Dennis Wheatley: To The Devil A Daughter

Molly's reference to formal calls caused her to remember the duties of hospitality, and with only a fraction of hesitation she said, `Won't you ... come up to the house?'

`Thank you; I should love to,' Molly replied promptly. Then, as they turned towards it, she added, `But, you know, you haven't told me your name yet.'

`Oh!' Again there was a slight hesitation before the answer. `It's Christina Mordant.'

The path between the prickly pears and oleanders snaked from side to side round a succession of hairpin bends, yet despite that it was still steep enough to require all their breath as they mounted it; so they spoke no more until they reached a small lawn on the level of the villa.

Molly had never been up there before and the lemon washed house was partly concealed both from her windows and the road by umbrella pines and palm trees. She saw now that it was somewhat smaller than her own and probably contained only six or seven rooms including the servants' quarters. As they crossed the lawn she asked

`Is this your first visit to the Riviera?'

`Yes,' Christina nodded, leading her guest through a pair of French windows into the sitting room. `But I've lived in France for a while. I was at a finishing school in Paris until just before Christmas.'

`I first came to this part of the world in 1927, and have made my home here for the past five years; so you must let me show you something of this lovely coast,' Molly volunteered.

Christina's hesitation was much more marked this time. Her under lip trembled slightly, then she stammered, `Thank you ... awfully; but ... but I don't care much for going out.'

A moment's awkward pause ensued, then she pulled herself together and added in a rather breathless attempt to atone for what might be taken as rudeness, `Do please sit down. Let me get you a drink. I'm afraid we don't run to cocktails, but Maria could make some coffee, or we have delicious orange juice.'

Molly did not really want a drink, but realised that acceptance would give her an excuse to prolong her call, and the longer they talked the better her chance of winning the girl's confidence; so she said, `I'd love some orange juice if it's not too much trouble.'

`Oh, none at all,' Christina cried, hurrying to the window. `There are masses of oranges in the garden. I'll pick some. It won't take me a moment. We've lemons, grapefruit and tangerines, too. Would you like it straight, or prefer a mixture?'

`I always think orange and grape fruit half and half is the nicest out here, where there's no shortage of sugar,' Molly replied; and as the girl left the room she began to take detailed stock of it.

The villa belonged to a cafe proprietor in Cannes who had never occupied it himself, but bought it as an investment and made a good thing out of it by letting it furnished for short periods to a succession of holiday makers. In consequence it contained only the barest necessities, and its furniture was of that positively hideous variety favoured by the French bourgeoisie. In vain Molly's glance roved over the monstrosities in cheap wood and chromium for some indication of Christina's personality, until her eye lit on a manicure set which lay open on a rickety spindle legged table half concealed by the chair in which she was sitting. Picking it up she saw that it was comparatively new, bore the mark of a Paris manufacturer, and that its morocco leather cover was stamped with the initials E. B.

When Christina returned she came in by the door from the hallway carrying a tray with a jug of fruit juice, two glasses and sugar. As she poured out, she asked, `Do you live here all the year, Mrs. Fountain?'

Most of it. I usually spend June in London and have a fortnight in Paris in the autumn; but the cost of living has become so high both in France and England that I can't afford to live for more than about six weeks in hotels.'

Christina raised her dark eyebrows. Really! I should have thought you were terribly rich. Your books must bring you in thousands.'

`That's a popular illusion that the public have about all authors,' Molly smiled. `Except for a handful of best sellers, writing is one of the worst paid jobs in the world; and even in France, these days, a big part of one's earnings is taken away by taxation.'

For ten minutes or so she went on talking about books and authors, as Christina was obviously interested, and it seemed a good line for tuning in on the girl's mind without arousing her suspicions. Then, having learnt that she had a liking for historical novels, Molly said

`In that case it surprises me all the more that you don't make some excursions. This coast is full of history right back to Phoenician times. Frejus was a Roman town. The streets of the old quarter in Nice are absolutely fascinating, and both Marshal Massena and Garibaldi were born there. Napoleon landed from Elba at Cap d'Antibes and at Haute Cagnes there is a fine old castle that belonged to the Counts Grimaldi. When I was your age I would have given anything for the chance to visit all these places.'

Christina gave her an uncomfortable look, then averted her eyes and muttered, `I'm quite happy lazing in the garden.'

`How long are you here for?'

`About another three weeks. The villa is taken for a month.'

`Are you quite on your own?'

`Yes.'

`Surely you find it very lonely? Have you no friends you could go to visit, or who could come to see you?'

`No. I don't know anyone at all down here. But ... but I like being on my own.'

`In that you are lucky,' Molly commented quietly. `It is a great blessing to be content with one's own company and not be driven constantly to seek some new distraction from one's own thoughts. But all the same I should have thought you would have sometimes liked a change of scene. Don't you ever go out at all?'

Christina shook her head.

`An exciting book kept me reading very late last night, and when I got out of bed to get one of my sleeping pills I thought I saw you coming in through the garden.'

For a moment the girl's face remained closed and secretive, then she replied, `Yes. I had been for a walk. I sleep most of the afternoon and go out for a walk every night. I don't know why, but I've always felt listless after midday; then, as darkness falls, I seem to wake up and want to do things.'

`Some people are like that. The astrologers say that we are influenced all our lives by the hour of our birth, and that people born in the evening are always at their best at night.'

`Really! That seems to fit my case. I was born at nine forty five in the evening.' After a second Christina volunteered the additional information, `My birthday is March the sixth and I'll be twenty one next month.'

`You will be here for it, then. It seems an awful shame that you should be deprived of the chance to celebrate. But perhaps you have relatives or friends who will be joining you before that?'

`No; I expect still to be quite alone.'

There fell a pause while Molly considered this new evidence of the girl's complete isolation. A twenty first birthday is such a landmark in any young person's life that it seemed quite extraordinary that she had not a single person in the world who wished to make it a happy day for her. Then, after a moment, Molly realised that she had got nowhere; she had not succeeded in getting the faintest clue to this mystery.

Swiftly she began to consider what line. the favourite hero of her own creation, Colonel Crackenthorp’s, would take on having reached such an impasse. She knew this fiction character of hers as well as she knew herself; so the answer came automatically. The debonair and resourceful `Crack' would employ shock tactics. Shock tactics it should be then. Looking the girl straight in the eye, she said suddenly

`Christina Mordant is not your real name, is it?'