ENTER RÉGINE!
THE Parisian is ever ready to put his hand in his pocket provided he is
given the opportunity to give gaily. A charitable campaign with a new
idea bears all before it. The idea in the present instance was a Dress
Display at the Opéra. It was to be in the nature of a competition,
presented between a couple of ballets. Twenty lovely ladies of stage and
society would in turn display the creations of well-known _couturiers_.
The audience were to vote for the three most attractive _toilettes_. The
philanthropical point of the entertainment would be the division of the
box-office receipts between the three _ateliers_ responsible for the
three prize-winning models. And that would mean a fortnight on the
Riviera for a limited number of lucky _midinettes_.
The enterprise was a success from the outset. Books of tickets found
enthusiastic purchasers, and in forty-eight hours the theatre was sold
out down to standing-room at the back of the gallery. On the evening of
the performance smart cars drove up in a steady stream. The _foyer_ was
packed with a brilliant throng. The air buzzed with talk and laughter
and through it all sounded a note of undisguised curiosity.
This curiosity was perhaps a trifle indiscreet. It was certainly
Parisian. Every one knew that the peerless Régine Aubry, a second-rate
singer in second-rate revue, was going to display her remarkable beauty
in a Valmenet frock, over which she would wear a marvellous tunic sewn
with priceless diamonds.
The highly intriguing problem under discussion was: had the peerless
Régine Aubry, for months the particular quarry of Van Houben, the gem
merchant,—_had_ she yielded to the ardour of the “King of Diamonds”? It
certainly looked like it. In an interview with the Press on the
preceding day, the peerless Régine had said:
“To-morrow I am wearing diamonds; perhaps I should say I shall be
dressed in them. In my bedroom at this moment there are four men,
specially chosen by Van Houben, working against time to sew the diamonds
on to a silver corselet and tunic. Valmenet is there in person to
supervise the work. May you write about me as the Queen of Diamonds? Oh,
you must ask Van Houben that.”
And now Régine sat in the stage box at the Opéra, waiting for her call,
while the crowd passed and repassed just below as before a goddess in
her shrine. Régine certainly merited the epithet of “peerless” with
which her name was always coupled. Her features combined a classical
nobility and purity with that plasticity and elusive grace that charm
the modern connoisseur of beauty. An ermine cloak veiled her famous
shoulders and hid the marvellous tunic. She was radiant and smiling—a
very gracious goddess. The whisper went round the theatre that three
detectives were on guard in the corridor.
At the back of the box stood two men, their shirt-fronts gleaming in the
shadow. One was the “King of Diamonds,” big Van Houben, whose bright,
glancing eyes and loose-lipped, crooked mouth gave him an odd
resemblance to an over-grown faun. Nobody seemed to know just where Van
Houben’s money came from. At one time he had traded in imitation pearls.
Then he had gone to the East, to return a good while later in the guise
of a wealthy diamond merchant. But the transformation was as unexplained
as it was impressive.
Régine’s other companion stood with his face slightly averted—it was
just discernible as that of a young man with strong, clean-cut features.
Actually, he was Jean d’Enneris, a celebrity whose fame eclipsed even
that of the peerless Régine. Three months only had gone by since he
landed from the motor-boat in which he had made a solitary
round-the-world cruise. Van Houben, who had just made his acquaintance,
had introduced him to the “Queen of Diamonds.”
The curtain went up on the first ballet, which was performed in the
midst of general inattention. The half-hearted applause was succeeded by
an interval. Régine, ready for her call, stood with the two men at the
back of the box. To Van Houben she was distinctly terse in her remarks,
but she seemed out to please d’Enneris and was sweetness itself to the
young man.
“Look here, Régine,” said Van Houben, irritated by her tactics, “you are
giving the boy a swelled head. After a whole year on the rolling wave a
chap’s likely to be more than a spot inflammable!”
He cackled loudly in self-appreciative mirth.
“Fancy, now,” observed Régine smoothly, “if you weren’t always the first
to laugh, I should never know when you were trying to be funny.”
Van Houben heaved a sigh, and, assuming an air of mock tragedy,—
“Take my advice, old top,” he said to d’Enneris. “Keep your hair on over
that girl. I lost mine, and look where it’s landed me. Treats me like a
blooming bit of stone, she does—precious stone,” he added, with a leer,
and turned a clumsy pirouette on his friend’s glossy pump.
By now the dress display had begun. Each competitor was allowed about
two minutes to hold the stage. For this brief while she walked up and
down, sat on a couch, leaned against a pillar, and posed and turned
about in the usual manner of a mannequin on parade.
