She wore a Mexican-styled dress of black velvet with a crimson bolero jacket. A single crimson rose nestled in the curve between taut breasts.
I stepped forward and said: “You sent me a note...”
She did not reply immediately, and I forced myself to look away from the suspicion growing in her eyes as she quietly looked us both over from head to foot.
The tall man had turned, and I drew in a sharp breath of consternation when I stared at the ascetic features of Rufus Hardiman. He still stood in the shadows, twiddling his watch fob nervously. But there could be no doubt that it was he. The man whom I had met at the bend of the road, and who disappeared into the driveway of the Dwight estate.
“Who are you?” Michaela’s voice was cold, yet she could not hide the languorous quality indigenous to the tropics.
I turned quickly to see a flash of blue steel in her eyes, and involuntarily I thought of the blue steel dagger which probably lay beneath the crimson rose at her breast. I hadn’t fully recovered from the shock of seeing Hardiman here in this damp, dusty room which reeked of being tightly closed for a long time.
“Why I... I am...”
Laura Yates moved in front of me like a flash and interrupted my stammerings:
“This man lies. He is going to tell you he is Leslie Young... but he isn’t. He is an... imposter.”
6
That was a nice slap in the face from a woman I’d picked up out of the rain and brought along like a weak-minded samaritan. I didn’t know what to say next. I was plenty on the spot. There was the note addressed to Leslie Young in my pocket, of course, but I knew I couldn’t keep up the imposture very long if I was questioned closely.
So, I set my teeth together hard and kept my mouth shut while a strained silence held all of us in a sort of hypnotic spell, as if we waited for a witch to serve a potion which would unleash our tongues.
In the silence, Michaela stepped close to Laura Yates and studied her face through low-lidded eyes.
Laura stood the inspection without wavering. She was the first to recover, and she asked, “You’re Miss O’Toole?” as if renewing an old acquaintance at a pink tea.
The shining black head nodded. “I am Michaela O’Toole.” She relaxed; her voice held the liquid warmth of tropical sunlight.
I knew I was sunk if the two women made up to each other the way they started out. The note would be nothing but a scrap of paper. I cursed myself for the world’s greatest fool when Laura went on pleasantly:
“My name is Laura Yates. Mr. Young had asked me to come here with him tonight, but he didn’t meet me as prearranged. This man came along... it was pouring rain... and I accepted a ride after discovering that he intended to pose as Leslie Young. I came to... warn you against him.”
I started to protest, but decided that the less I said the better chance I would have. Michaela had turned her head and was looking past Laura at me, Irish eyes flaming. She was young... not more than twenty, I thought... but the tropics breed maturity at that age. Rich warm blood suffused her creamy cheeks close to the surface. Her upper lip was sensuously short, and she used no make-up anywhere on her face.
Her beauty was extraordinary and, somehow, dangerous. There was a hint of fanaticism in her whole expression, but it was dominated by a coldly calculating personality which robbed her of any taint of feminine weakness.
Looking directly into my eyes, she asked: “Who are you?”
It was one of those moments. I could feel destiny in the making. Here I was on an important mission for Jerry Burke and on the verge of being checkmated by two women. I am a man slow to anger, but it was a pang of outraged anger which saved me... and determination to be loyal to Burke.
I said: “Leslie Young, of course. I don’t know why this woman lies about me. You wrote me a note asking me to come tonight. You can readily see,” I went on, taking the note from my pocket and handing it to her, “that this woman who calls herself Laura Yates is an ingrate, so I am not surprised that she lies.”
There was a faint gasp from Laura. She moved to one side and stared at me with a puzzled frown.
Michaela glanced at the note and handed it back to me. She looked doubtfully at Laura and said:
“What makes you say this man is not Mr. Young? I sent him this note yesterday.” There was an undertone of imperious anger in her voice.
The American stepped forward from where he had been standing all the while. He spoke suavely before Laura could reply:
“It seems to me, Miss O’Toole, that it would be better...”
He was interrupted by a harsh American voice in the hall beyond the curtain shouting:
“Mr. and Mrs. Young you say? I don’t believe it.”
The curtains parted and the owner of the voice came into the room. His face was vaguely familiar to me, but I couldn’t place him at the moment. When he strode forward under the light, I recognized Raymond Dwight.
He was a short dark man with bushy hair. Between forty and fifty years of age. His heavy features were deeply tanned by the sun, and every inch of his short stature exuded self-conscious arrogance. He was a man, one knew instinctively, who had bulled his own way ahead in the world by sheer force of a ruthless character; a man who enjoyed meeting obstacles for the perverse pleasure of riding over them roughshod; a bully of a man with a thin veneer of suavity which clung to him as awkwardly as did his obviously expensive tweed suit. He had a stub of a black cigar between thick lips, and his gaze jerked suspiciously from Laura to me.
He rumbled: “Pasqual said Mr. and Mrs. Young were here.” It was more a challenge than a statement.
Michaela’s perfect eyebrows moved slightly upward. “Do you know Leslie Young... and his wife?”
“I’ve... met them. Who are these people?”
“He says he is Mr. Leslie Young. She,” Michaela indicated Laura, “says he is not. I think there is some mistake.”
“He is not Young.” The short American ground out the words. “I don’t know the woman, but...” He stopped, his small pale eyes going over Laura, thick lips pursed pleasurably.
“If you’ll just let me explain...” Laura begged.
Michaela turned on her with a flame of anger in her eyes. “We wish to hear no more.” She spoke then to Hardiman, who appeared acutely uncomfortable: “Your pardon for this happening, Senor. It is not of our making, I assure you.”
Facing the curtained doorway, Michaela clapped her hands sharply and called: “Pasqual!”
The swarthy Mexican who had met us at the door came through. His hand held the hilt of a half-drawn dagger, his mouth was a thick, cruel slit. He moved stealthily, his black eyes upon Michaela in complete adoration.
She made an imperious gesture. “You will take these... guests... to the front upstairs room, Pasqual. See that they make no trouble.”
I was watching my chance. Laura and I were nearer the curtained doorway than the others. I grabbed her wrist in a hard grip and jerked her around. Together we made for the door. With Burke outside, we’d be all right if we could make it through the door.
Half-way down the hall I could hear the swift thud of running feet, then Pasqual was upon us. By the dim light of the one candle I saw the gleam of steel in his hand. His grip on my arm was like iron claws, and his dagger hand went up. In the excitement, I had held to Laura as she wriggled to get away.
A sharp voice came from the curtains:
“Pasqual!” and a crisp command in Spanish which I could not interpret.
The Mexican grudgingly loosened his grip. The weapon clattered to the floor and his other free hand closed upon Laura. With the brute strength of a giant he forced us back along the hall.