To love and to honor (19 page)

The music muted to a wooing croon, softly seductive. Their cue—almost. She swallowed her heart which had zoomed to her throat.

"Toml My knees have turned to jelly."

"This is the heck of a time to turn to jelly," he whispered hoarsely, and administered a shattering slap on her shoulder which rocked her on her skates. "Brace up."

"Ladies and gentlemen—" the voice of the band leader was sonorously impressive—"the management has provided a surprise for you. It presents the famous French-Canadian roller skate champions, the de Bar-cos!"

"Ready? Let's go."

An ear-splitting fanfare. A bar of "The Beautiful Blue Danube." The door before Cindy and Tom Slade opened as if by magic. "The de Barcos" skated into the hall in perfect timing.

A thunder of applause followed their entrance, died down till there was no sound but the nostalgic instrumentation of strings and brass, flutes and piccolos, a piano carrying the melody, the sound of rollers on the waxed floor.

Round the hall they went, arms crossed, hands together, separated, and united. Twice they executed waltz turns before they backed toward the exit. At the door Tom Slade lifted Cindy's hand to his lips. They made a sweeping obeisance and disappeared. A storm of applause, shouts of "Encore 1 Encore 1" followed them.

"They want us back. Shall we go?"

"No." Cindy refused breathlessly. "Why tempt Fate? We'll take a bow and fade away with laurel still crowning our brows.

"We put it across, Thomas," she exulted as in the dressing room he knelt to remove her skates. "I was

threatened with heart failure when you squeezed my hand to signal the first waltz turn."

"Your heart condition wasn't a patch on mine. One false step, one obstruction, even so much as a bobby pin on that waxed floor and our act would have switched into an uproarious slapstick comedy. I'll bet I aged ten years in that trip around the hall." He pulled off her skates and put on the high-heeled red satin slippers.

"There you are. All set? Slip out into the crowd through this door. I'll make my entrance from the other side of the stage. Leave the white fur coat here with your raglan, you'll die in it when you dance. You were a knockout, Cindy. You'll be bombarded with compliments. Don't let them turn your head—away from me. En avant, Madame de Barco.'*

A tall chef in white from turban to gloves and shoes was standing near the door as Cindy entered the hall.

"Voulez-voits me jaire le plaisir, Madame?" The low voice was unrecognizable.

"Je siiis enchanUe, Monsieur** she whispered.

As he put his arm around her she glanced up. A small blond mustache outlined his upper lip, the slits in the black satin mask which covered his nose were so narrow that only a glint showed through. The "secretary" at Rockledge wore a mustache like that. Whoever he was he waltzed like a dream to the music of "Stardust.** Halfway round the hall a monk tagged his shoulder authoritatively. They stopped. Her partner raised her gloved hand to his lips.

"/e reviendrai, Madame," he murmured and was gone. Her eyes followed him till he was lost in the maze of dancers.

To the music of "St. Louis Blues" from peasant to pirate she went. Men in the uniform of the army, air, the marines cut in—she hadn't realized there were so many ex-fighters in the town or among the summer people, apparently there were guests from other places. Each man complimented her on her performance, some in whispers, some in a gutteral mutter, two in a high falsetto, all voices too well disguised to be recognizable.

A woman in a costume made entirely of newssheets of

the county paper from low-cut bodice to plaited skirt, with black earrings matching necklace and bracelets, carried a bundle of papers under her right arm as she flitted from dancer to dancer apparently whispering news. A mysterious person. The tall chef appeared fascinated by her. Each time he danced with her a clown cut in.

Undine, in a wave-green sequinned confection dripping with seaweeds and strings of exquisite pink shells, was Lyd Fane, undoubtedly. No wonder she had suggested a Bal Masqu^ with that sensational costume up her sleeve. A catty thought, Cindy reproached herself, and turned her attention to what appeared to be a college president in black cap and gown who had cut in on a Red Cross ambulance driver. For a bulky person he was extremely light on his feet.

