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Eliot Gregory - "Worldly Ways and Byways"

Emile Gaboriau - "The Mystery of Orcival"

Carry A. Nation - "Project Gutenberg surfs with a modem donated by Supra."

Sara Teasdale - "Helen of Troy And Other Poems"

Under the Andes

R >> Rex Stout >> Under the Andes




"I am to ride with Desiree in the morning," said he, and the next
moment was gone.

"Desiree!"

He called her Desiree!

I think I smiled for an hour over that; and, though my
reflections were not free from apprehension, I really felt but
little anxiety. Not that I underrated Le Mire's fascination and
power; to confess the truth, my ease of mind was the result of my
own vanity. Le Mire had flattered me into the belief that she was
my friend.

A week passed--a dull week, during which I saw little of Harry
and Le Mire not at all. At the time, I remember, I was interested
in some chemical experiments--I am a dabbler with the tubes--and
went out but little. Then--this was on Friday--Harry sought me
out in the laboratory to tell me he was going away. In answer to
my question, "Where?" he said, "I don't know."

"How long will you be gone?"

"Oh, a week--perhaps a month."

I looked at him keenly, but said nothing. It would have done no
good to force him into an equivocation by questions. Early the
next morning he departed, with three trunks, and with no further
word to me save a farewell. No sooner was he gone than I started
for the telephone to call up Le Mire; but thought better of it
and with a shrug of the shoulders returned to the laboratory.

It was the following Monday that was to see the first appearance
of Le Mire at the Stuyvesant. I had not thought of going, but on
Monday afternoon Billy Du Mont telephoned me that he had an extra
ticket and would like to have me join him. I was really a little
curious to see Le Mire perform and accepted.

We dined at the club and arrived at the theater rather late. The
audience was brilliant; indeed, though I had been an ardent
first-nighter for a year or two in my callow youth, I think I
have never seen such a representation of fashion and genius in
America, except at the opera.

Billy and I sat in the orchestra--about the twelfth row--and half
the faces in sight were well known to me. Whether Le Mire could
dance or not, she most assuredly was, or had, a good press-agent.
We were soon to receive an exemplification of at least a portion
of the reputation that had preceded her.

Many were the angry adjectives heaped on the head of the dancer
on that memorable evening. Mrs. Frederick Marston, I remember,
called her an insolent hussy; but then Mrs. Frederick Marston was
never original. Others: rash, impudent, saucy, impertinent; in
each instance accompanied by threats.

Indeed, it is little wonder if those people of fashion and wealth
and position were indignant and sore. For they had dressed and
dined hastily and come all the way down-town to see Le Mire; they
waited for her for two hours and a half in stuffy theater seats,
and Le Mire did not appear.

The announcement was finally made by the manager of the theater
at a little before eleven-o'clock. He could not understand, he
said--the poor fellow was on the point of wringing his hands with
agitation and despair--he could not understand why the dancer did
not arrive.

She had rehearsed in the theater on the previous Thursday
afternoon, and had then seemed to have every intention of
fulfilling her engagement. No one connected with the theater had
seen her since that time, but everything had gone smoothly; they
had had no reason to fear such a contretemps as her
nonappearance.

They had sent to her hotel; she was gone, bag and baggage. She
had departed on Friday, leaving no word as to her destination.
They had asked the police, the hotels, the railroads, the
steamship companies--and could find no trace of her.

The manager only hoped--he hoped with all his heart--that his
frank and unreserved explanation would appease his kind patrons
and prevent their resentment; that they would understand--

I made my way out of the theater as rapidly as possible, with
Billy Du Mont at my side, and started north on Broadway.

My companion was laughing unrestrainedly.

"What a joke!" he exclaimed. "And gad, what a woman! She comes
in and turns the town upside down and then leaves it standing on
its head. What wouldn't I give to know her!"

I nodded, but said nothing. At Forty-Second Street we turned
east to Fifth Avenue, and a few minutes later were at the club. I
took Du Mont to a secluded corner of the grill, and there, with a
bottle of wine between us, I spoke.

"Billy," said I, "there's the deuce to pay. You're an old friend
of mine, and you possess a share of discretion, and you've got to
help me. Le Mire is gone. I must find her."

"Find Le Mire?" He stared at me in amazement. "What for?"

"Because my brother Harry is with her."

