THE BANNANTYNE SAPPHIRES

Sun (Auckland), Volume III, Issue 782, 1 October 1929, Page 5

THE BANNANTYNE SAPPHIRES

BY

PRANK HIRD

CHAPTER XXVl.—Continued. 1 ‘What a place of peace and beauty!” Observed Meredith. "It doesn’t seem possible that here, even perhaps iu this very house, there can be stored the proceeds of a string of underhand crimes.” Before they had finished the delicious coffee and rolls, with honey which tasted of the aromatic scent in the sir, Santo Andrucci came through the iron gate followed by two men carrying their boxes. The three disappeared round the corner of the house. ...

“I wonder where Jacques, the gardener, is,” Patricia said. “Such a nice fellow. He used to help bring up the luggage from the road. He was going to be married just after we left in the Spring, and was so kind that I brought R little present for his wife. There’s Maria: I’ll ask her ” 'The bath is ready. Madame,” said Maria, coming on to the terrace from Due of the drawing room windows. "Tell me, Maria,” Patricia asked. “T Aren’t seen Jacques. Where is he?” "Jacques has left Monsieur Wryce’s Service, Madame.” 'But he has been here since he was ? ? oy —he told me so himself—long before Monsieur Wryce had the villa. Re told me he hoped to stay here always.”

In these days, Madame, few serants remain in the same place for •lways.”

For an instant Marla’s bright, expressionless eyes met Patricia's. The 8 ance said nothing, but Patricia was tonscious of a little chill, a vague * eas ® ar >tagonism. ° id set married?” she asked. Married ” 6S ’ a< * ame ’ Jacques got

"JVhere is he now?” -laria s expressionless eyes met Patricia s.

He do not know, Madame. The bath Is ready.”

Patricia was conscious of ething vaguely antagonistic. She _ n ’ too > that Maria did not wish to «i,k7 er any further questions on the Object of Jacques. Peculiar woman,” remarked Mere- „ ’ *'“ en the servant had gone. , s ’ ’ agreed Patricia, “and Santo is unit c baracter, too. They both seem wht. 6 'ijtfereut from what they were a the Wryces were here. We must to™!- them closely, Guy. And I'm de«homintd to fin(l °ut this mystery ®bout Jacques.” CHAPTER XXVII. La‘er on in the morning, after unPat ■ S an< * bathing, Meredith and atncia were sitting on the terrace

“Jacques!” exclaimed Patricia. “That gentle, good, kind creature a murderer! I can’t believe it!” Flaxton put up his hanif. “Don't speak so loudly, Mrs. Meredith,” he said sharply. “I never

when Maria appeared from the house, followed by a plump, elderly man. “Ah, Mr. Flaxton,” cried Patricia, “this is nice of you to come and see us so soon.” “And so I have to congratulate you,” Flaxton said, shaking hands with them. “Wryce wrote and told me he had lent you the villa for your honeymoon; that you just went off and got married without saying a word to anybody. So sensible. Saves such a lot of fuss, and such a lot of wedding presents you don’t know what to do with.” After hearing that Flaxton had spent the greater part of his life in Corsica, Meredith had not expected to meet a man who might have just come from a tramp round his fields on an English countryside to see how his crops were doing. With the ruddy cheeks and bright blue eyes, from the top of his rather bald head, down to his thick-soled brogued shoes, he suggested nothing but an English country gentleman, and that of the most uncompromising type. “My wife tells me you have lived in Corsica for a long time,” Meredith said, as they took chairs close to the terrace wall. “Yes, for over thirty years,” Flaxton answered. “It’s one of the most interesting places in the world, and nobody knows anything about it, not even French people—-that is, the real Corsica. Tourists come now by the hundreds every winter. Some of them go away and write charming articles in the newspapers. But not one of ’em gets even as much as a glimpse below the surface. The Corsican is one of the most fascinating studies in humanity, with his wild loves and hatreds and vendettas.” “But do they still carry out their ridiculous feuds and vendettas —taking the law into their own hands as they did years ago?” questioned Patricia. “New ideas are creeping in, of course,” admitted Flaxton, “but your Corsican is still the fiery creature he was, and once his passions are roused, bloodshed is the only thing that will satisfy him. Do you remember. Mrs. Meredith, the young gardener who was here when you were over with Mrs. Bannantyne? A nice ' lad called Jacques Marini?” , , “Of course I do,” Patricia answered. “He was so attentive and obliging that I bought a present for his wife. He told me he was going to be married in May.” “And he was, here in Ajaccio. And I was what the French call one. of the temoins at the two marriages, first at the Mairie and then in the church. I knew Jacques’s father, and I’ve known Jacques ever since he w as a little boy. A straighter, better fellow never breathed.” “But 'he’s left the villa. I asked Maria where he was, and she just told me he had gone. She wouldn’t say why. Do you know?” Flaxton's bright blue eyes met Patricia's. Then under his breath he said: .... . ~ “Yes. Jacques is hiding in the mountains, with a price upon his head for murder.”