The clown touched his arm. It was the second time he had cut in on her dance. Red patches highlighted the cheekbones of his chalked face; an enormous mouth had been painted in the same brilliant color; a dab on the end of his nose and on his chin was black as the satin of his mask; his white peaked cap, the rest of his costume was the typical pantaloons and blouse of the circus. The glint of eyes between the slits in his mask sent icy prickles down her spine. Memory broadcast Sary's voice:

"Get a lot of folks together with their faces covered up an' how do you know who you're dancing with? A crook might slip in an' hold you up."

Were his eyes fixed on her pearls or was it her hectic imagination working overtime? She gave a little sigh of relief when he was edged out by Prince Charming resplendent in sky-blue doublet and hose, a white satin cape swinging from one shoulder, and a beret with sweeping blue plume. He had cut in so often she was sure he was Hal Harding, the elaborate costume was right up his street.

A Marquise in pale pink satin, with three diamond stars sparkling on a black velvet band in her white hair, now dancing with the college president, was Mrs. Barclay, she was sure. She—

The tall chef laid a conmianding hand on the shoul-

der of the Prince who muttered a protest which sounded more like a threat but gave way. The musicians were giving with saxophonic emphasis a Jerome Kern medley when she saw the clown weaving in and out among the dancers toward her.

"Quick. Let's dodge that clown coming this way," she whispered at the risk of betraying her identity. "He has cut in twice before. I—I don't like him."

A bell struck a resounding note. The music broke off in the middle of "Smoke Cets in Your Eyes." The dancers stopped. The lights went out. "At the stroke of twelve unmask."

The band leader's voice reflected the tension that had stiffened each person in the room. Two! Three! Four! Five! Cindy's nerves tingled as the bell tolled on. Eleven!

"You are adorable in that skating costume-Cinderella," whispered the chef.

Bill Damon, she had time to think before the bell struck. Twelve!

Lights up. Masks off. Excited laughter. Shouted names. "I knew you all the time," in chorus. Cindy looked up into the laughing eyes of the man l)eside her. No mustache, only a faint red line where the falsie had been pulled off. He held the high turban in his left hand.

"I warned you I would recognize you," he reminded. She had the curious feeling that another person, shadowy, unreal stood at his shoulder. She shook her head as if to clear her eyes, brushed her hand across them. Had excitement doubled her vision?

A bellhop in maroon livery with the yellow envelope of a telegram in his hand appeared in the large doorway. He cleared his throat as if from nervousness. All eyes turned toward him. Voices and laughter ceased. The air was heavy with suspense, as if each person present feared bad news. He entered the hall. "Paging—Colonel Kenniston Stewart," he called. "Paging Colonel Kenniston StewartI"

mNTY-ONE

The man beside Cindy gritted a furious expletive between his teeth. His hands clenched before he signaled to the paging boy who ran across the room in answer, his footsteps echoing in the still ballroom.

"I'll take it. I am Kenniston Stewart." He accepted the yellow envelope and tore it open—glanced at the enclosure, crushed it in his hands.

A seismic shock rippled through Cindy's body. She remembered her inexplicable doubt that day on the beach as to this man's identity.

"Are you Ken Stewart?" she whispered.

"Yes. Can you take it, Cinderella? You will when you look at the faces of Harding and the Fane girl who pulled this stunt. They are coming to gloat."

The trumpeter sounded the army mess call, "Come and get itl Come and get itl" and the laughing, colorful motley crowd, pirates and peasants, servicemen, dancing girls and chevaliers, monks and nuns made a concerted move toward the supper room.

The malicious triumph which glinted in the eyes of Undine, in her wave-green costume, was duplicated in the sardonic grin of the prince in his light blue doublet and hose as they approached. Cindy considered the merits of a mad dash to the exit and The Castle and abandoned it. Why give that poisonous Lyd and Hal the satisfaction of knowing she was panicked? From the supper room drifted the music of an accordion playing the melody of a Spanish fandango. Someone was adding a Castanet accompaniment. The ballroom was empty

except for the two men, the woman in green and the girl in her scarlet skating costume.

"What do you think of our H bomb, Cinderella?" Lydia mocked. She looked up and challenged, "You are Kenniston Stewart, aren't you? You won't deny it, will you?"

Cindy wondered that his laugh could be so light when the lines between his nose and mouth looked as if drawn in India ink.