Then I explained in as few words as possible, and I ended, I
think, with something like this:

"You know, Billy, there are very few things in the world I
consider of any value. She can have the lad's money, and, if
necessary, my own into the bargain. But the name of Lamar must
remain clean; and I tell you there is more than a name in danger.
Whoever that woman touches she kills. And Harry is only a boy."

Billy helped me, as I knew he would; nor did he insist on
unnecessary details. I didn't need his assistance in the search,
for I felt that I could accomplish that as well alone.

But it was certainly known that Harry had been calling on Le Mire
at her hotel; conjectures were sure to be made, leading to the
assertions of busy tongues; and it was the part of my friend to
counteract and smother the inevitable gossip. This he promised to
do; and I knew Billy. As for finding Harry, it was too late to do
anything that night, and I went home and to bed.

The next morning I began by calling at her hotel. But though the
manager of the theater had gotten no information from them, he
had pumped them dry. They knew nothing.

I dared not go to the police, and probably they would have been
unable to give me any assistance if I had sought it. The only
other possible source of information I disliked to use; but after
racking my brain for the better part of the day I decided that
there was nothing else for it, and started on a round of the
ticket offices of the railroads and steamship companies.

I had immediate success. My first call was at the office where
Harry and I were accustomed to arrange our transportation. As I
entered the head clerk--or whatever they call him--advanced to
greet me with a smile.

"Yes," said he in response to my question; "Mr. Lamar got his
tickets from me. Let's see--Thursday, wasn't it? No, Friday.
That's right--Friday."

"Tickets!" I muttered to myself. And in my preoccupation I
really neglected to listen to him. Then aloud: "Where were the--
tickets for?"

"Denver."

"For Friday's train?"

"Yes. The Western Express."

That was all I wanted to know. I hurried home, procured a couple
of hastily packed bags, and took the afternoon train for the
West.



Chapter III.

A MODERN MARANA.


My journey westward was an eventful one; but this is not a
"History of Tom Jones," and I shall refrain from detail. Denver I
reached at last, after a week's stop-over in Kansas City. It was
a delightful adventure--but it had nothing to do with the story.

I left the train at the Rocky Mountain city about the middle of
the afternoon. And now, what to do? I think I am not a fool, but
I certainly lack the training of a detective, and I felt
perfectly rudderless and helpless as I ordered the taxi-driver to
take me to the Alcazar Hotel.

I was by no means sure that Harry had come to Denver. He was
traveling with a bundle of animated caprice, a creature who would
have hauled him off the train at Rahway, New Jersey, if she had
happened to take a fancy to the place. At the moment, I
reflected, they might be driving along Michigan Boulevard, or
attending a matinee at the Willis Wood, or sipping mint juleps at
the Planters'.

Even if they were in Denver, how was I to find them? I keenly
regretted the week I had lost. I was sure that Harry would avoid
any chance of publicity and would probably shun the big hotels.
And Denver is not a village.

It was the beauty of Le Mire that saved me. Indeed, I might have
foreseen that; and I have but poorly portrayed the force of her
unmatchable fascination unless you have realized that she was a
woman who could pass nowhere without being seen; and, seen,
remembered.

I made inquiries of the manager of the hotel, of course, but was
brought up sharply when he asked me the names of my friends for
whom I was asking. I got out of it somehow, some foolish evasion
or other, and regarded my task as more difficult than ever.

That same evening I dined at the home of my cousin, Hovey
Stafford, who had come West some years before on account of weak
lungs, and stayed because he liked it. I met his wife that
evening for the first time; she may be introduced with the
observation that if she was his reason for remaining in the
provinces, never did man have a better one.

We were on the veranda with our after-dinner cigars. I was
congratulating Hovey on the felicity of his choice and jocularly
sympathizing with his wife.

"Yes," said my cousin, with a sigh, "I never regretted it till
last week. It will never be the same again."

Mrs. Hovey looked at him with supreme disdain.

"I suppose you mean Senora Ramal," said she scornfully.

Her husband, feigning the utmost woe, nodded mournfully;
whereupon she began humming the air of the Chanson du Colonel,
and was stopped by a smothering kiss.

"And who is the Senora Ramal?" I asked.

"The most beautiful woman in the world," said Mrs. Hovey.

This from a woman who was herself beautiful! Amazing! I suppose
my face betrayed my thought.

"It isn't charity," she smiled. "Like John Holden, I have seen
fire-balloons by the hundred, I have seen the moon, and--then I
saw no more fire-balloons."

"But who is she?"

