The Bandbox - Louis Joseph Vance (read along books .TXT) 📗

went off to his own stateroom to run over the type-script of his fourth act: being fortunate in having chosen a ship which carried a typist, together with almost every other imaginable convenience and alleged luxury of life ashore.

Punctual to the minute, manuscript under his arm, he knocked at the door of the sitting-room of the suite de luxe occupied by the actress. Her maid admitted him and after a moment or two Alison herself came out of her stateroom, in a wonderful Parisian tea-gown cunningly designed to render her even more bewilderingly bewitching than ever. Staff thought her so, beyond any question, and as unquestionably was his thought mirrored in his eyes as he rose and stood waiting for her greeting—very nearly a-tremble, if the truth’s to be told.

Her colour deepened as she came toward him and then, pausing at arm’s length, before he could lift a hand, stretched forth both her own and caught him by the shoulders. “My dear!” she said softly; and her eyes were bright and melting. “My dear, dear boy! It’s so sweet to see you.” She came a step nearer, stood upon her tiptoes and lightly touched his cheek with her lips.

“Alison ...!” he cried in a broken voice.

But already she had released him and moved away, with a lithe and gracious movement evading his arms. “No,” she told him firmly, shaking her head: “no more than that, Staff. You mustn’t—I won’t have you—carry on as if we were children—yet.”

“But Alison—”

“No.” Again she shook her head. “If I want to kiss you, I’ve a perfect right to; but that doesn’t give you any licence to kiss me in return. Besides, I’m not at all sure I’m really and truly in love with you. Now do sit down.”

He complied sulkily.

“Are you in the habit of kissing men you don’t care for?”

“Yes, frequently,” she told him, coolly taking the chair opposite; “I’m an actress—if you’ve forgotten the fact.”

He pondered this, frowning. “I don’t like it,” he announced with conviction.

“Neither do I—always.” She relished his exasperation for a moment longer, then changed her tone. “Do be sensible, Staff. I’m crazy to hear that play. How long do you mean to keep me waiting?”

He knew her well enough to understand that her moods and whims must be humoured like a—well, like any other star’s. She was pertinaciously temperamental: that is to say, spoiled; beautiful women are so, for the most part—invariably so, if on the stage. That kind of temperament is part of an actress’ equipment, an asset, as much an item of her stock in trade as any trick of elocution or pantomime.

So, knowing what he knew, Staff took himself in hand and prepared to make the best of the situation. With a philosophic shrug and the wry, quaint smile so peculiarly his own, he stretched forth a hand to take up his manuscript; but in the very act, remembering, withheld it.

“Oh, I’d forgotten ...”

“What, my dear?” asked Alison, smiling back to his unsmiling stare.

“What made you send me that bandbox?” he demanded without further preliminary; for he suspected that by surprising the author of that outrage, and by no other method, would he arrive at the truth.

But though he watched the woman intently, he was able to detect no guilty start, no evidence of confusion. Her eyes were blank, and a little pucker of wonder showed between her brows: that was all.

“Bandbox?” she repeated enquiringly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he pursued with a purposeful, omniscient air, “the thing you bought at Lucille’s, the day before we sailed, and had sent me without a word of explanation. What did you do it for?”

Alison relaxed and sat back in her chair, laughing softly. “Dear boy,” she said—“do you know?—you’re quite mad—quite!”

“Do you mean to say you didn’t—?”

“I can’t even surmise what you’re talking about.”

“That’s funny.” He pondered this, staring. “I made sure it was you. Weren’t you in London last Friday?”

“I? Oh, no. Why, didn’t I tell you I only left Paris Saturday morning? That’s why we had to travel all day to catch the boat at Queenstown, you know.”

He frowned. “That’s true; you did say so.... But I wish I could imagine what it all means.”

“Tell me; I’m good at puzzles.”

So he recounted the story of the bandbox incognito, Alison lending her attention with evident interest, some animation and much quiet amusement. But when he had finished, she shook her head.

“How very odd!” she said wonderingly. “And you have no idea—?”

“Not the least in the world, now that you’ve established an alibi. Miss Searle knows, but—”

“What’s that?” demanded Alison quickly.

“I say, Miss Searle knows, but she won’t tell.”

“The girl who sat next to Bangs at lunch?”

“Yes—”

“But how is that? I don’t quite understand.”

“Oh, she says she was in the place when the bandbox was purchased—saw the whole transaction; but it’s none of her affair, says she, so she won’t tell me anything.”

“Conscientious young woman,” said Alison approvingly. “But are you quite sure you have exhausted every means of identifying the true culprit? Did you examine the box yourself? I mean, did you leave it all to the housemaid—what’s her name—Milly?”

He nodded: “Yes.”

“Then she may have overlooked something. Why take her word for it? There may be a card or something there now.”

Staff looked startled and chagrined. “That’s so. It never occurred to me. I am a bonehead, and no mistake. I’ll just take a look, after we’ve run through this play.”

“Why wait? Send for it now. I’d like to see for myself, if there is anything: you see, you’ve roused a woman’s curiosity; I want to know. Let me send Jane.”

Without waiting for his consent, Alison summoned the maid. “Jane,” said she, “I want you to go to Mr. Staff’s stateroom—”

“Excuse me,” Staff interrupted. “Find the steward named Orde and ask him for the bandbox I gave him to take care of. Then bring it here, please.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jane; and forthwith departed.

“And now—while we’re waiting,” suggested Alison—“the play, if you please.”

