The Cheat (Holman)/Chapter 8
"I say, Carmelita, how do you stand it, really?" Jack Hodge, moustache waxed like a German colonel and a Long Island flower in his buttonhole, was alluding to the blistering heat that filled the narrow stairway of the Drakes' apartment house. Carmelita and he were descending behind the erect back of the Hodge chauffeur who bore Carmelita's two bags. They were on their way to Hedgewood, Long Island, and Lucy's week-end party.
"Oh, you're such a pampered cold-storage plant, Jackie," Carmelita bantered gayly. "You'd just wither away here, I suppose."
"I should, really."
The chauffeur, his burdens deposited, held aside the door of the limousine and Carmelita slipped in and sank into the cool depths. The driver pressed the starter and they glided away from the curb. Should she really have deserted Dudley this way? The poor boy was working so hard. But the next moment Jack had made a silly sally that piqued her into an equally inconsequential reply and she was again in the flippant spirit of the Hodges and her approaching week-end.
The motor left the thickly-congested streets of Manhattan for the traffic-clogged bridge across the East River. Then a dive through the heat of Brooklyn and eventually out into the dusty suburbs. And finally the heart of the trim, well-kept Long Island of theatrical stars' and financiers' homes. Carmelita, despite the chatter of Jack Hodge, which was endurable because he never expected any one to pay attention to him anyway, was enjoying every minute of the ride. The breeze was rushing around the tonneau of the car like a young tempest. They were spinning along near the waters of Long Island Sound now and the salt air was like ambrosia. In an hour the limousine swept through ornamental gates, up a graceful bluestone drive and under the porte-cochère of a great rambling country house. The cool, white-clad figure of Lucy, the inevitable cigarette held in the inevitable black lacquer container between her teeth, appeared behind two servants who had evidently popped from nowhere at the sound of the car.
Lucy kissed her guest. "Good of you to come, old dear. But where is the handsome Dudley?"
Carmelita explained a little indefinitely.
"Would that all husbands were so considerate," Lucy dismissed him airily. "Most of my guests have trailed theirs along. And they're frightfully in the way. Come along now and I'll show you your room and you can dress for dinner. The others are playing golf over at the country club and should be back any moment."
The house the Hodges had taken was an enormous, low, two-story mansion of English stucco architecture situated upon an eminence with a velvety lawn running down to the Sound, where a dock and bathing float jutted out into the water. The rooms were all large and airy, the living room in particular of tremendous dimensions with heavily beamed ceilings and a great fireplace of native fieldstone at one end to ward off the chills of autumn and spring. The place had been artistically furnished throughout by the previous owner, Carmelita judged correctly, for Lucy had little taste in interior decoration. Or in clothes either for that matter. "I am so stupid about what is becoming. I simply pay some pirate of a modiste her fee and put my reputation in her hands," she had once explained to Carmelita. Cool-looking rattan rugs with tricky designs covered the highly polished floors sparsely and the furniture was of a wickery, summery type. And in the dining and living rooms were decanters with glasses and cracked ice handy for those who wished to combat the heat by artificial and law-breaking means. Everything was cool, airy, comfortable. Carmelita felt herself in a new world, or rather again in the world she had abandoned when she married Dudley.
Lucy summoned her little French maid. "Mrs. Drake's room is ready?" And the two friends, chatting, followed the chic black-clad mademoiselle up the stairs. There was a refreshing breeze blowing from the Sound through an open window at one end of the wide corridor. The maid opened the door upon a commodious bedroom with bath and dressing room attached and then withdrew. But Lucy seemed disposed to gossip and took a neighboring chair as Carmelita, removing her hat, stood rescuing some breeze-blown strands of her dark hair.
"Awfully comfy quarters, Lucy," Carmelita offered.
"The best is none too good for you, old thing, after that oven of an apartment of yours. How do you stand it? Why don't you persuade Dudley to get you a place out here? Or, better still, stay on here with me as long as you like—all summer."
Carmelita did not like to admit the real reason for their remaining in the city though she was sure Lucy already knew it.
"Dudley is working hard. He feels as if he ought to stay in town this summer."
"That's too bad—for him. But you don't have to be uncomfortable just because you're married to him."
