Mediterranean Nights (24 page)

It did not take much imagination on O'Flaherty's part to guess that she had jumped at the chance of leaving the theatre. He quite realised the sort of hell it must be for any girl decently brought up to live with the touring companies out from home. He wondered what Wayland was like.

They talked on, growing strangely intimate in the silent hours, despite their short acquaintance. The missing husband did not return, and the fumed oak clock ticked steadily on towards morning.

‘Don't you ever want to go home?' she asked him once.

‘Phwat would be the use av it at all?' he shrugged. ‘Time was when I would have been glad enough to be in the ould country, but thin I was poor. Now that I've a decent bit put away and there's no need for me to go trapesing round the world, I kape on from the habit. Sure, I've neither kith nor kin av me own to return to—and home's a poor place without friends.'

‘Why don't you marry?' she suggested.

‘Ah, come, now,' he laughed, ‘an' who'd be marryin' the loikes av meself?'

‘I should think a lot of nice girls would be pleased to,' she answered seriously. ‘You're so kind you'd make any woman a good husband.'

He noted the shade of bitterness in her voice, and wondered once more what Wayland could be like. He questioned her again as to her husband's possible whereabouts.

It seemed that they had only been in Oran the last two days. Her husband had mentioned a man named Barry whom he had gone out to see that morning; she did not know his address. He had also spoken of a Frenchman called Ribereau, who kept a café in the Rue de Lourdes—she herself knew no one in Oran.

They sat on side by side as the hours dragged slowly by; once or twice she suggested that he should leave her, but she did not show any intention of going to bed herself, and he would not desert her. Not until the faint grey light of dawn came through the wire blinds did either of them realise how long they had been sitting there.

The Irishman rose and stretched his cramped limbs. ‘Faith,' he ejaculated, ‘d'ye know 'tis close on foive av the clock, Mrs. Wayland?'

She stood up quickly. ‘Is it, really—and I've kept you up all night. I'm so sorry.'

‘Now, 'tis foolishness to say that, an' ye know ut; sure, it's been a rale pleasure to talk to ye this night, an' it's loike ould times to hear the sound av a decent woman's voice.'

‘It's very nice of you to say that,' she smiled, ‘but now I insist on your going to bed.'

‘I'm doin' no sich thing, Mrs. Wayland'; he laid a hand on her arm. ‘ 'Tis meself that's the man av the party, an' it's yerself that's goin' to yer bed this minute, while I step out and look around for that husband av yours.'

She made no more than a show of protesting, and he led her to the foot of the staircase. ‘Be off with ye now,' he said kindly, ‘and I'll bring him back to ye, as sure as me name's O'Flaherty, I will.'

He paused to nod farewell to her as she turned on the landing; then, unlocking the door, let himself out into the
street. The sun had already leapt above the horizon, heralding another day of blazing heat.

As he walked the deserted ways shapeless bundles of rags in arched doorways rose shivering and stretched themselves into the semblance of humanity. Lean beggars with unsightly sores and shrivelled limbs, toothless old hags, the scum of Oran, sunk so low that they had not even the corner of a hovel which they might call their own. Beggars leading a precarious existence, living from day to day on the alms they gathered from the pious Mussulman who gave charity for the love of Allah.

O'Flaherty went straight to the café in the Rue de Lourdes; that was the only line of inquiry he had to go on. A slatternly negress and a tousled waiter were making a pretence of cleaning the place when he arrived; Monsieur Ribereau, he learned, was upstairs asleep in bed.

After judicious tipping the waiter agreed to go up and wake him. O'Flaherty sat down to wait. The Frenchman arrived; a fat man in a gaudy dressing-gown with round, surprised dark eyes.

Yes, he knew Monsieur Wayland. The previous evening he had taken an aperitif with Monsieur Barry; he had not seen either of them since.

O'Flaherty thanked him, and got the address of Barry's office; it seemed that his house was some way outside the town. Then the Irishman took his departure.

He found Barry's office easily enough, but it was not yet open, so he went to a nearby café and made an early breakfast, then he returned. Barry had not yet arrived, but a young Frenchman was in charge; it appeared that Barry was a shipping agent. O'Flaherty sat down to wait.