As the time drew near for her turn, Régine began taking leave of her
friends.
“I am in a frightful funk,” she said. “I shall break my heart if I don’t
take first prize! Who are you going to vote for, Monsieur d’Enneris?”
“For the fairest,” he answered, bowing low.
“I am talking about the frock. . . .”
“Mere frocks mean nothing to me. What _does_ matter is the beauty and
charm of the wearer.”
“Oh well,” said Régine generously, “if you’re interested in beauty and
charm, just take a look at the girl they’re clapping this minute. She’s
a mannequin at Chernitz’—there’s been a lot about her in the
papers—she designed that dress herself and the other girls in the
workroom made it for her. She’s a peach of a kid.”
Régine was right. The young girl on the stage had a wild-flower grace
and simplicity in striking contrast to the assurance of the other
competitors that evening. Her movements were graceful and supple. The
frock she wore, severely plain but exquisitely cut, revealed perfect
taste coupled with real originality.
“Let’s see—Arlette Mazolle, isn’t it?” said Jean d’Enneris, looking at
the programme.
“Yes,” said Régine. And she added, without a hint of envy or malice: “If
I were on the selection committee, I’d see they put that kid Arlette
Mazolle top of the lot.”
Van Houben promptly registered indignation.
“Aren’t you forgetting your tunic, Régine? What’s that little
mannequin’s get-up worth compared to your tunic?”
“It isn’t a question of the _value_——”
“Excuse me, Régine, but the value is just what counts. That’s why I want
to impress on you to be jolly careful and keep a sharp look-out.”
“What for?”
“Sneak thieves. Just remember that tunic isn’t sewn with pea-nuts.”
He guffawed heartily, to Régine’s evident annoyance, but Jean d’Enneris
backed him up.
“Van Houben’s quite right,” he said. “We ought really to go behind with
you.”
“Don’t be absurd,” protested the lady. “Why, I am counting on you two as
my dramatic critics. You’ve got to tell me whether I look an awkward
Annie on the sacred boards of the Opéra.”
“Oh, well,” said Van Houben, “there’s no need to worry. Chief Inspector
Béchoux of the Sûreté is responsible for this evening’s arrangements.”
“Oh, do you know Béchoux?” asked d’Enneris, on a note of genuine
interest. “Let’s see, wasn’t Béchoux the Inspector who won fame by his
collaboration with the mysterious Jim Barnett[1]—The Barnett Agency
man?”
“For goodness’ sake don’t mention Barnett to the Inspector or you’ll
upset the poor chap thoroughly. Apparently Barnett made rings round
Béchoux!”
“I think I remember hearing about it. . . . There was that business of
the Man with the Gold Teeth, and the disappearance of the Twelve Little
Nigger Boys. . . . So Béchoux is looking after your diamonds for you?”
“Yes. As a matter of fact, Béchoux himself has had to leave Paris for a
fortnight, but he’s detailed three ex-policemen to keep guard outside.
Signed them up, and then sent the bill in to me!”
With a pitying smile, d’Enneris remarked: “My dear Van Houben, if you’d
signed up an entire regiment you would still have been powerless against
certain—er—tactics. . . .”
As they spoke, Régine swept out. Accompanied by her stalwart bodyguard
of detectives, she passed from the front of the house into the wings. As
she was the eleventh turn and there was a short interval after the
tenth, a kind of breathless, solemn pause preceded her entrance. A hush
fell on the brilliant audience. All eyes were riveted on the stage.
Suddenly there came a great burst of clapping as Régine walked slowly
down to the footlights and stood there for a second, motionless.
The crowd is always swayed by beauty. The peerless Régine and her
splendid _toilette_ were in that absolute harmony which defies analysis.
But more compelling than even Régine’s own loveliness was the glitter of
the jewels she wore. The silver tunic was caught in at the waist by a
shining belt, and merged into a corselet which seemed entirely composed
of diamonds. They were quite dazzling. Their glancing, reflecting lights
played around the actress like a shimmering, rainbow flame.
“Good Lord,” said Van Houben, “those blessed stones are even finer than
I thought. And doesn’t the little devil show them off! Fine filly, eh?
Regular queen!” He waxed confidential. “See here, d’Enneris, I’ll let
you into a secret. Can you guess why I tricked Régine out in all those
sparklers? Well, one reason was that I wanted to mark an—auspicious
occasion, shall we say? And the other reason was that it made an excuse
for giving her a bodyguard, which pleases her and helps me keep track of
her movements. It’s not that I’m scared of rivals, but I believe in
keeping a weather eye open!”