"Deny it? My dear woman, why should I? You've only beaten me to the news by a few moments. I intended to cast off my alias when we went in to supper. It has served its purpose. I figured it would add one more dramatic touch to this gala evening."

"You planned to reveal your secret to the ex-Mrs. Stewart first, I assume?" Hal Harding jibed.

Cindy checked the spasmodic upward jerk of the arm of the chef by slipping her hand under it and holding tight. She produced what she hoped was a tormenting smile.

"Sorry to spoil the little joke, Hal, that you and Lyd have been working on for days I understand—even secrets get around—but 'the ex-Mrs. Stewart' has known the gentleman's identity since the day of his arrival." She looked up at the man beside her with a flicker of amused understanding, of mutual comprehension, then back with a smile and shrug of toleration to Harding and the girl.

"The way your reflexes take that statement is uproariously funny. Now that that's nicely settled, I suggest supper—and as if to pick up his cue here comes my skating partner to escort me to the buffet."

When Slade reached them she transferred her hand unhurriedly to his arm.

"I began to think you had forsaken me. Tommy, thought you never would come and I, literally starving." She took a step forward, turned, and looked over her shoulder.

"I'll be seeing you—Ken. To make this the perfect end of a perfect evening, you and I should be presented with an Oscar for our gay-deceiver act. By their expressions

I'll say we fooled 'em to the hilt. En avant. Monsieur de Barco."

She shook Slade's arm as they crossed to the door.

"For Pete's sake, stop looking as if I had delivered a right to your jaw, Thomas. I—I—can't take—"

"Come out, Cindy. You mustn't cry here. What the devil is it all about?"

He pushed her ahead of him through a doorway, arm under hers, drew her to a shadowy corner at the end of the long porch. He pulled forward a wicker chair.

"Sit here, lovely."

"I—I—can't. I'd rather perch on the railing. I shan't cry—again." She brushed off two big tears that had spilled from her eyes to her cheeks. "I'm—I'm beginning to boil."

"Boil or cry, suit yourself so long as you tell me what it's all about." He leaned against an upright pillar facing her, watched her face as he shielded the light fi*om a match he applied to a cigarette. "I came up in time to hear you call Bill Damon 'Ken.' That name must have packed a wallop. I've never seen a bronzed face turn so white as his. Take it from there, Cindy. You owe me that."

Through the open window drifted the mellow voice of the band leader singing to the accompaniment of a piano.

"Night and Day. Night and Day."

"The pink light on the horizon must be the battered old moon rising to see the dawn come up like thunder." She contributed the gem of observation in an attempt at casual conversation.

"I don't give a lead nickel at the present moment for the moon or the dawn, lovely. Play fair. Is the man who has been living at the Inn as Bill Damon, Kenniston Stewart?"

"That's his story."

"Cut out flippancy. G^t down to cases." Never before had Tom Slade been curt with her. "Why did he crack through with the truth tonight? I slipped out while the clock was striking and missed the showdown. I had a hunch I'd better check on my car the boy drove off."

*'Is it safe, Tom?"

"Sure. There have been so many automobile thefts on this shore during the last month I got the jitters. It is locked tight as I left it in the parking place in front of the Inn with dozens of models including two Town and Country convertibles like mine. I thought I had the one and only in this part of the country. I've given you time, Cindy, to pull yourself together, now I want the truth from A to Z about this Damon-Stewart mix-up."

"I don't know the truth. You'll have to page the dual-personality himself for that."

"Didn't he offer you an explanation?"

"I don't need one. Use your imagination, Thomas. He had to come to the United States to get his fortune out of the oil holdings. When he arrived in this town the marriage contract still was valid. Undoubtedly he figured that if I knew who he was I would burst into sobs on his shoulder and beg him not to desert me."

"You are unfair to him, Cinderella. Perhaps he came here to get to know you because of the business interests you and he had in common, to be friends with you. Be honest, he wouldn't have had the smidgin of a chance had he appeared as himself, Ken Stewart, would he? As to letting that annulment go through, I'm with him every step of the way. What man wants to hold a woman to a written-contract marriage?"

"Does that mean you couldn't love a girl who had made that sort of marriage, Tom?"