A little after nine a car drew up and a thin man with a sallow, parchment-like complexion got out; he was followed by a big, rather fresh-faced fellow with blue eyes and curly hair. The first proved to be Barry, and immediately O'Flaherty spoke to him the second man came forward.

‘I'm Wayland,' he said, ‘what's the trouble?'

‘No trouble at all,' declared O'Flaherty angrily, ‘but what ye've made fer ye poor wife. It's a disgrace ye are, leaving her all night the way ye have, and herself not knowing phwat had become of ye.'

‘Steady on,' said the fair man, ‘didn't she get my message?'

‘Sure she did not, an' it's worryin' her heart out she's been.'

‘I say,' exclaimed Wayland. ‘Poor kid—I had a terrific lot of business to attend to last night with Barry, here; we had to see another man as well, so I arranged to stay over at his place for the night.' He turned suddenly on his friend. ‘What the devil happened to that boy of yours, Barry? Why didn't he deliver my note?'

Barry shrugged his slim shoulders. ‘Sorry, Wayland, he's reliable enough as a rule, but you know what these people are if they get a fit all of a sudden to go on a bust or something.'

‘I'll get back to the hotel at once,' said Wayland, with a worried look; ‘she must have been scared out of her wits. I'll talk to that boy of yours with the end of a stick when I see him.' He looked at O'Flaherty. ‘Very good of you to come along—if you're going back, we'll go together.'

It was a perfectly reasonable explanation, and the Irishman, his temper slightly mollified, fell into step beside Wayland.

At the hotel the latter left him and went straight up to his wife's room. O'Flaherty had a word with Macgregor, and sought his bed for a few hours' belated sleep.

When he came down the hot afternoon sunshine was streaming through the hotel windows. Mr. and Mrs. Wayland were sitting together in the lounge—she rose immediately to greet him.

‘Oh, Mr. O'Flaherty,' she smiled, ‘we've been hoping to see you again; if you're not fixed up we'd be so pleased if you'd dine with us tonight.'

He smiled all over his good-natured face. ‘Now, that's charming av ye, Mrs. Wayland. It had been my intention to take the boat over to Cartagena today, but sure it's too late by the look av the clock.'

‘I'm afraid it's through me that you've missed it,' put in Wayland. ‘All the more reason you should let us stand you a dinner, at least. I'll get Barry and Ribereau to come along, and we'll make it a bit of a party—what about a drink?'

‘Well, and why not, to be sure; it's meself that'll be glad
to hear the tinkle av ice in a horse's neck.' O'Flaherty drew a chair up to their table.

He reckoned Wayland to be about forty, a decent enough fellow in his way, but too fat for his age; his fresh-coloured face was not altogether healthy. O'Flaherty did not think him half good enough for the girl.

She did not seem quite at her ease, but that, he thought, might be because they had had a row about the night before.

It was agreed that they should dine at Ribereau's place; he would let them have his private room. Barry was telephoned to, and accepted. They met at the café in the Rue de Lourdes at a little before eight.

O'Flaherty always enjoyed a junketing, and over dinner he let himself go. The eyes of the girl were on him, and half unconsciously, because of their gaze, he became gayer and more entertaining. He chaffed her about her solemnity, and she obviously did her best to play up to him, but for some reason she seemed unable to throw off the nervousness and constraint she had shown in the afternoon.

It was Barry who suggested a game of poker when the meal was over. O'Flaherty agreed readily enough; he was fond of the game and flattered himself that he was a pretty strong player—good enough to hold his own with most people if the luck of the cards was not against him. Mrs. Wayland stood up. ‘Don't let's play tonight,' she said, ‘I'm tired.'

Wayland's blue eyes showed wide surprise. ‘Well—' he said. ‘I've never known you refuse to play before—still, you stand out, if you like. It's only a baby game we play, Mr. O'Flaherty,' he added to his guest.

The Frenchman had already fetched the chips, and was counting them out in piles on the table. It was like a thousand other games of poker that have been played in every corner of the world before—the stakes were moderate enough when the game began, and the luck seemed fairly even. As the evening wore on the limits were increased. O'Flaherty held good hands, but the luck began to run strongly against him. Mrs. Wayland sat smoking, or stood behind one or other of the men, watching the play.

