Of this he had become certain. Where did he fit into the pattern? He was far from a wealthy man, no bait for blackmailers. And he had never aspired to the cloak of Don Juan.
What should he do?
A clandestine visit to a woman's room might compromise both of them. And what was its object?
Cartaret, at this crucial hour, might have failed to keep his mysterious date, except that curiosity, perhaps, is the last instinct humanity loses. At twenty-seven minutes after ten he crossed to the elevator and stepped out on the third floor.
Not until that moment did he recognise the fact that his own room also was on the third.
His watch told him that he had two minutes in hand when he walked along the corridor to No. 36 B. Astonishment on receiving Mrs Parradine's note might have been responsible for his absent-mindedness. But No. 36 B proved to be next to No. 34 B and 34 B was Cartaret's room.
He paused, staring at the closed door.
Had she deliberately chosen this room because his own adjoined it? Was he being drawn blindly into some web of intrigue? Again, he hesitated. No amorous urge drove him. There was nothing to excuse his walking into a trap.
But, on the stroke of ten-thirty, he rapped on Mrs Parradine's door.
There was no reply.
He rapped again, louder, then rapped a third time.
Silence….
Man is a complex animal. Cartaret's hesitancy, doubts, fears, all were swept away now on a wave of angry disappointment. He had built up a mystery, the solution of which lay behind the door of No. 36 B. And the door of 36 B remained closed.
He looked at his watch again. Perhaps it was fast. There was no one about, and so he walked up and down the corridor, half expecting Mrs Parradine to appear from somewhere.
But she didn't.
Cartaret opened the door of his own room and went in, snapping the light up.
Shutters before the french windows were closed, but Cartaret went across and irritably threw them open. He stood there, one foot on the balcony, looking down at the moon-bathed gardens. The trunk of a tall palm near the window split the picture like an ink stain on a water-colour. A frog was croaking in a pond below. From some place not far away came faint strains of reed pipe.
What should he do? Mrs Parradine's sense of humour must be peculiar if this was her idea of a practical joke. But there was that curious incident of the fat Egyptian.
He remembered something, for he knew Shepheard's well. These rooms formed part of a large suite. His balcony continued right past the window of No. 36.
Stubbing out a cigarette which he had lighted, Cartaret stepped onto the balcony and glanced to the left.
Light streamed from the window of No. 36. Mrs Parradine's shutters were open. He walked quietly along and looked into the room. It was in wild disorder — and a woman lay gagged and tied to the bed!
The shock was so great that Cartaret stood stock still for perhaps ten seconds, one hand on the partly opened windows. His ideas were thrown into chaotic confusion, not only by this scene of brutal violence but also by something else. The woman on the bed was not Mrs Parradine! This woman had raven black hair. The eyes glaring across at him were amber eyes necked with green. As Cartaret ran to release her, he nearly stepped on tinted sun-glasses which lay on the floor.
Like a sudden revelation, the truth burst upon his mind. Mrs Parradine had been a disguised Sirena… for this was Sirena!
He unfastened a silk scarf tied tightly over her mouth. "I had one hand nearly free," she whispered, hoarsely. "Scissors — on the dresser."
Cartaret ran across, found the scissors and ran back. As he began to cut the cord with which she was trussed up, Sirena wrenched her right hand clear of the fastenings.
"Look! In another minute I should have been loose! Cut the cord from my ankles. It is hurting me."
When at last she sat up, stiffly, Sirena pointed.
"Fasten the shutters. The door is locked."
She dropped back weakly on the pillows, watching Car-taret as he bolted the shutters.
He turned to her.
"As the door is locked, how—"
"They climbed to the balcony." Sirena spoke wearily. "They went that way, too. Where are you going?"
She sat up.
"To call the manager."
Sirena smiled.
"Please sit down. I know you don't understand, and so just listen. Please."
"Let me get you some brandy."
"Not yet. I am all right. You can help me. You must help me. But you can only do it in my way. I escaped this evening from Aswami's villa."
"Escaped?"
"Yes, escaped!" Her eyes flashed. "It had been planned a long time. I had the grey wig made and hid it. I came to Shepheard's because I thought they would never look here. I hoped my friends would come for me. But I had word tonight that I must find some way of joining them."
"Was that the message you received in the lounge?"
Sirena nodded.
"I had seen your name in the book, I remembered you, and I thought I might need someone to help me. I managed to get a room near yours. You see, I dare not give myself away down there. That's why I asked you to come here."
Cartaret watched her. Six years had dealt lightly with Sirena. She was still beautiful, but had suffered. She told her strange story with the simplicity of a child.
"You really mean you have been a prisoner?"
"Yes. Ever since a terrible thing happened. But I knew I could trust you, for you were Rod's friend—"
"Rod? Do you mean Rod Fennick?"
"Yes."
"Then he was the man—"
"Yes. Rod was the man. Who told you?"
Rod Fennick had been a squadron-leader in the Royal Air Force. He wasn't a regular officer. He had joined up early and made great headway. Cartaret rather thought that in civil life he had been a sort of charming parasite; one of those ornamental but useless young men who used to haunt the Ritz bars in London and in Paris and who sometimes turned up at Cannes. But he was good company, and a brilliant and fearless fighter pilot. If Rod was a black sheep, it was plain that he had been thrown out of a sound flock…
"Abdul told me," Cartaret said. "He mentioned no name, but I thought it might be Rod. Is it all true — all he told me?"
Sirena gave Cartaret an almost scornful glance. Unfastening the top of her dinner frock, she turned her back to him and let it drop to her waist.
"Look."
Cartaret looked. Sirena's shoulders and the creamy skin as far down as it was visible were wealed with lash marks, old and new!
"Good God! The dirty blackguard!"
Composedly, Sirena re-fastened her dress and turned to him.
"Didn't Abdul tell you?"
Cartaret nodded grimly.
"Yes, Abdul told me."
"And about Rod?"
"Yes. Is that — true?"
Again, the tigress eyes flashed, dangerously.
"It is true. You remember—" she swallowed — "how handsome he was? Now—" She paused for control. "He has been to a famous French specialist — and there is hope. But it will take a long time, and cost a lot of money."
"It's almost incredible! Surely, the authorities—"
Sirena's smile was openly scornful now.
"I told you you didn't understand. Everything here is different."
Almost an echo of old Abdul's words!
"What happened tonight?"
"You saw Selim come in?"
"Selim? The fat Egyptian? Yes. Who is he?"
Sirena's full lips curled contemptuously.
"He is in charge of some of Aswami's treasures! I was afraid, although I didn't think he had recognised me. I was wrong. As I came out of the bathroom, a man who had climbed from the garden to the balcony and hidden in here, sprang on me from behind. They think I am safe until all the lights are out. Then, they are coming back for me!"