"I do love a girl who made that sort of marriage—but it wasn't to me."

Ken Stewart in white summer formals appeared suddenly from out the shadows.

"Beat it will you, Slade? Give me a chance to talk with her."

"You've had your chance, my God, what a chance it was. I-"

"Don't beat it, Tom." Cindy interrupted his bitter accusation. "I won't talk with him. I'll never speak to you again. Bill—Kenniston Stewart. You've made me ridiculous before—" She stopped to recover her voice. "I'm going-"

She deftly avoided the hands outstretched to stop her, raced along the porch, outdistancing pursuing feet, flew down the steps and along the broad drive banked solidly with automobiles on each side. Cinderella fleeing from the ball, she thought.

"Red shoes run faster," she remembered having read somewhere. Hers were fast as the wind.

She backed into the shadow of a black limousine and held her breath to listen. No sound save the ebb and flow of the tide on the beach in front of the Inn and the faint strains of "Old Man River" drifting through an open window. No footsteps approaching. The person who had followed her along the porch had given up the chase.

Now what? Time to think, she answered her own question. Shivered. The weather had put on a lightning-change act from the day's heat to cold so characteristic of the region. The white fur jacket was hanging in the stage dressing room with her raglan. Were her teeth chattering from cold or fury? The latter ought to make her hot, not cold.

If she could get inside the car against which she was huddling she could cover herself with a robe—if there were a robe—and watch for Tom from the window. Although the license plate wasn't visible the Town and Country convertible parked across the drive looked like his. No use to try to get into it, he had said it was locked. He would know she would be near and come looking for her. Better not dash over yet, she might be seen by Bill—Ken Stewart, he had said he wanted to talk with her and from past experience she had learned he was not to be diverted from what he set out to accomplish. Hadn't he persuaded her to accept the pearls from—himself? Just let her get home and they would go back to him so quick it would make his brain whirl.

She tried the handle of the rear door of the limousine. It turned. She reconnoitered. No one coming along the drive either way. She cautiously opened the door. A folded robe on the back seat. Br-r-r, that puff of icy breeze was straight from the ocean. Why stand here and freeze? Someone coming.

She stepped into the car with her right foot, drew up the Other. The red satin slipper dropped. At the risk of pitching out on her head she leaned over to retrieve it. Someone coming down the porch steps. She flung herself back into the car. The red slipper was in the shadow. She would take a chance and leave it for the present.

Cautiously she closed the door, opened the window back of the driver's seat a crack, then pulled the soft dark blue plush robe across her shoulders. Heavenly warm. She knelt before the side window, raised it a bare inch, no danger now of being knocked out by carbon monoxide, no matter what else happened, and she could see and hail Tom when he came looking for her.

A stout figure plodded along the drive, the skirt of his black robe blowing in the breeze. The college president with whom she had danced twice had been Counselor Armstrong and she hadn't suspected it. She had seen him several times with the Marquise in the ravishing pink costume whom she had thought was Alida Barclay. The aging bellhop had flung his surprise grenade so soon after the unmasking that her mind had been in too great a tumult for her to check on the impression.

Tumult? Typhoon was the word. She had thought a century of thoughts from the moment Bill Damon had held out his hand for the telegram, his cool, "I'll take it," and her whispered, "Are you Ken Stewart?"

His "Yes, can you take it, Cinderella?" had been like a slim, shining knife blade thrust in her heart.

Why, why had he come to this village? Tom Slade's sympathetic explanation was phony. Why deceive her as to his identity? Stupid question. Only one answer. He was afraid that if he appeared as himself he might block the annulment. Block it? Ye godsl Had he thought for a minute she wanted to hold him to it?

I should have let him talk on the porch, she reflected. Then furiously, caustically told him what I thought of Kenniston Stewart, what I had been thinking through the years he sidestepped his responsibility. I wager that by the time I was through any idea he had that I wanted that written contract to stand would have been smashed and smashed hard. I missed the chance of my—

Who was opening the front door of the wheel side of this car? She tensed to watchfulness. It closed softly. She raised herself to her knees. Someone was on the front seat, someone with a peaked white caj>—her heart flopped and righted—it was the clown who had cut in on her dance. He still wore the black satin mask on his chalked face. She must get out. A quick move of his head knocked off the peaked white cap and revealed black hair with one deep wave smooth as if it had been marcelled and lacquered.