Just before midnight O'Flaherty won a handsome Jackpot on four kings. For some moments the girl had been sitting
quietly on the sofa. Out of the corner of his eyes he caught an angry glance from Wayland in her direction. She stood up as the next hand was dealt and walked round the table, pausing behind the Irishman's chair. His hand was a good one, but he went down heavily; he felt a little sick as realisation suddenly came to him, and laid down his cards.

The whole thing was a put-up job, and he'd tumbled into it like an unlicked cub. The girl was tipping off her husband and the others when to chuck in or when to raise him according to the cards he held—they were nothing but a bunch of crooks practising the oldest and simplest form of card-sharping in the universe.

He looked at the faces of the three men again, and the scales dropped from his eyes. The fat Frenchman was a crook, if ever there was one, in spite of his wide eyes. Barry's lean, wrinkled face was as hard as nails, the glib Wayland's weak blue eyes wavered and fell under his steady glance.

His thoughts leapt back to the day before—the girl was a decoy. She must have overheard him in the office telling old Macgregor that he'd made a pile on his trip. Then when he'd gone out she'd tipped off her husband to stay the night with his friend, and sat there on the doorstep waiting to make a fool of him.

For a moment Ruin O'Flaherty saw red—he had a good mind to break up the place—then he thought better of it. There were three of them, and although he was useful in a scrap they would probably call up the waiters from below. The Rue de Lourdes was in none too savoury a district. Better cut his losses and get out.

With a nasty shock he realised that he had been fleeced of two hundred and sixty pounds, his earnings on nine weeks' hard, anxious work under the blistering sun of Northern Africa, and not a hope of getting it back in this den of thieves. He rose to his feet abruptly.

‘That'll be all fer tonight,' he said sharply, and he moved towards the door. ‘Sure, it's a great husband ye've got, Mrs. Wayland, and foine friends, but if they get losht, I'll be thinking ye can take care av yerself.'

There was a hard light in his eyes, and none of them attempted to stop him. Only Wayland called after him when he was safely through the door in a mocking parody of his
Irish brogue: ‘ 'Tis a foine Knight Errant ye make, Mr. O'Flaherty!'

With fury in his heart Ruin walked back to the hotel; he was more angry with himself than with the gang of swindlers. It rankled badly that at his age he had been taken in by that little slut of a girl.

Although it was past twelve, Macgregor was still up. O'Flaherty joined him in his office. ‘Will ye be givin' me a drink now?' he demanded angrily.

Macgregor carefully measured out a tot. With his shrewd eyes he regarded the Irishman curiously.

‘I'm tellin' ye, Mister Macgregor,' said O'Flaherty, as he picked up the glass, ‘niver thrust a woman—ye'll rue it if ye do.'

‘Ah nevair do,' said Mr. Macgregor.

.      .      .      .      .

How the fire started no one ever knew. Ruin O'Flaherty was a light sleeper, and was awakened by the first shouting. He was out of bed in a minute to see what the row was about, and pushed his tousled head into the corridor.

He smelt smoke and did not wait for further information. Quickly and calmly he pulled on his clothes, threw his belongings into a battered suitcase, and ran down into the street.

A crowd had gathered: some in nightshirts, some the slinking beggars from the nearby streets. Smoke was pouring from the second-floor windows. Macgregor was in the hall giving orders to the servants.

O'Flaherty grabbed a negro who was making off with a china vase, and after that devoted his efforts to preventing the riff-raff from looting other portions of Macgregor's property. Suddenly he ran into Wayland.

‘An' phwat'll ye be doin' here?' he exclaimed. ‘Is it that ye've had the impertinence to come back and spend the night in a decent man's hotel?'

‘Why not?' asked Wayland sulkily. ‘I haven't done anything wrong.'

‘Faith no, ye dirty swindler,' cried O'Flaherty sarcastically, ‘an' wher have ye left that lying wife o' yours this toime?'

‘Don't know.' Wayland looked away uneasily. ‘She'll be down in a minute, I suppose.'

‘Phwat's that ye say?' yelled the Irishman, seizing the card-sharper by the collar of his dressing-gown. ‘Is it to burn that ye've left her, d'ye mean?'

Wayland cowered away. ‘We had a row when we got back last night,' he muttered. ‘She wouldn't sleep with me—took a room for herself on the third floor—and anyhow she's not my wife.'