Carmelita smiled. That was the philosophy of Lucy's set. She would probably hear a lot more of that kind of talk while she remained at Hedgewood. Her hostess rose.
"Well, I'll abandon you now, my dear. I suppose you'll want to bathe and dress for dinner. Just ring for Yvonne when you need her to draw your bath."
Lucy strolled out, with a curious, calculat'ing glance back at her guest which Carmelita did not catch.
Carmelita summoned the maid and had her unpack her bags and lay the contents away. As she let down her hair and removed her travel-crushed clothes and enveloped her warm, youthful body in the soft folds of a dressing gown, the silent, efficient Yvonne was regulating the taps in the next room and arranging the bath rugs and towels. A glow of pure pleasure and satisfaction with the world crept over Carmelita. Once more she was the pampered daughter of the de Cordobas with the universe, through Yvonne, its representative, ready to do her bidding. As the maid appeared at the connecting door with her "Whenever madame is ready—"
Carmelita heard the whir of motors, the sliding of brakes, and the shouts of mixed voices in the drive below. Lucy's golfing guests had returned.
With the aid of the nimble-fingered Yvonne Carmelita dressed with painstaking care and in the end she was quite well satisfied with the result. Her simple black evening gown suited her brunette beauty admirably. Although her dressing had occupied considerable time, none of the others were there when she appeared in the living room. She walked out upon the broad piazza and was idly watching a slim white yacht scudding along in the first breezes of the evening out upon the ruffled waters of the Sound when she became aware of some one near her. She turned her face a little. Then she uttered a startled little gasp of mingled surprise and incredulity. The man wore a pure white turban that seemed to blend with his dark face and evening clothes. Prince Rao-Singh!
He came up to her then, a polite smile of, greeting upon his thin lips. She had not recovered from the effects of her surprise and hardly knew what to say.
"Ah, Mrs. Drake," he said, "truly an unexpected pleasure."
"Please forgive me for seeming so upset," stammered Carmelita, "but your presence came as even more of a surprise to me than mine must have to you. You see, I did not even know you were in this country."
"Oh, yes. I am not only in this country but I am occupying the estate just down the road from this one."
For some strange reason Carmelita had a feeling of being trapped. Had the Prince known she was coming here? Was this a conspiracy on the part of Lucy and Rao-Singh? She dismissed the thought as disloyalty to her friend. Besides, Lucy knew nothing of his attempt to make forcible love to her in Paris.
The truth about this meeting would have given Carmelita a second surprise. Lucy Hodge had never expected Prince Rao-Singh to take seriously the invitation which she extended to him in Paris to visit America. But when he had announced his arrival to her over the telephone and then accepted her invitation to come out to her Long Island country home and actually put in an appearance, Lucy being an opportunist and appreciating the advantage of being sponsor for such a distinguished, rich and unusual visitor to our shores as the Indian potentate, had suggested casually that he rent a villa nearby for the summer. Prince Rao-Singh had surprised her again by acting upon her suggestion. Within a week he was occupying the neighboring estate, had installed a retinue of Hindu servants, and was the talk of the countryside.
For a time Luey was puzzled at the reason for his presence in America. But naturally keen when intrigue was in the wind, she guessed from his discreet questionings that Carmelita was at least partly at the bottom of it. He still coveted Carmelita. He wanted to know if she lived in New York still, if she was happy, if her husband was doing well—all these questions sprinkled through many tête-à-têtes over the tea-cups and lazy afternoons upon the Hodges' bathing raft. His interest piqued Lucy. She was not above a little piece of mischief. She would bring Rao-Singh and Carmelita together and see what happened. She did not care a snap of her fingers for Dudley Drake and his feelings. He had no right to submit a glamorous creature like Carmelita to poverty and a stifling New York apartment anyway. If trouble ensued between Carmelita and her husband, so much the better.
The invitation to Carmelita for the week-end had followed and the fact that Dudley had found it impossible to accept made matters all the more interesting.
Rao-Singh extinguished his cigarette and flicked it out upon the grass. "You are looking more charming than ever, Carmelita," he offered in that grave voice of his that trembled upon the verge of an accent and never toppled over. "And may I ask you a favor? Do not let my presence make you in the slightest degree uneasy. I remember our last meeting in Paris and I have quite forgiven you for shattering my heart and not waiting to pick up the pieces." He was smiling. She glanced at him inquiringly, then, reassured, smiled in response.