know bow much, or how little, Santo and Maria understand English. They must understand something, because I know they listen. Jacques has told me that.”

Meredith and Patricia exchanged a significant glance at this remark. Then Flaxton went on:

“Jacques married shortly after you left, Mrs. Meredith.” “Yes,” said Patricia, “and one Sunday, when I was down on the shore, he introduced his future wife to me. A nice, shy, pretty creature.” “She is a nice girl, and that makes what has happened a bigger tragedy.” “She came from a village in the hills, and w r as in service on the other side of the town. Jn July she began to feel the heat —our summer here is always trying to the mountain people. The doctor insisted on her going to her own people until the big heat was over. So off she went, Jacques arranging to go and fetch her at the beginning of October. ‘‘Three weeks ago Jacques heard that his wife had met an old lover in her village and was unfaithful. He went off there instantly and, by some unlucky chance, found his wife alone with this man in her mother’s house. “They were sitting at a table and the man was drinking wine. Jacques reverted to the primitive Corsican type. Without asking his wife a single question, or giving either of them a chance of explanation, he drew a revolver and shot the man. He didn’t kill him, but the same bullet wounded his wife so badly that it’s equal chances whether she lives or dies. The man, too, is in much the same state. And poor Jacques is in the mountains with his whole life ruined because of a lie.” Patricia was enthralled by the story, for she could not imagine the kindly, intelligent Jacques Marini suddenly appearing before his wife as a jealous murderer, and now an outlaw, with nothing before him but prison. “What was the lie?” she asked. Flaxton looked over his shoulder at the windows of the house, then lowered his voice: “There was nothing between Jacques’s wife and her old lover. It had only been a boy and girl affair which both had forgotten. And the man had married. But, as ill-luck would have it, the man had brought some wood to the house a few minutes before Jacques burst in, and the wife had given him a glass of wine. The story about her being unfaithful which sent Jacques beside himself w r ith jealousy and fury was a lie. And from one or two things Jacques has let fall, I’ve a suspicion that Santo had something to do with the starting of the lie.”

“Have you seen Jacques, then?” Meredith put the question in surprise. “If I didn't he’d starve to death,” Flaxton replied, still speaking in a low’ voice.

“Poor Jacques hasn’t a soul, except myself, who w r ould stir an inch to take him a crust. They’re too afraid of being caught. So tw’ice a w r eek I go out in my car and take him what he needs. You see, I can’t resist helping the poor devil because he’s been the victim of some villainy I can’t fathom. Why should he be told this lie unless it was hoped he would land himself in danger? And if, as I suspect, the lie came from Santo, what W’as Santo’s object?” “Has this man Santo been long w r ith Maxwell Wryce?” “Oh, yes, a good many years. He and his w’ife w r ere with the Wryces at a villa they had somewhere near Cannes before they came here. 'Wryce

always says lie really took this villa because Santo and Maria were getting homesick for Corsica, and talked of leaving. If that Is so, we’ve reason to be grateful to Santo, because the Wryces are a delightful addition to our little society here. Always so kind and hospitable.”

