believed that, having disdained her good advice, I now courted misfortune.

Sure I could get nothing more out of her now, I went back to my own room. Unable to sit quietly waiting for Fenton, I paced up and down. I thought of the police, but to consult with them would mean exposure to the very kind of scandal which would ruin Victorine. That decision must be left to Alain. When could he—would he get here? Should I send a telegram also—not to make excuses for myself, but to impress upon him the gravity of the situation? Though I was sure I could depend upon the fact that Mrs. Deaves would have already painted as dark a picture as she could.

A light tap on the door sent me hurrying to let Fenton in.

“What have you learned?”

“A queer enough story, Miss Tamaris. Someone was seen leaving here, yes. But not Miss Victorine—they say it was Amélie.”

“But it couldn't have been!” Then a sudden thought came to me. “Victorine in Amélie's clothes?”

That suggested a plot well planned in advance. Would Victorine drug her own maid, with whom she appeared to be on such good terms, put on the girl's clothing, leave in disguise? While they were of a height, there was the matter of Victorine's fair skin. No—it was impossible.