Hovey explained. "She is the wife of Senor Ramal. They came
here some ten days ago, with letters to one or two of the best
families, and that's all we know about them. The senora is an
entrancing mixture of Cleopatra, Sappho, Helen of Troy, and the
devil. She had the town by the ears in twenty-four hours, and you
wouldn't wonder at it if you saw her."

Already I felt that I knew, but I wanted to make sure.

"Byron has described her," I suggested, "in Childe Harold."

"Hardly," said Hovey. "No midnight beauty for hers, thank you.
Her hair is the most perfect gold. Her eyes are green; her skin
remarkably fair. What she may be is unknowable, but she certainly
is not Spanish; and, odder still, the senor himself fits the name
no better."

But I thought it needless to ask for a description of Harry; for
I had no doubt of the identity of Senor Ramal and his wife. I
pondered over the name, and suddenly realized that it was merely
"Lamar" spelled backward!

The discovery removed the last remaining shadow of doubt.

I asked in a tone of assumed indifference for their hotel,
expressing a desire to meet them--and was informed by Hovey that
they had left Denver two days previously, nor did he know where
they had gone.

Thus did I face another obstacle. But I was on the track; and
the perfume of a woman's beauty is the strongest scent in the
world as well as the sweetest. I thanked my cousin for a pleasant
evening--though he did not know the extent of my debt to him--and
declined his urgent invitation to have my luggage brought to his
home.

On my way to the hotel I was struck by a sudden thought: Senor
Ramal could not be my brother or my cousin would have recognized
him! But I immediately reflected that the two had not seen each
other for some ten years, at which time Harry had been a mere
boy.

The following morning, with little difficulty, I ascertained the
fact that the Ramals had departed--at least ostensibly--for
Colorado Springs.

I followed. That same evening, when I registered at the Antlers
Hotel, a few minutes before the dinner hour, I turned over two
pages of the book, and there before me was the entry, "Senor and
Senora Ramal, Paris." It was in Harry's handwriting.

After dinner--a most excellent dinner, with melons from La Junta
and trout from the mountain streams--I descended on the hotel
clerk with questions. He was most obliging--a sharp, pleasant
fellow, with prominent ears and a Rocky Mountain twang.

"Senor and Senora Ramal? Most assuredly, sir. They have been
here several days. No, they are not now in the hotel. They left
this afternoon for Manitou, to take dinner there, and are going
to make the night trip up the Peak."

An idea immediately suggested itself to me. They would, of
course, return to the hotel in the morning. All I had to do was
to sit down and wait for them; but that would have been dull
sport. My idea was better.

I sought out the hotel's wardrobe--there is nothing the Antlers
will not do for you--and clothed myself in khaki, leggings, and
boots. Then I ordered a car and set out for Manitou, at the foot
of the mountain.

By ten o'clock I was mounted on a donkey, headed for the top,
after having been informed by a guide that "the man and the
beautiful lady" had departed an hour previous.

Having made the ascent twice before, I needed no guide. So I
decided; but I regretted the decision. Three times I lost the
path; once I came perilously near descending on the village
below--well, without hesitation. It was well after midnight when
I passed the Half-way House, and I urged my donkey forward with a
continual rat-a-tat-tat of well-directed kicks in the effort to
make my goal.

You who have experienced the philosophical calm and superb
indifference of the Pike's Peak donkey may imagine the vocabulary
I used on this occasion--I dare not print it. Nor did his speed
increase.

I was, in fact, a quarter of an hour late. I was still several
hundred yards from the summit when the sun's first rays shot
through the thin atmosphere, creating colorful riot among the
clouds below, and I stopped, holding my breath in awe.

There is no art nor poetry in that wonderful sight; it is
glorious war. The sun charges forth in a vast flame of
inconceivable brilliance; you can almost hear the shout of
victory. He who made the universe is no artist; too often He
forgets restraint, and blinds us.

I turned, almost regretting that I had come, for I had been put
out of tune with my task. Then I mounted the donkey and slowly
traversed the few remaining yards to the Peak.

There, seated in the dazzling sunshine on the edge of a huge
boulder near the eastern precipice, were the two I sought.

Le Mire's head was turned from me as she sat gazing silently at
the tumbling, gorgeous mass of clouds that seemed almost to be
resting on her lap; Harry was looking at her. And such a look!

There was no rival even in nature that could conquer Le Mire;
never, I believe, did woman achieve a more notable victory than
hers of that morning. I watched them for several minutes before I
moved or spoke; and never once did Harry's eyes leave her face.

