Adèle And Co. Read online

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  Adèle & Co

  First published in 1931

  © Estate of Dornford Yates; House of Stratus 1931-2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

  The right of Dornford Yates to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

  This edition published in 2011 by House of Stratus, an imprint of

  Stratus Books Ltd., Lisandra House, Fore Street, Looe,

  Cornwall, PL13 1AD, UK.

  Typeset by House of Stratus.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library and the Library of Congress.

  EAN ISBN Edition

  1842329626 9781842329627 Print

  0755126815 9780755126811 Kindle

  0755127021 9780755127023 Epub

  This is a fictional work and all characters are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Any resemblance or similarities to persons either living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  www.houseofstratus.com

  About the Author

  Born ‘Cecil William Mercer’ into a middle class Victorian family with many Victorian skeletons in the closet, including the conviction for embezzlement from a law firm and subsequent suicide of his great-uncle, Yates’ parents somehow scraped together enough money to send him to Harrow.

  The son of a solicitor, he at first could not seek a call to the Bar as he gained only a third class degree at Oxford. However, after a spell in a Solicitor’s office he managed to qualify and then practised as a Barrister, including an involvement in the Dr. Crippen Case, but whilst still finding time to contribute stories to the Windsor Magazine.

  After the First World War, Yates gave up legal work in favour of writing, which had become his great passion, and completed some thirty books. These ranged from light-hearted farce to adventure thrillers. For the former, he created the ‘Berry’ books which established Yates’ reputation as a writer of witty, upper-crust romances. For the latter, he created the character Richard Chandos, who recounts the adventures of Jonah Mansel, a classic gentleman sleuth. As a consequence of his education and experience, Yates’ books feature the genteel life, a nostalgic glimpse at Edwardian decadence and a number of swindling solicitors.

  In his hey day, and as testament to his fine writing, Dornford Yates’ work often featured in the bestseller list. Indeed, ‘Berry’ is one of the great comic creations of twentieth century fiction; the ‘Chandos’ titles also being successfully adapted for television. Along with Sapper and John Buchan, Yates dominated the adventure book market of the inter war years.

  Finding the English climate utterly unbearable, Yates chose to live in the French Pyrenées for eighteen years, before moving on to Rhodesia (as was), where he died in 1960.

  ‘Mr Yates can be recommended to anyone who thinks the British take themselves too seriously.’ - Punch

  ‘We appreciate fine writing when we come across it, and a wit that is ageless united to a courtesy that is extinct’ - Cyril Connolly

  Dedication

  To

  The Villa Maryland, Pau,

  which, with its English garden,

  made me a home worth having

  for seventeen years

  Tree

  1: We Sup With the Devil

  I afterwards found that it was six o’clock in the morning when first I opened my eyes.

  I immediately shut them again, not because of what I saw – though that was enough to make any man cover his face – but because the impression that a red-hot skewer had been suddenly passed through my head was overwhelming. I can describe the pain in no other way.

  Almost at once, however, the emotions of curiosity, horror and alarm furiously demanded the truth, and, after bracing myself, I opened my eyes again.

  To my infinite relief I almost immediately discovered that it was not the opening of my eyes, but their movement which caused the torment which I have sought to describe, and, without more ado, I proceeded to look about me, cautiously moving my head, like some mechanical doll, but keeping my eyes as still as those of statuary.

  In my time I have looked upon many disorderly scenes, but I have never witnessed any spectacle which was quite so dissolute or suggested half so vividly one of those full-dress debauches to which the more genial of the Roman Emperors so much delighted to subscribe.

  As rooms go, the salon was small, and the large, oval table, still bearing the remains of supper, occupied much of the space. All the lights were still burning – to no account, for the brave May sunshine was streaming into the room and sending a shining rebuke on all depravity. Borne on the sweet, fresh air, the morning cry of Paris came through the open windows which gave to the Place Vendôme, and the grateful swish of water declared that that famous pleasance was being washed for the day.

  On my right, my sister Daphne had sunk as low as she could in a straight-backed chair. Her right hand was touching the floor, and her head had fallen forward and sideways until it was almost resting upon one arm of her chair. Though the posture was scarcely graceful, nothing could diminish her beauty of figure and face. Her breathing was regular, but she was sleeping like the dead.

  On my left lay my cousin Jill, Duchess of Padua. She had slipped from her chair, which had plainly abetted her movement and let her weight move it back. With one slim leg drawn up, she was lying flat on her back, exactly as though she had lately come out of the surf and were taking her ease on the sand in a bathing-dress. Her golden hair had fallen back from her brow, and, though she was now a mother, she looked like a child of fourteen.

  Beside her, her husband, Piers, was hanging out of his chair and over his wife. His right arm was dangling free, for the arm of his chair had caught him beneath the armpit and held him up. His body was slack and crumpled, his head was down, and he made me think of a candle for which the heat of summer has been too much.