The swoop of the car sent her back to the floor. Too late to escape. The driver was preparing to burn up the road. From what was he running away? Tom had said there had been many automobile thefts along the coast. Was this one?

Now what? Cautiously she raised her head till she could look from the side window. They were no longer on the Inn drive. The car was speeding. If she jumped she would break her neck or back. If she stayed here— that was the |64.00 question. A flash on the back window. A car following? Was another driver suspicious of the madly speeding limousine, which was giving an excellent imitation of a jet bomber on high? Whether it was or not the man at the wheel of this one feared it.

She drew the soft robe closer about her shoulders. She could pull it over her head if there were a crash and could a crash be avoided at this speed unless the thief or madman reached the safety of his hide-out first? a result which offered a more terrifying possibility than a broken neck. I'll settle for the latter, she told herself.

Another flash on the rear window. A warning siren. Were they being followed by a cruising car so early in the morning? She threw the robe from her shoulders and applied eyes and ears to the narrow opening of the side window. If another car approached she would scream her head off. The faint far whistle of a train. She looked at the illuminated dial of her wrist watch. A sense of impending tragedy set her heart pounding, blocked her breath. A freight train steamed through at this hour, she had heard it when she had a wakeful night.

Past a red light. The clown at the wheel must be desperate—or drunk. A car behind was getting closer. Crash 1 Had the pursuer gone off the road? A sob rose in her throat. That hope of rescue was gone. On they went. Past another stop light. The warning whistle echoed through the still morning air. Nearer this time. They were perilously close to the railroad. Had the driver heard? Should she warn him? Would he try to cross before the gates fell?

A shoutl The gate keeper? The limousine bumped and swayed across the rails. The bell clanged furiously. They had made it. The gates fell. A train lumbered by. They were saved, but, also, the closing gates had stopped the automobiles behind them if one had been a police patrol as she had hoped.

The driver increased speed. A sharp turn on two wheels. Brakes screamed. Tires slid. Instinctively she pulled the robe over her head. It might save her neck-Was the car going over? She clutched at the seat, at the door handle to hold herself steady. It settled back with a mighty lurch that left her dazed.

Minutes passed before her mind came back from the threshold of unconsciousness. Voices outside. Loud voices. Rescue at last. She cautiously flexed her muscles. Nothing broken. The heavy robe had saved her. She pushed it back to get her breath. The door beside her was yanked open. Through a glare of light she caught the glitter of brass buttons. The police. She was safe.

The officer with an electric torch wobbling in his hand stood for several throbbing seconds, leaning forward, his eyes fixed on her. His gloating smile sent her heart to her throat. Who did he think she was?

TWENTY-WO

*Tll catch her. It's my job now," Slade flung over his shoulder as he started in pursuit of the girl racing along the porch.

Kenniston Stewart took an impetuous step forward. Stopped. Wiser for Slade to follow and take her to The Castle. For me to try to talk to her now would be about as safe as deactivating a contact mine, he told himself. She is too furious with Kenniston Stewart to listen to him.

He drew a long breath. It was a huge relief to throw off the Bill Damon alias. Voices and laughter drifted from the front of the Inn. The party was breaking up to the tune of "Good Night, Ladies." He glanced at his watch. Two o'clock.

Back and forth he paced like a bear in the confinement of a cage. Cinderella and he had provided plenty of food, a veritable banquet, of conversation for the masqueraders on their homeward way, he reflected, she with the superb exhibition of skating and he with the theatric disclosure of his identity. He'd hand it to the Fane girl and Harding for working up a clever denouement. When the boy appeared with the yellow envelope he had wondered who was slated for congratulations or bad news. Of course he need not have accepted it—but, for a split second he had thought it was a telegram from the War Department, he couldn't ignore it and deny his name.

He swore under his breath. If I could get my hands on Harding—Cindy thought I started to hit the heel in

the ballroom. Not there. The lift of my arm at his insinuating voice was an instinctive reflex action of the muscles.