For a little while none of the three spoke, then Flaxton said: “Santo Is a curious chap. A perfect servant, but the closest-mouthed Corsican I’ve ever come across, and that’s saying a good deal. Yet in the town he’s both feared and respected. I’ve never been able to find out what he does to be either. The only explanation I can think of Is that if Santo started the lie about Jacques’s wife it was because he was jealous of Jacques, and wanted to smash him altogether. There’s a lot of Machiavelli in the Corsican temperament. Some of them can think out devilries a long way ahead. And Santo, I should sky, is one of that type. And they’ll do bad devilries, too, just for a petty motive.” “It’s a ghastly story. I feel awfully sorry for Jacques,” said Meredith. “If you knew Jacques, Mr. Meredith, as X know him, you would be more sorry still. Well, now, I must run away. But won’t you both come to luncheon with me to-morrow?” Meredith and Patricia were delighted to accept. Meredith had taken a liking to this uncompromising Englishman with the tanned cheeks and . frank blue eyes, who hadn’t dropped a shred of his nationality in all the years of his self-imposed exile. And whether It was right or wrong, he liked the help he was giving to the unfortunate Jacques. Obviously he was a man who would never let a pal down. A man in a shabby blue uniform, carrying a black tray hung round his neck by a strap, came through the gateway. This was the postman. Among the letters he took from the little black tray was one for Patricia. A momentous letter, because It entirely changed their visit to Ajaccio, and ultimately their whole lives. CHAPTER XXVIII. The letter was from Mrs. Bannantyne, written at Aix-les-Baines. It ran:—“Julia tells me that you and Guy are honeymooning at their Villa. What a happy time you and I had there, dearest Patricia, in the spring! And how little we thought of all the dreadful misery that was to come, and the wretched sadness that has fallen between you and me! There are times when I feel it can’t really be true, and that it is all a hideous dream. Then I remember my beautiful, my precious necklace. “But much as I loved it, I would rather never have seen it than it should have made this unhappiness between you and us. Dearest Patricia, if you only knew how I miss our being as we used to be, I know you would try to forgive Henry. He’s as sad about it all as I am, and nobody could be sorrier than he is for the hasty and unjustifiable way he acted, nobody—l can assure you of that. “Because I love you so much, will you, dearest, try, if you can’t forgive Henry, to think more kindly of him? I shall always blame that man Grelkin, a stupid blunderer, who even now hasn’t found the least trace of the necklace. “I am very, very sad. It is difficult to realise that perhaps we shall never see you and Guy at Brentland again. This dreadful business has made us both feel very tired and old.” Tears were In Patricia’s eyes when she handed Meredith the letter. Even

in these radiant first days of married happiness she was conscious of something lacking. The letter brought it to her with full force. It was the constant Interchange of sympathy and understanding with Alice Bannantyne, the affectionate sympathy and understanding which had grown to be part of her life. Meredith read the letter, then seeing Patricia’s tears, put his arm round her and kissed her. “I know you miss Alice,” he said. “I didn’t realise how much until I read this. She was always so good to me.” Patricia leant her head against Meredith’s shoulder. “I suppose I ought to try to forgive Henry, just for Alice’s sake,” she said after a short silence. “Jolly difficult, even for her,” she answered. “That’s what I feel myself. But I shall have to try. It would be awful to go on like this for always.” “But, my darling, surely you and Alice can be friends?” Meredith suggested. “Oh, no,” Patricia replied quickly; “not as we used to be. There would always be my feeling against Henry in my mind and in Alice’s-—a shadow always between us. Neither of us would ever forget it.” Meredith was silent for a little while. He didn’t know much about women. But love sometimes gives a husband intuitions which are denied to other men deeply versed iu feminine psychology. Ever since their marriage such an intuition had convinced him that, no matter how strong Patricia’s indignation against Bannantyne might be, her sense of injury and cruel insult, a time would come when the break in her happy relationship—-daughter-friend, mother-friend —with Alice Bannantyne, would make a blank In her life, no matter how happy he and she might be. The blank had suddenly burst into reality through Alice Bannantyne’s letter. “I don’t see why you should cut yourself off from Alice,” he said gently. “You can go on writing to her just as you used to. And put Henry out of your mind,” he added, taking both her hands in his. “Just think of Alice, and all that she means to you. You see how unhappy she is. And you’re just as unhappy yourself. Try and put it right, between you two, anyway.”