"Apparently you have done an excellent job of mending it yourself," she ventured. But she was glad when Lucy joined them.
"You two are old friends, aren't you?" their hostess greeted them. "I remember that Rao was wildly in love with you in Paris and insanely jealous when Dudley stole a march on all your heavy suitors. But please, I ask you, do not start an intrigue under this chaste roof. There is already enough scandal popping here to keep the whole staff of "Town Topics" busy. Even decrepit old Jack is casting disgraceful eyes at that pretty widow of Talbot Trevor's. I don't really dare leave him a moment. When one is hostess, one is responsible for even one's husband, you know."
As she turned to go back into the house, Carmelita, with a hurried apology to Rao-Singh, joined her.
"Why didn't you tell me he was to be here?" she demanded.
"I took it for granted you knew. He has been in the society columns of all the papers. My, has Dudley forbidden you to read also? Besides, what of it if he is here? A pretty girl like you can't expect to go about anywhere without having her disappointed lovers pop up here and there. He is very interesting."
Later Carmelita discovered to her further disquiet that Prince Rao-Singh had been placed at her right at dinner. It was a gay party that flaunted prohibition at every course and she found to her relief that she was not expected to preserve the amenities and converse exclusively with her immediate neighbors. There was more or less general hurling about of badinage, especially as the post-war liqueurs and cordials had their effect. Carmelita already knew the majority of the other guests. They were Lucy's regular crowd, the itinerant week-enders who always seemed to have an inexhaustible supply of money and time to spend and invitations to accept. They hovered upon the fringe of New York society, frowned upon by the more conservative element because of their reputed excesses but many of them of too well established family connections to be totally ignored. For the remainder there was a smattering of the Broadway theatrical crowd, a movie idol at present at odds with his producing company and not working but accompanied by a bobbed-haired, Benda-like dancer-wife, a pair of New York newspaper columnists of the flippant school, and Prince Rao-Singh. Lucy Hodge liked to leaven the lump of rather vapid society idlers, who were generally in the majority at her parties, with what she termed "clever people who are really doing something." Though what they were doing she neglected to specify.
Carmelita found little trouble in entering into the frivolous spirit of this assemblage. She was the most beautiful woman there and just as strikingly gowned as any. She was used to this sort of life. It was like getting back into a game she had not played for a year or more, but was nevertheless extremely proficient at. She was a little awkward in finesse at first; she could not for a while get over the feeling that all their talk and actions were a little silly and she was sure that Dudley would have agreed to this heartily. But she was anxious to have a good time and she forgave much. The atmosphere was infectious. Soon she was among the gayest of the gay. The unaccustomed intoxicants went to her head a little and spread a tolerant warmth through her, and loosened her tongue.
Carmelita discovered to her relief that Jack Hodge was seated next to her at the left. She turned a little around so as to avoid Rao-Singh without exceeding the limits of politeness and attempted to concentrate upon Jack. But Jack had eyes and ears only for the lively, plump, yellow-haired widow of the late Talbot Trevor across the table. He gave perfunctory answers to Carmelita and at length she was compelled to give him up. Determined not to resort to Rao-Singh, who seemed deeply engaged with the fair diner upon his right, Carmelita acknowledged the rather desperate efforts of one of the columnists, a tall, dark chap with humorous puckers around his mouth. Her dark Spanish beauty seemed out of place there. He was anxious to see what was behind it.
He spoke across the table through the cigarette smoke and din. "You are new among us, are you not, Mrs. Drake?"
Lucy drawled from the other side of him, "Carmelita is the prodigal daughter returned, Roy, a brand snatched from the burning heat of Greenwich Village."
Roy Daly kept by Carmelita's side as the dinner broke up and she strolled into the living room. They found two chairs near a window whose fluttering curtains promised a breeze.
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"Parties aren't as restful as they used to be," he said. "It's Prohibition, I guess. People seem always to be working their heads off to have a good time before the police come. Listen to the noise around here, and everybody's stone sober. You don't seem to fit at all, Mrs. Drake."
"Why?" She wasn't at all pleased.