"Ken? Ken, are you here?"

A woman materialized from the shadow, a woman in an enveloping black satin cape. The light from a passing automobile in the road below set three diamond stars sparkling in her white hair. She caught his arm. "Ken, what happened?" she whispered. "Haven't you heard, Ally? If not, you're the only person here tonight who hasn't."

"Ken, come over where I can sit on the railing. I'm suffering the tortures of the damned from narrow shoes." He steadied her as she mounted the rail. She kicked off two high-heeled silver slippers.

"The relief, the blessed relief." She flexed her toes in their sheer nylons. "Now, tell me what happened. First what was your costume? I didn't recognize you, though I had been sure I would."

"I borrowed an outfit from one of the chefs. Wore it over these clothes and shed it before I came out here."

"In the supper room I sensed an undercurrent of excitement, but no one would tell me what it was about. A group would stop buzzing when I joined it. What happened?"

"Sure you are warm enough? It has turned cold." "Plenty warm." She drew the satin cape closer about her shoulders. "Go on."

"Weren't you in the ballroom when we unmasked?" Even in the dim light he could see the added brilliance of her eyes, her heightened color.

"No. If you must know the awful truth. Ken, at that climactic moment I was on the ocean side of the porch where you and I sat the other evening, listening to a proposal—of marriage, if you can believe it."

"I won't ask the question quivering on the tip of my tongue." How could he laugh when his life appeared to be torn up by the roots? "Does it mean that you are ready to give up adventure and, I quote, settle down to the tame life of a socialite?"

"Give up adventure? I would say I heard it calling.

Isn't marriage the greatest adventure extant? I will confide the romantic details to you later—after I have given my answer, which something tells me will be 'Yes.' I have always admired the profession of the law, and a Federal Judge ... Now, to return to the buzz-buzz. What happened?"

He leaned against a porch post facing her, feeling without seeing the beauty of the star-sprinkled sky, the riding lights on boats large and small as they swayed with the tide while he told of the entrance of the bellhop with the telegram.

"I have been waiting for just the right moment to tell all to Cinderella," he concluded. "I knew that her first reaction would be furious anger at the deception—I was sure I could meet that, we have become good friends, but to have the revelation break as it did before that crowd in the ballroom—"

"You didn't have to accept that telegram." "I did. It might have been an order from the War Office. It was a blank sheet. Harding and the Fane girl were clever to address it to Colonel Kenniston Stewart. I could break their necks."

"I knew Lydia would resent your indifference to her lure. At our dinner for Mrs. Drew she had her charm running on all cylinders. You remained courteous but unimpressed. She's a 'Come hither-How dare you!' temptress, and bitterly resents defeat. How did Cindy take the revelation?"

"Like the sport she is. For an instant I thought she had turned to stone. Then she pulled herself out of stunned surprise and declared she had been party to the deception from the day of my arrival with such savoir-faire, such gay contempt aimed at Lydia Fane and Harding, that she almost convinced me she had shared my secret. I'm sure they felt their sensation bomb had proved a dud. If they didn't, their expressions belied them. They looked as if they couldn't believe their ears."

"It won't help for me to declare that the tent you pitched has collapsed on you, Ken." "I refuse to admit that. Ally. I'll make Cindy listen to

me if I have to kidnap her. I told you before that I am sure I decided wisely when I came here incognito. This mix-up tonight hasn't changed that conviction."

"1 hope you are right, but, women don't reason, they feel. It must have been a crushing blow to her pride to have the truth proclaimed where and when it was. Of course you are in love with your ex-wife."

''Don't call her that. Harding referred to her as the ex-Mrs. Stewart. I was horribly tempted to knock his teeth in, however convention held. Of course I am in love with her. I told you I came to this town because of a belated nudge from old man Responsibility. When I saw her that day in Ella Crane's shop and discovered who she was, I loved her tender mouth, her mischievous brown eyes. She was unbearably sweet, I felt as a man would who had suddenly discovered hidden treasure of untold beauty and value—which he knew was his— marked HANDS OFF. I determined that one day she would be my wife in reality." He tamped out his cigarette against the rail. "Think you can take more of this. Ally?"