He brought one big hand lightly down on his friend’s shoulder, as much
as to say: “Keep off the grass, my lad. . . .”
D’Enneris hastened to reassure him.
“You needn’t worry about me,” he said. “I never make love to the wives
or the—friends—of my _friends_.”
Van Houben frowned. D’Enneris had spoken lightly, but the remark lent
itself to a possible distressing interpretation. Determined to set his
mind at rest, he blurted out: “Then it all depends whether you count me
among your friends.”
D’Enneris clutched his arm violently.
“Be quiet,” he said, and cut short Van Houben’s stammered protest with a
further curt admonition to silence.
“Something’s happening,” he vouchsafed, “behind the scenes. Something to
do with your diamonds.”
Van Houben gave a leap on the spot.
“Listen,” said d’Enneris, and the “King of Diamonds” inclined his ear.
“Don’t hear anything,” he said, after a moment, and looked back at
Régine.
“Perhaps I was wrong,” admitted d’Enneris, “and yet I certainly thought
. . .”
As he spoke, there was a sudden commotion in the orchestra and in some
of the boxes. People were looking round as though there were something
going on in the wings. Some of the audience were rising from their seats
in seeming perturbation. Then two men in evening dress dashed across the
stage, there was a sudden noise of shouting and cries of “Fire, fire!”
On the right of the stage appeared an angry glow, and small spirals of
smoke wound hungrily up. Then a crowd of stage-hands and supers rushed
in from the wings and Régine was lost to sight. In that surging throng
d’Enneris saw a man, arms outstretched, brandishing a fur cloak which
hid his face from view. He, like every one else, was shouting “Fire,
fire!” and fleeing from the right of the stage.
Régine’s one thought had been to reach safety, but as she ran her
strength failed her and she sank, fainting, to her knees. The stranger
swooped down, wrapped her in the fur cloak, slung her over his shoulder,
and rushed off, mingling with the crowd of fugitives.
But before this, Jean d’Enneris was standing on the edge of the box,
addressing the panic-stricken audience in the stalls.
“Stay where you are! It’s a put-up job!”
Then, pointing to the man who was carrying off Régine, he cried: “Stop
him! Stop him!”
But he was too late. No one had realized what was happening. The stalls
were calming down. But on the stage the rout went on, in such a tumult
that no one could make himself heard. D’Enneris took a flying leap,
clearing auditorium and orchestra, and landed almost acrobatically on
the stage itself. Following in the wake of the frightened herd he got
through to the stage door, which opened on to the Boulevard Haussmann.
He gave a quick look up and down the Boulevard, then began anxious
inquiries among the little knots of people clustered round. But no
information was forthcoming. In the general uproar each had been intent
on his own safety and Régine’s abduction from the theatre had passed
completely unnoticed.
Then d’Enneris caught sight of Van Houben’s panting bulk, and said
savagely: “She’s been kidnapped—thanks to your blasted diamonds. . . .
The blighter must have had a car ready and taken her off in that.”
Van Houben’s hand went to his pocket and drew out—a revolver. D’Enneris
gave his wrist a sudden twist.
“Going to shoot yourself?”
“No!” barked Van Houben. “But I’m going to kill _him_!”
“Who do you mean—him?”
“The thief. He’ll be found—he must be found. I’ll move heaven and earth
to lay hands on him.”
He was like a straw whirled on the flood of people that poured out of
the theatre.
“My diamonds!” he babbled. “They shan’t have them! It’s not fair! Some
one’s going to pay for this night’s work. The management—Valmenet——”
The man at his elbow smiled quizzically. “Or Béchoux?” he murmured.
. . . . . . . . .
D’Enneris had been right. The stranger, bearing the fainting Régine on
his shoulder in the fur cloak, had crossed the Boulevard Haussmann and
made for the Rue Mogador. A car was standing at the kerb. As he drew
near, the door opened and a woman, with her head swathed in a thick
scarf, held out her arms. The stranger pushed Régine on to her, with the
words:
“We’ve pulled it off . . . absolute miracle!”
Then he closed the door, sprang into the driver’s seat and drove off.
Régine’s faint had been the result of sheer nervous terror. She came to
as soon as she realized that they were leaving the fire—or what she
thought was a fire—and her first thought was to thank her rescuer. She
was foiled in this laudable intention by something being wound
suffocatingly round her head, impeding both her breathing and her
vision.
“What is it?” she murmured.
A very low voice, seemingly that of a woman, spoke tonelessly in her
ear:
“Don’t move. And don’t call for help, or you’ll be sorry!”