"You are not American for one thing. You are the beautiful lady who sits in the box of honor with the Valentinos draped around you and languidly wave your fan at the bullfight. You ride in your open carriage and throw coins at the village boys on fiesta days in your native green and white little town in northern Spain. And you marry the richest man in the country-side."
"Oh, but I don't. I marry the handsome young American whom I meet in Paris. Lucy will tell you."
"I knew it would be something romantic, anyway. It is written on your face. You are impulse, reckless. You probably worry your husband a lot but you keep him interested. And that is the first qualification of a good wife. You are the real thing, I think. Olga Lorenzo, present wife of the famous male film vamp, standing over there by the door—she is made up so as to fairly shout romance, exotic appeal. But her face is selfish, commercial. She is as American as Lucy."
"But Lucy has none of the hectic haste of the native American about her." Carmelita wondered if this man always became so directly personal upon such short acquaintance. But she was rather enjoying herself.
"Lucy is deceiving. She is a clever woman. Like many clever women, she has an outward veneer of lazy, unseeing carelessness. But her eyes and brains are always alert. Her nerves are jumpy. Cross her and see. She is a typical American except for one thing—she is an excellent hostess."
Lucy herself appeared and persuaded them to make up a foursome of bridge in the library with herself and Rao-Singh. Carmelita was anxious to avoid the Hindu but she saw that she could not very well escape. Through the open window Lucy could make out her husband and Mrs. Talbot Trevor sharing a chair in the shadows of the piazza.
"Poor Jackie is at it again," she murmured to Carmelita. "He is not clever enough to flirt. I must persuade him to put in his time at mah-jongg or something else more worth while." She led the way into the library.
Carmelita played bridge badly and the presence of Rao-Singh as her partner did not help her game. But he was extremely proficient and more than made up for her slips. "You have an American expression—unlucky in love, lucky at cards," he explained to her once significantly.
Lucy used her leisure when dummy to see that none of her other guests were allowed to do what some foolish people go to the country for—rest. At the end of three rubbers she judged that the party was slumping a little. Bridge at a cent a point began to pale.
She raised her voice. "There's an attractive place about twenty minutes from here where one can get a very decent game of roulette. Rao and I discovered it last week. Who's for trying it?"
Several pushed back their chairs at once. Carmelita was in something of a quandary. She would be expected to go, she supposed. She knew the Hodge crowd were rather fancy plungers upon oecasion and she had no scruples about gambling herself. There was a thrill about it that was fascinating. But she had no money to risk and she hated to appear niggardly. Nevertheless—
"You're with us, of course, Carmelita dear?" Lucy was taking it for granted.
There was nothing to do but smile acquiescence.
Carmelita was in the tonneau of the first of the three cars composing the cavalcade that descended upon the peace and quiet of Canary Cottage. Beside her was Rao-Singh and in the front seat was Lucy, driving swiftly and expertly, with Roy Daly chattering into her unhearing ear. Mrs. Hodge had made sure that Jack and his adored blonde were in the next ear behind. Lucy's low, racy runabout swooped up and over and down the short, rolling Long Island hills until finally she swept it between a pair of sentinel pines into a wide, curved, bluestone drive and in front of a dimly lighted colonial mansion. It was a residence of much dignity and no little charm, resembling Jefferson's home at Monticello more than it did a society gambling resort.
Rao-Singh had hardly said three words to his seatmate during the ride. Carmelita had been noting his rather striking profile in the moonlight, his moody eyes, his thin yet sensual lips. He was a handsome, full-blooded creature, the sort of a man who might stir the pulses of almost any woman even though the major part of the fascination might be fear. The scrupulously proper manner in which he had treated her lowered the bars upon Carmelita's early fears.
Lucy dropped her guests at the entrance, parked the car down the drive among several other machines, and rejoined the trio. As yet there were no signs of life from the other side of the heavy, white door.
"It is like a Poe mystery yarn, isn't it rather?" Lucy laughed. "Rao, you are the most appropriate one to open the Palace of Chance."
Rao-Singh advanced gravely and beat three times sharply with his knuekles upon the door, following it with two longer blows. At once a small panel which had not been noticeable before and which was about on a level with their eyes, was shoved back and a hard, thin face peered out at them. A grudging look of recognition spread over the sardonic countenance and in a moment the door was pushed cautiously open.