  Beyond him, looking stouter than ever, Casca de Palk was still sitting square in his seat: but his head was down on the table – to be exact, in the dish which was resting upon his plate. The foie gras the former contained had melted before the touch of his countenance and was rising like a brown tide about his nostrils and bubbling gently before the breath of his lips.

  On the opposite side of the table, my wife, Adèle Pleydell, was drooping as droops a flower whose stem has been snapped. Her fair arms were stretched before her upon the cloth, and her head was sunk between them like that of some suppliant. Her face was wholly hidden, and all I could see of her head was a hint of her dark brown hair. Had she been petitioning Zeus, I cannot believe that she would have gone empty away. Her shoulders must have found favour in his appreciative sight.

  Against her reclined Berry Pleydell, my brother-in-law. His head lolled upon her shoulder, his body was supported by hers, and his arms and legs were sprawling like those of a sawdust doll. I regret to record that he looked especially shameless and more than anyone present sounded the Roman note.

  On the floor, a little apart, lay my cousin, Jonathan Mansel, brother to Jill. He had fallen flat on his face, and his right arm was stretched before him towards the wall. His fingers were actually resting against the skirting board. His posture suggested effort – some frantic attempt which had failed.

  To crown this degrading scene, champagne was, or had been, everywhere. Two glasses lay broken on the floor, and where each had fallen a patch of carpet was stained to a darker red.
My wife’s glass had fallen on the table to drench the cloth. Two bathroom tumblers stood on the mantelpiece: one was half full of the wine, and cigarette ends were fouling the other’s dregs. Two bottles stood in a corner close to the door, and a third lolled in an ice-pail a foot away: a fourth bottle lay on its side between Berry’s feet.

  All this I saw and considered as though I had stumbled upon some battlefield. I was stupefied, shocked and dismayed. I found the time out of joint and deplored the snares and temptations of Vanity Fair. I felt much more than uneasy and I simply loathed three flies which were ceaselessly circling and darting beneath the red silk basin which hid the electric light. And that was as far as I could get. Reason why I could not. My head…

  Without thinking, I moved my eyes, and again that skewer of agony seared my brain.

  Now whether that set my wits working I cannot tell, but in that instant the mists of confusion parted and three things struck me three several, staggering blows.

  The first was that we had been drugged: the second, that two of our party were not in the room: and the third, that Daphne, Adèle and Jill were wearing no jewels.

  My sister’s emerald bracelets that came from Prague, her diamond and emerald necklace and diamond rings; the Duchess of Padua’s pearls – historic gems which appear in a portrait by Velasquez that hangs at Rome; my wife’s pearl necklace and rings and diamond watch – the lot were gone.

  Dazedly I got to my feet and stepped to where Jonah was lying with his hand to the wall.

  “Wake up,” I cried, and shook him. “Jonah, wake up. We’ve been stung.”

  My cousin moved. Then he rolled on to his back and opened his eyes.

  “Listen,” I cried. “The Plazas have done it on us. They’ve made us tight, and there’s not a jewel in the room.”

  Jonah sat up slowly and put a hand to his head.

  “Half a moment,” he said. “I must walk before I can run.”

  I left him and turned to Berry, who proved less easy to rouse.

  I set him upright in his chair and shook him with all my might: I lifted his head and bellowed into his ear: but both these assaults were vain: he continued to breathe stertorously. It was then that I thought of the ice-pails…

  The water was refreshingly cold and I put my face in a bucket and then brought it up to Jonah who did the same. Then I returned to Berry and sluiced a quart of the water over his head and neck.

  For a moment I thought that even this measure had failed. Then he gave a little shiver and opened his eyes.

  “Wake up,” I cried. “Wake up. There’s the devil and all to pay. The Plazas—”

  His scream of torment snapped the sentence in two. He had, of course, moved his eyes. But it saved a lot of trouble, for no trumpet that ever was blown could have sounded so frenzied a note.

  In an instant all was confusion.

  Daphne started to her feet and stood swaying slightly and holding to the back of her chair: Piers gave a startled cry and then went down on his knees by the side of his wife: Adèle sat back in her chair, looking dazedly round, with a hand to her head: and Casca de Palk lifted up such a face as I had never imagined in all my dreams.

  From his nose to the nape of his neck, one side of his head was coated with rich, brown grease. This was unevenly applied and gave to his face fantastic and dreadful contours for which no distortion could account. Out of the havoc an eye, like that of a toad, glared stupidly up into mine. For some unaccountable reason its owner was as yet unconscious of his unspeakable state.

  Jonah was speaking.

  “What’s happened is this. The Plazas were crooks. They soused our wine last night and they’ve cleaned us out. When I felt myself going, I tried to get to the bell. That’s the last thing I remember.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Then –

  “Thank God for that,” groaned Berry. “I’m not in the mood for reminiscence, and I never did like your voice. Oh, and if anyone moves my eyes, I’ll split his skull.”

  He drew in his breath venomously.

  My sister was regarding her arms.

  “My bracelets,” she breathed. I saw her hands fly to her throat. Then she stooped to Piers on her left. “Jill’s pearls,” she cried. “Are they gone?”

  “Yes,” said Piers, quietly enough.