Then I advanced a step, calling his name; and they turned and
caught sight of me.

"Paul!" cried Harry, leaping to his feet; then he stopped short
and stared at me half defiantly, half curiously, moving close to
Le Mire and placing his hand on her shoulder like a child
clinging to a toy.

His companion had not moved, except to turn her head; but after
the first swift shadow of surprise her face brightened with a
smile of welcome, for all the world as though this were a morning
call in her boudoir.

"Senor and Senora Ramal, I believe?" said I with a smile,
crossing to them with an exaggerated bow.

I could see Harry cocking his ear to catch the tone of my first
words, and when he heard their friendliness a grin overspread his
face. He took his hand from Le Mire's shoulder and held it out to
me.

"How did you come here? How did you find us?"

"You forgot to provide Le Mire with a veil," said I by way of
answer.

Harry looked at me, then at his companion. "Of course," he
agreed--"of course. By Jove! that was stupid of us."

Whereupon Le Mire laughed with such frank enjoyment of the boy's
simplicity that I couldn't help but join her.

"And now," said Harry, "I suppose you want to know--"

"I want to know nothing--at present," I interrupted. "It's
nearly six o'clock, and since ten last night I've been on top of
the most perfectly imbecile donkey ever devised by nature. I want
breakfast."

Velvet lids were upraised from Le Mire's eyes. "Here?" she
queried.

I pointed to the place--extreme charity might give it the title
of inn--where smoke was rising from a tin chimney.

Soon we were seated inside with a pot of steaming black coffee
before us. Harry was bubbling over with gaiety and good will,
evidently occasioned by my unexpected friendliness, while Le Mire
sat for the most part silent. It was easy to see that she was
more than a little disturbed by my arrival, which surprised me.

I gazed at her with real wonder and increasing admiration. It
was six in the morning; she had had no sleep, and had just
finished a most fatiguing journey of some eight hours; but I had
never seen her so beautiful.

Our host approached, and I turned to him:

"What have you?"

There was pity in his glance.

"Aigs," said he, with an air of finality.

"Ah!" said Le Mire. "I want them--let's see--au beurre noire, if
you please."

The man looked at her and uttered the single word: "Fried."

"Fried?" said she doubtfully.

"Only fried," was the inexorable answer. "How many?"

Le Mire turned to me, and I explained. Then she turned again to
the surly host with a smile that must have caused him to regret
his gruffness.

"Well, then, fr-r-ied!" said she, rolling the "r" deliciously.
"And you may bring me five, if you please."

It appeared that I was not the only hungry one. We ate leisurely
and smoked more leisurely still, and started on our return
journey a little before eight o'clock.

It was late in the afternoon when we arrived at the Antlers. The
trip was accomplished without accident, but Le Mire was
thoroughly exhausted and Harry was anything but fresh. That is
the worst of mountain climbing: the exaltation at the summit
hardly pays you for the reaction at the foot. We entered the
broad portico with frank sighs of relief.

I said something about joining them at dinner and left for my own
rooms.

At dinner that evening Harry was in high spirits and took great
delight in everything that was said, both witty and dull, while
Le Mire positively sparkled.

She made her impression; not a man in the well-filled room but
sent his tribute of admiring glances as she sat seemingly
unconscious of all but Harry and myself. That is always
agreeable; a man owes something to the woman who carries a room
for him.

I had intended to have a talk with Harry after dinner, but I
postponed it; the morning would assuredly be better. There was
dancing in the salon, but we were all too tired to take advantage
of it; and after listening to one or two numbers, during which Le
Mire was kept busy turning aside the importunities of would-be
partners, we said good night and sought our beds.

It was late the next morning when the precious pair joined me in
the garden, and when we went in for breakfast we found the
dining-room quite empty. We did not enjoy it as on the morning
previous; the cuisine was of the kind usually--and in this case
justly--described as "superior," but we did not have the same
edge on our appetite.

We were not very talkative; I myself was almost taciturn, having
before me the necessity of coming to an understanding with Harry,
a task which I was far from relishing. But there were certain
things I must know.

"What do you say to a ride down the valley?" said Harry. "They
have excellent horses here; I tried one of 'em the other day."

"I trust that they bear no resemblance to my donkey," said I with
feeling.

"Ugh!" said Le Mire with a shudder. "Never shall I forget that
ride. Besides," she added, turning to Harry, "this morning I
would be in the way. Don't you know that your brother has a
thousand things to say to you? He wants to scold you; you must
remember that you are a very bad boy."