“Not yet,” said Staff. “I’ve something else to talk about that I’d forgotten. Manvers, the purser—”

“Good Heavens!” Alison interrupted in exasperation. She rose, with a general movement of extreme annoyance. “Am I never to hear the last of that man? He’s been after me every day, and sometimes twice a day.... He’s a personified pest!”

“But he’s right, you know,” said Staff quietly.

“Right! Right about what?”

“In wanting you to let him take care of that necklace—the what-you-may-call-it thing—the Cadogan collar.”

“How do you know I have it?”

“You admitted as much to Manvers, and Mrs. Ilkington says you have it.”

“But why need everybody know about it?”

“Enquire of Mrs. Ilkington. If you wanted the matter kept secret, why in the sacred name of the great god Publicity did you confide in that queen of press agents?”

“She had no right to say anything—”

“Granted. So you actually have got that collar with you?”

“Oh, yes,” Alison admitted indifferently, “I have it.”

“In this room?”

“Of course.”

“Then be advised and take no chances.”

Alison had been pacing to and fro, impatiently. Now she stopped, looking down at him without any abatement of her show of temper.

“You’re as bad as all the rest,” she complained. “I’m a woman grown, in full possession of my faculties. The collar is perfectly safe in my care. It’s here, in this room, securely locked up.”

“But someone might break in while you’re out—”

“Either Jane is here all the time, or I am. It’s never left to itself a single instant. It’s perfectly ridiculous to suppose we’re going to let anybody rob us of it. Besides, where would a thief go with it, if he did succeed in stealing it—overboard?”

“I’m willing to risk a small bet he’d manage to hide it so that it would take the whole ship’s company, and a heap of good luck into the bargain, to find it.”

“Well,” said the woman defiantly, “I’m not afraid, and I’m not going to be browbeaten by any scare-cat purser into behaving like a kiddie afraid of the dark. I’m quite competent to look after my own property, and I purpose doing so without anybody’s supervision. Now let’s have that understood, Staff; and don’t you bother me any more about this matter.”

“Thanks,” said Staff drily; “I fancy you can count on me to know when I’m asked to mind my own business.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean that—not that way, dear boy—but—”

At this juncture the maid entered with the bandbox, and Alison broke off with an exclamation of diverted interest.

“There! Let’s say no more about this tiresome jewel business. I’m sure this is going to prove ever so much more amusing. Open it, Jane, please.”

In another moment the hat was in her hands and both she and Jane were giving passably good imitations—modified by their respective personalities—of Milly’s awe-smitten admiration of the thing.

Staff was conscious of a sensation of fatigue. Bending over, he drew the bandbox to him and began to examine the wrappings and wads of tissue-paper which it still contained.

“It’s a perfect dear!” said Miss Landis in accents of the utmost sincerity.

“Indeed, mum,” chimed Jane, antiphonal.

“Whoever your anonymous friend may be, she has exquisite taste.”

“Indeed, mum,” chanted the chorus.

“May I try it on, Staff?”

“What?” said the young man absently, absorbed in his search. “Oh, yes; certainly. Help yourself.”

Alison moved across to the long mirror set in the door communicating with her bedroom. Here she paused, carefully adjusting the hat to her shapely head.

“Now, sir!” she exclaimed, turning.

Staff sat back in his chair and looked his fill of admiration. The hat might have been designed expressly for no other purpose than to set off this woman’s imperious loveliness: such was the thought eloquent in his expression.

Satisfied with his dumb tribute, Alison lifted off the hat and deposited it upon a table.

“Find anything?” she asked lightly.

“Not a word,” said he—“not a sign of a clue.”

“What a disappointment!” she sighed. “I’m wild to know.... Suppose,” said she, posing herself before him,—“suppose the owner never did turn up after all?”

“Hum,” said Staff, perturbed by such a prospect.

“What would you do with it?”

“Hum,” said he a second time, non-committal.

“You couldn’t wear it yourself; it’s hardly an ornament for a bachelor’s study. What would you do with it?”

“I think,” said Staff, “I hear my cue to say: I’d give it to the most beautiful woman alive, of course.”

“Thank you, dear,” returned Alison serenely. “Don’t forget.”

She moved back to her chair, humming a little tune almost inaudibly; and in passing lightly brushed his forehead with her hand—the ghost of a caress.

“You may go, Jane,” said she, sitting down to face her lover; and when the maid had shut herself out of the room: “Now, dear, read me our play,” said Alison, composing herself to attention.

Staff took up his manuscript and began to read aloud....

Three hours elapsed before he put aside the fourth act and turned expectantly to Alison.

Elbow on knee and chin in hand, eyes fixed upon his face, she sat as one entranced, unable still to shake off the spell of his invention: more lovely, he thought, in this mood of thoughtfulness even than in her brightest animation.... Then with a little sigh she roused, relaxed her pose, and sat back, faintly smiling.

“Well?” he asked diffidently. “What do you think?”

“It’s splendid,” she said with a soft, warm glow of enthusiasm—“simply splendid. It’s coherent, it hangs together from start to finish; you’ve got little to learn about construction, my dear. And my part is magnificent: never have I had such a chance to show what I can do with comedy. I’m delighted beyond words. But ...” She sighed again, distrait.

“But—?” he repeated anxiously.

“There are one or two minor things,” she said with shadowy regret, “that you will want to change, I think: nothing worth mentioning, nothing important enough to mar the wonderful cleverness of