  De Palk clasped his head in his hands. Then he started, stared at his palms and let out a squeal of dismay.

  “Mon Dieu,” he screamed. “They ’ave serve me the dirty turn.”

  Berry regarded him earnestly. Then he covered his eyes.

  “Good lord,” he said, “it’s alive. I’ve been trying to wave it away. ‘Love-in-a-Mist’ by Epstein. If Rima could see him she’d wrap herself round him and bark.”

  If it was unfeeling to laugh, the punishment fitted the crime. At the first contraction of the muscles, the concentrated essence of anguish leaped in the top of one’s head.

  The general bubble of mirth died into cries of pain.

  “I can’t believe it,” wailed Daphne. “D’you mean to say that those people – that nice looking man is a thief?”

  “There’s no other answer,” said I painfully. “You can’t suggest that this is a practical joke.”

  “But how did they do it?” said Adèle.

  “Dope the wine? I don’t know. But there weren’t any servants up, and – and didn’t he freeze the champagne?”

  “It is true,” screamed de Palk.

  “O-o-oh,” said Berry, wincing. “Someone explain to that siren that if he wants to play trains he must go and do it outside.”

  But Casca was not to be hushed.

  “It is true,” he raved. “It was Plaza has shown us the quick way to cool the wine. Oh, mon Dieu, we ’ave walk straight into his mouth.”

  This was a fact.

  We had come in to supper, to find the wine in waiting, but not upon ice. In some annoyance we had thrust it into the pails. Count Plaza had said he would cool it in double-quick time and, calling for salt, had added this to the water and started to twirl a bottle with all his might. In a word, he had made himself useful, and we had let him be.

  “That’s right,” said Jonah. “Casca’s got it in one. Plaza laced the liquor, and because it was Madame’s birthday we all of us drank her health.”

  A bitter silence succeeded this simple statement of how the trick had been done.

  At length –

  “But we must do something,” said Adèle. “We can’t sit here and—”

  “I do wish you wouldn’t talk,” said Berry weakly. “Every word you say is like being trepanned.”

  “Rot,” said his wife. “You’re no worse than anyone else. What about Jill’s pearls?”

  “They can have them,” said Berry generously. “And my cufflinks, too.” He glanced at his wrist. “Oh, they’ve got them. Never mind. D’you think they’ve taken the aspirin, just out of spite?”

  “The beastly sweeps,” cried Jill. “What harm have we ever done them? And they weren’t my pearls. They were Piers’ – his family jewels.”

  “Then why worry?” said Berry. “Now those cufflinks—”

  Another squeal from de Palk lost us the argument.

  “The greedy treachers!” he howled. “They ’ave stole my beautiful case. The cigarette case en platine my brother ’as ’ad of the King. Were not the pearls enough? And Madame Pleydell’s bracelets? And Madame Adèle’s little watch? But, mon Dieu, what gluttony!”

  This was a point of view which only a Frenchman could have seen, and despite the pain in my head I began to laugh.

  “I expect they thought it was silver,” said Berry, provocatively.

  De Palk made a noise like that made by the dregs of a bath as they enter the waste, and it took the united efforts of Daphne and Adèle first to reduce him to coherence and then to make him believe that Berry’s sense of decency does not exist.

  Jonah was speaking.

  “They’ve five and a quarter hours’ start. Why give them six? If you girl
s will get to bed, we’ll send for a manager first and then for the police.”

  This counsel was common sense, and, since our rooms were en suite, it was easy enough to persuade my sister and wife and cousin to make themselves scarce. Five minutes later a manager came to the room.

  The scenes which followed may as well be imagined as set down. Managers, porters, waiters and plainclothes men came and went and were summoned and dismissed and reappeared until I felt that I was moving upon some fantastic screen. The telephone was used and abused: statements were taken right and left: all manner of orders were issued, and if I described the Plazas, I described them a hundred times. Casca de Palk sat by the open window, cleansed but collarless, continually reviling all ‘treachers’, arguing explosively with the detectives and calling God to witness that the shooting pains in his head were not to be borne. Piers and Jonah and I did what we could to compile an exhaustive list of the property gone – by no means a simple task, for, as was to be expected, the Plazas had been through the bedrooms before they left, and the effort to recollect possessions which were no longer there to speak for themselves, called for a concentration which no one was fit to afford. Berry, wearing orange-coloured pyjamas and a green felt hat of Daphne’s which he had made sopping wet, strolled to and fro, smoking, now goading de Palk to frenzy by some idiotic advice, now criticizing our description of some of the stolen goods, and now confusing the detectives by deliberately referring to the Plazas as ‘the Count and Countess de Palk’. The effect of these ‘mistakes’ upon Casca will go into no words that I know, and though in the end even Jonah threw in his hand and laughed till he cried, such devilry was inconvenient and at last Piers and I intervened and fairly drove its author out of the room.

  Not until past midday was some sort of order restored. Then Casca de Palk took his leave, and the rest of us went to such rest as our physical and mental conditions allowed us to take.