And she sent me a glance half defiant, half indifferent, which
plainly said: "If I fight you, I shall win; but I really care
very little about it one way or the other."

After breakfast she went to her room--to have her hair dressed,
she said--and I led Harry to a secluded corner of the magnificent
grounds surrounding the hotel. During the walk we were both
silent: Harry, I suppose, was wondering what I was going to say,
while I was trying to make up my own mind.

"I suppose," he began abruptly, "you are going to tell me I have
acted like a fool. Go ahead; the sooner it's over the better."

"Nothing of the sort," said I, glad that he had opened it.

He stopped short, demanding to know what I meant.

"Of course," I continued, "Le Mire is a most amazing prize. Not
exactly my style perhaps, but there are few men in the world who
wouldn't envy you. I congratulate you.

"But there were two things I feared for several reasons--Le
Mire's fascination, your own youth and impulsive recklessness,
and the rather curious mode of your departure. I feared first and
most that you would marry her; second, that you would achieve
odium and publicity for our name."

Harry was regarding me with a smile which had in it very little
of amusement; it held a tinge of bitterness.

"And so," he burst out suddenly, "you were afraid I would marry
her! Well, I would. The last time I asked her"--again the
smile--"was this morning."

"And--"

"She won't have me."

"Bah!" I concealed my surprise, for I had really not thought it
possible that the lad could be such a fool. "What's her game,
Harry?"

"Game the deuce! I tell you she won't have me."

"You have asked her?"

"A thousand times. I've begged her on my knees. Offered
her--anything."

"And she refuses?"

"Positively."

"Refuses?"

"With thanks."

I stared at him for a moment in silence. Then I said: "Go and
get her and bring her here. I'll find out what she wants," and
sat down on a bench to wait. Harry departed for the hotel without
a word.

In a few minutes he returned with Le Mire. I rose and proffered
her a seat on the bench, which she accepted with a smile, and
Harry sat down at her side. I stood in front of them.

"Le Mire," said I, and I believe I frowned, "my brother tells me
that you have been offered the name of Lamar in marriage."

"I have thanked him for it," said she with a smile.

"And declined it."

"And--declined it," she agreed.

"Well," said I, "I am not a man of half measures, as you will
soon see, Le Mire. Besides, I appreciate your power. On the day,"
I continued with slow precision--"on the day that you give me a
contract to adhere to that refusal you may have my check for one
million dollars."

She surprised me; I admit it. I had expected a burst of anger,
with a touch of assumed hauteur; the surrender to follow, for I
had made the stake high. But as I stood looking down at her,
waiting for the flash of her eye, I was greeted by a burst of
laughter--the frank laughter of genuine mirth. Then she spoke:

"Oh, you Americans! You are so funny! A million dollars! It is
impossible that I should be angry after such a compliment.
Besides, you are so funny! Do you not know Le Mire? Am I not a
princess if I desire it--tomorrow--today? Bah! There is the
world--is it not mine? Mrs. Lamar? Ugh! Pardon me, my friend, but
it is an ugly name.

"You know my ancestors? De L'Enclos, Montalais, Maintenon, La
Marana! They were happy--in their way--and they were great. I
must do nothing unworthy of them. Set your mind at rest, Mr.
Lamar; but, really, you should have known better--you who have
seen the world and Le Mire in Paris! And now our amusement is
perhaps ended? Now we must return to that awful New York? Voila!"

Indeed I had not understood her. And how could I? There is only
one such woman in a generation; sometimes none, for nature is
sparing of her favorites. By pure luck she sat before me, this
twentieth-century Marana, and I acknowledged her presence with a
deep bow of apology and admiration.

"If you will forgive me, madame," I said, "I will--not attempt to
make reparation, for my words were not meant for you. Consider
them unspoken. As for our amusement, why need it end? Surely, we
can forget? I see plainly I am not a St. Evremond, but neither am
I a fool. My brother pleases you--well, there he is. As for
myself, I shall either stay to take care of you two children, or
I shall return to New York, as you desire."

Le Mire looked at me uncertainly for a moment, then turned to
Harry and with a fluttering gesture took his hand in her own and
patted it gaily. Then she laughed the happy laugh of a child as
she said:

"Then it is well! And, monsieur, you are less an American than I
thought. By all means, stay--we shall be so jolly! Will we not,
my little friend?"

Harry nodded, smiling at her. But there was a troubled look in
his face.

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