Patricia put her arms around Meredith’s neck and kissed him. “Darling. I will try,” she whispered. “I’ll go and write a long letter to Alice this very minute.” After tea, when the heat of the day was over, they climbed up the hillside at the back of the house. When they were high above the villa they rested, lying stretched out on a patch of grass burnt yellow by the summer sun. Below they could see the four pepper-pot. turrets of the villa, and beyond the waters of the Gulf, a radiant amethyst in the afternoon light.

“I’ve written to Alice,” Patricia told him. Then there was a pause. “After I had written the letter, Guy, an idea came to me. We know, don’t we, that Alice’s necklace is somewhere in that house?”

She waved her hand toward the Tilla roof.

“I don’t see why we shouldn’t try and find it before Maxwell Wryce comes and takes it to America. Alice would be happy if we could restore it

to tier instead of leaving Grelkin to recover it.”

Meredith, sat upright. ‘‘That's a tall order,” he exclaimed, ‘How are we going to find it? We’re not detectives.”

“It might be possible,” said Pat-l-icia, still gazing down on the violetcoloured roof and turrets. “The necklace must be there —somewhere.” Meredith looked at her again. Patricia’s eyes were fixed upon the villa, her chin was up, defiantly—a sign he knew, with her, of determination. There was a tenseness in her face, in her attitude, which gave him a sudden knowledge of her thoughts. "And you think,” said Meredith, “if we took it to Alice all hatchets would be buried?” “Yes,” said Patricia, “that's the idea.” She looked out across the amethystcoloured water and the distant hills beyond. Then she turned to Meredith, saying: “I wonder if you will understand? I feel all this misery between me and Alice would be ended if I could give her the necklace back again, actually out of my hands. I believe I could then even forgive Henry.” "Yes, I see what you mean,” Meredith said, smiling. “You feel you could forgive Henry if, figuratively speaking, you could wipe the floor with him, by doing what he’s not been able to do —give Alice back her sapphires. Coals of fire sort of thing, eh? Well, I’m all for getting the necklace if we can, but I haven’t much hope. Gfelkin's idea of heading Maxwell Wryce off at Cherbourg, or somewhere else, after he has been here, is all very well, but how is Grelkin going

to make him disgorge the necklace? But the question is, how are we going about the job?” “It must be somewhere in the house,” Patricia answered. “We must make a thorough search.” “But how is that possible with Santo and Maria there?” “Last spring they used to go into Ajaccio every morning to buy the day’s food directly after Maria had served the petit dejeuner,” Patricia said. "It was then poor Jacques used to bring flowers to our bedrooms. They were always away fpr an hour and a-half, sometimes longer. Julia used to grumble about having no servants in the house sometimes between eight and ten o'clock. But she said she had to put up with it because neither Santo nor Maria would go alone to buy the food. They always insisted on going together.” “Well, then, every morning we must prowl round the house and do a couple of hours’ detective work.” smiled Meredith. “What’s the betting on our succeeding?” "It’s only a chance, but I feel somehow that we shall have luck,” replied Patricia. But they had no luck. The next morning, directly they had seen Santo and Maria set off for the town, they searched the house thoroughly, and were forced to confess that there seemed to be no place where any jewels could be hidden. As Meredith said, the house was as open and j straightforward as a shop window. On the ground floor the three windows of the drawing room looked on the garden and the sea. Behind the

drawing room was the entrance ball, with a study on the right and the dining room on the left. The hall door and windows of these two rooms faced the hillside. On the floor above were six bedrooms, three facing the sea, three facing the hill. Meredith noticed that all the windows were unusually high, and that both upstairs and downstair* directly the sun-blinds were raised every room was flooded with light. There was not a dark corner anywhere. He noticed It, too, that there was not a single cupboard in the house. Each bedroom had the French Empire furniture —a bed, a writing table, a washhand stand, a chest of drawers, and a wardrobe. Meredith, remembering stories of jewels being concealed in pieces of furniture, suspected hiding places beneath the stately beds, with their | curved wooden ends covered with [ormolu; hiding places in the writing | tables, in the wardrobes. But every article of furniture was as innocent of the proceeds of Maxwell and Julia Wryce’s robberies as a deal kitchen table in a furniture shop. (To be continued 1 tomorrow.)