The Devil Rides Out

Rex stopped soaping and groaned aloud at the thought that the one woman he had been wanting to meet for years should be mixed up in this revolting business. He loathed deception in any form and resented intensely the necessity for practising it on her, but De Richleau’s last instructions to him were still clear in his mind, and the one thing which stood out above all others, was the fact of his old and dear friend being in some intangible but terrible peril.

Feeling slightly better by the time he had shaved and dressed, he noted from the windows of the flat that at least they had been blessed with a glorious day. Summer was in the air and there seemed a promise of that lovely fortnight which sometimes graces England in early May.

To his surprise he found that De Richleau, who habitually was not visible before twelve, had left the flat at half-past eight. Evidently he meant to put in a long day among the ancient manuscripts at the British Museum, rubbing up his knowledge of strange cults and protective measures against what he termed the Ab-human monsters of the Outer Circle.

Max proffered breakfast, but Rex declined it until, with a hurt expression, the servant produced his favourite omelette.

‘The chef will be so disappointed, sir,’ he said.

Reluctantly Rex sat down to eat while Max, busy with the coffee-pot, permitted himself a hidden smile. He had had orders from the Duke, and His Excellency was a wily man. None knew that better than his personal servitor, the faithful Max.

Noting that Rex had finished, he produced a wine-glass full of some frothy mixture on a salver. ‘His Excellency said, sir,’ he stated blandly, ‘that he finds this uncommon good for his neuralgia. I was distressed to hear that you are sometimes a sufferer too, and if you’d try it the taste is, if I may say so, not unpleasant—somewhat resembling that of granadillas I believe.’

With a suspicious look Rex drank the quite palatable potion while Max added suavely: ‘Some gentlemen prefer prairie-oysters I am told, but I’ve a feeling, sir, that His Excellency knows best.’

‘You old humbug.’ Rex grinned as he replaced the glass. ‘Anyhow last night wasn’t the sort of party you think—I wish to God it had been.’

‘No, sir! Well, that’s most regrettable I’m sure, but I had a feeling that Mr. Aron was not quite in his usual form, if I may so express it—when he—er—joined us after dinner.’

‘Yes—of course you put Simon to bed—I’d forgotten that.’

Max quietly lowered his eyes. He was quite certain that his innocent action the night before had been connected in some way with Simon Aron’s sudden disappearance from the bedroom later, and felt that for once he had done the wrong thing, so he deftly turned the conversation. ‘His Excellency instructed me to tell you, sir, that the touring Rolls is entirely at your disposal and the second chauffeur if you wish to use him.’

‘No — I’ll drive myself; have it brought round right away — will you?’

‘Very good, sir, and now if you will excuse me I must leave at once in order to get down to Pangbourne and prepare the house for your reception.’

‘O.K., Max… . See-yer-later—I hope.’ Rex picked up a cigarette. He was feeling better already. ‘A whole heap better,’ he thought, as he wondered what potent corpse-reviver lay hidden in the creamy depths of De Richleau’s so-called neuralgia tonic. Then he sat down to plan out his line of attack on the lady at Claridges.

If he could only talk to her he felt that he would be able to intrigue her into a friendly attitude. He could, of course, easily find out her real name from the bureau of the hotel, but the snag was that if he sent up his name and asked to see her the chances were all against her granting him an interview. After all, by kidnapping Simon, he and the Duke had wrecked the meeting of her Circle the night before, and if she was at all intimately associated with Mocata, she probably regarded him with considerable hostility. Only personal contact could overcome that, so he must not risk any rebuff through the medium of bell-hops, but accept it only if given by her after he had managed to see her face to face.

His plan, therefore, eventually boiled down to marching on Claridges, planting himself in a comfortable chair within view of the lifts and sitting there until Tanith made her appearance. He admitted to himself that his proposed campaign was conspicuously lacking in brilliance but, he argued, few women staying in a London hotel would remain in their rooms all day, so if he sat there long enough it was almost certain that an opportunity would occur for him to tackle her direct. If she did turn him down —well, De Richleau wasn’t the only person in the world who had ideas—and Rex flattered himself that he would think of something.

Immediately the Rolls was reported at the door, he left the flat and drove round to Claridges in it. A short conversation with a friendly commissionaire ensured that there would be no trouble if the car was left parked outside, even for a considerable time, for Rex thought it necessary to have it close at hand since he might need it at any moment.

As he entered the hotel from the Davies Street entrance he noted with relief that it was only a little after ten. It was unlikely that Tanith would have gone out for the day so early, and he settled himself to wait for an indefinite period with cheerful optimism in the almost empty lounge. After a moment it occurred to him that somebody might come up to him and inquire his business if he was forced to stay there for any length of time, but an underporter, passing at the moment, gave him a swift smile and little bow of recognition, so he trusted that having been identified as an occasional client of the place he would not be unduly molested.

He began to consider what words he should use if, and when, Tanith did step out of the lifts, and had just decided on a formula which contained the requisite proportions of respect, subtle admiration, and gaiety when a small boy in buttons came marching with a carefree swing down the corridor.

‘Mister Vine Rine—Mister Vine Rine,’ he chanted in a monotonous treble.

Rex looked at the boy suspiciously. The sound had a queer resemblance to the parody of his own name as he had often heard it shrilled out by bell-hops in clubs and hotel lounges. Yet no one could possibly be aware of his presence at Claridges that morning—except, of course, the Duke. At the thought that De Richleau might be endeavouring to get in touch with him for some urgent reason he turned, and at the same moment the page side-tracked towards him.

‘Mr. Van Ryn, sir?’ he inquired, dropping into normal speech.

‘Yes,’ Rex nodded.

Then to his utter astonishment the boy announced : ‘The lady you’ve called to see sent down to say she’s sorry to keep you waiting, but she’ll join you in about fifteen minutes.’

With his mouth slightly open Rex stared stupidly at the page until that infant turned and strutted away. He did not doubt that the message came from Tanith—who else could have sent it, yet how the deuce did she know that he was there ? Perhaps she had seen him drive up from her window—that seemed the only reasonable explanation. Anyhow that ‘she was sorry to keep him waiting’ sounded almost too good to be true.