Valentine - Flynn’s Weekly Detective Fiction. Vol. 27, No. 1, September 17, 1927

“Like yourself.”

He set his teeth. He turned from her and walked to the window.

“At least,” he declared, “I have the excuse that I love you.”

“And I have the excuse that I do not love you — that you are blackmailing me into a marriage against which my whole soul revolts.”

The defiant note in her voice had become dominant again. She was still, apparently, under the influence of Ninon’s dope. He made up his mind that it was useless to stay with her any longer.

He left the Green Street house on foot, and turned toward Bond Street.

If only he had foreseen that, in her first agony, Sacha might turn to suicide as a way out of her difficulties! That folly had delivered her, bound hand and foot, into Ninon’s hands.

A grim smile curled his lips as he thought how eagerly Ninon must have clutched at the chance thus afforded her. Ninon had been desperately jealous of Sacha from the moment when he had first broached his plans — in spite of all the assurances he had given.

A woman’s instinct, he reflected bitterly, is seldom at fault where her rivals are concerned. Ninon must have seen, in Sacha’s eyes, some indication of the despair which possessed her; Ninon’s wonderful power of thought-reading, no doubt, brought her instantly to the truth.

He came to Bond Street and lingered a moment to glance at the display of neckties in a famous haberdasher’s window. But he looked without seeing. An exclamation of rage escaped his lips. Now, whatever happened to Lord Templewood, Ninon, and not himself, would be master of the situation. That terrible combination of drugs and hypnotism, poison of body and poison of mind, by which she had made Sacha her victim, was irresistible.

He turned into Brook Street. Five minutes later, he was accepting one of Ninon’s Abdulla cigarettes and bearing, with what composure he could summon, the scrutiny of her vigilant eyes.

“Tell me what has happened,” he commanded, in his crisp tones.

“Nothing has happened.”

“What! Do you mean to say the doctors have any doubt about certifying him?”

Barrington’s manner had become aggressive in an instant. A new anxiety filled his eyes. Ninon hesitated a moment, and then gave him an account of the events of the preceding night. She added,

“To be a medium is not easy when one is dealing with fools — like this Dr. Eustace Hailey.”

“Why did you give Dr. Hailey the chance to catch you?” he demanded abruptly. “ Surely there was no need to trouble about that galloping horseman.”

She drew herself up.

“I am a medium. Can I help it, if— things happen?”

He made a gesture of impatience. They had quarreled too often on this topic for him to wish to reopen it. Ninon, apparently, possessed limitless powers of self-deception — like all spiritualists.

“It is damnably awkward,” he declared. “And it may become a great deal more awkward still, if these doctors find out what has been going on. If we don’t get Templewood out of the way at once, we shall never finger a penny of that money, and unless I can have thirty thousand pounds within the next month, I must leave the country — for ever. You understand, for ever.”

He emphasized the last words viciously. Ninon’s cheeks paled as she heard him.

“To-day,” she said, in low tones, “he has had no medicine at all. When he has nothing, his temper is terrible.”

“That is not good enough. Bad temper is not insanity. No doctor dare sign a certificate of insanity on such grounds.” He flung his cigarette away from him. “I thought you said that these drugs of yours were certain in their action?”

“They are certain — but it requires a little time.”

“You have had a week nearly.” He drew a sharp breath. “ And now you have been sent out of the house.”

“I shall return to it, never fear.” Ninon’s voice was calm. “There is his Beatrice whom he cannot find without me.”

Barrington uttered an exclamation of contempt.

“My dear Ninon, the doctors have got him under their control now,” he declared. “They will know how to soothe his nerves so that there will be no more sleep-walking, no more hankering after spirits. Their medicines, believe me, are just as strong as your medicines.” He added bitterly: “It is all a question of medicine.”

Ninon gazed at him in silence for a few moments. Her eyes were deeply reproachful.

“It is not all a question of medicine,” she said. “You are like the rest — so blind. About Beatrice I have practiced no deception, and I say to-morrow, or the day after to-morrow, again, he will call for me to find for him his Beatrice.”

Barrington helped himself to another smoke.

“I wish I shared your faith. To-morrow we are more likely to have Scotland Yard here making inquiries about your dope business. Dr. Hailey, as I happen to know, is a great friend of Scotland Yard.”

He frowned again. Then he leaned toward her.

“What is the meaning of this affair you are carrying on with the girl?” he demanded, in hoarse tones.

Ninon did not reply, but the color rushed violently to her cheeks. She took a quick step away from him. He laughed mirthlessly.

“But I need not ask you. I know. It is that damned jealousy of yours, in case I should fall in love with Sacha after I have married her. Now, with your dreams and your drugs, you think you will be able to take her away from me whenever you choose.”

He watched the girl closely as he spoke. To his surprise she did not wince under his blow.

“Because I know you,” she said, in vibrating tones.

Her defiance exasperated him. He sprang up and laid his hands on her shoulders.

“I won’t have it,” he shouted. “Do you hear, I won’t have it. Already you have driven Sacha half crazy.”

Ninon escaped from his grasp with a swift, catlike movement of her body. Her anger leaped to meet his anger.

“You won’t have it, eh?” she cried. “You won’t have it! The pretty Sacha must not be harmed, eh? It is I, Ninon, who must pull for you your chestnuts out of the fire, that you may eat them with this girl who is so good and so sweet. And after that, eh? What is to come after that?”

“I have told you what is to come after that.”

“ Oh, yes, you have told me. You will get rid of Sacha.” Ninon’s red lips parted in a sneer, the bitterness of which made him wilt. “My man,” she added, “ I do not take chances when it is a pretty wife who shall be got rid of by such a husband as you. Also, I say to myself, I will help him to get rid of her.”

“My God, it is horrible.” He drew his hand across his brow in a gesture of despair. “Do you know that, because of your crystal or your dope, or both together, already, this afternoon, Sacha tried to kill me with a poker? Had it not been—”

He stopped speaking abruptly. The ghastliness of Ninon’s face made him spring to her support. He set her down in the chair he had just vacated.

“ It is not true,” she pleaded, “oh, no, it cannot be true.”

“It is absolutely true.”

She raised her horrified eyes to his face.

“But that is Beatrice,” she whispered. “It was so that Beatrice struck at Lord Templewood twenty years ago, after she had confessed to him that your father was her lover. Lord Templewood tried to kill her and himself also. He has told me, many times—”

“My father?”

The buzz of the telephone bell smote sturdily on their ears. Ninon rose and crossed the floor with faltering steps. She lifted the receiver.

“Yes. Yes, it is Mlle. Darelli speaking. Who is that? Dr. Hailey? Oh, yes — what do you say? Lord Templewood wishes me to come back to-night to The Black Tower? So... so... I will come.”