Then Régine felt a sudden sharp prick in her shoulder and cried out with
pain.
“That’s nothing,” said the woman. “Just a knife-point. . . . Shall I
press harder?”
Régine lay quite still, shocked into utter immobility. But her brain was
beginning to work clearly now, and she was able to realize the true
significance of her perilous situation. She groped back in her mind to
the streak of flame seen at the back of the stage, and the outbreak of
fire. She felt sure that some one had taken advantage of the panic in
the theatre to abduct her and with the aid of an accomplice was now
carrying her off, she knew not whither.
Cautiously, she made a movement with her free hand. Her diamond corselet
seemed intact as yet.
The car was fairly racing. Régine, prisoned in swaying darkness, could
not even guess at the route they followed. She got an impression of
frequent swerves round sharp corners, doubtless mere doubling tactics to
elude possible pursuit and prevent her from recognizing the direction.
At any rate, they never stopped at a toll-gate, and that proved that
they could not have left Paris. Moreover, street-lamps streamed into the
car at rapid intervals, giving each an instant’s blinding flash of
illumination. The woman had slackened hold on her captive, and the cloak
had slipped so that Régine could see two fingers of the hand clenched on
the fur. And on one of these, the forefinger, she distinctly remarked a
ring set with three small pearls in a triangle.
They drove for what seemed to Régine about twenty minutes. Then the car
slackened speed and stopped. The driver jumped down. The two halves of a
door swung heavily outward, one after the other, and they passed into
what seemed to be an inner courtyard.
The woman effectively blindfolded Régine and then she and the man helped
her down.
They went up a flight of six stone steps, and then crossed a flagged
hall. After that came an ascent of twenty-five carpeted stairs, with, as
Régine realized, a banister up one side. At the head of these stairs
they turned into a first-floor room.
And now the man spoke to Régine, also in a very low voice, right in her
ear:
“You’re here now and here you stay till we have that tunic. I don’t like
to use force, and you won’t come to any harm if you hand it over
quietly. Now, are you going to be sensible and give it up of your own
accord?”
“No!” said Régine, with spirit.
“We can easily take it—we could have torn it off in the car.”
“No, no!” she shrilled feverishly. “Not the tunic . . . no . . .”
Her captor spoke again.
“I’ve risked everything for those diamonds. Now I’ve got them. Be
reasonable.”
The actress stiffened her body with a convulsive effort. But he came
close to her, and murmured:
“Have I got to take it, then?”
Régine felt a cruel hand take hold of the corselet and come roughly into
contact with her smooth shoulders. This was too much for her, and she
cried out:
“Don’t touch me! Keep off, I tell you. . . . There, take what you like
. . . anything, anything . . . but for God’s sake don’t touch me!”
He drew away a little, keeping behind her. The fur cloak shook out round
her now, and she realized that it was her own ermine wrap! She sat down,
exhausted. She could see now the room to which they had brought her. She
observed dully that the veiled woman, who was busy unhooking the
jewelled overdress from the silver tunic, had on a plum-coloured dress,
trimmed with bands of black velvet.
The room, brightly lit by electricity, was a big salon panelled in light
wood in the best Louis XVI style. The furniture was upholstered in blue
silk. There was a pierglass over the mantelpiece—the latter a massive
marble structure adorned with two gilded bronze vases and a clock with
little green marble columns. There were four wall-lights and two great
crystal chandeliers.
Unconsciously Régine registered all these details while the woman
stripped off tunic and corselet, leaving her in the plain silver slip,
which bared her arms and shoulders. She noticed, too, the peculiar
pattern of the parquet flooring, done in different woods, and, close by,
a curious stool with mahogany legs.
At last the ordeal was over. The lights clicked out, and in the darkness
she heard the man’s voice again:
“That’s right. You see, it pays to be reasonable—I’m leaving you your
cloak!”
Then her head was swathed in folds of what seemed to be a lace scarf,
like that the woman had worn. She was led down the staircase, across the
hall, down the steps and out into the night. Once more they lifted her
into the car, and drove off again, with the same succession of swerving
turns.
At last the car slowed down. “Here we are,” breathed the man, opening
the door and helping her out. “There, you see, it hasn’t been so bad,
has it? You’ve come through without any bones broken. But—a word of
advice. Don’t you go talking to people of anything you may have seen or
guessed. Your diamonds have been taken. You are safe. Full stop, new
paragraph. Forget the rest. Yours truly!”
The car drew swiftly away. With trembling fingers, Régine loosened the
veil, and realized that she was in the Place du Trocadéro, quite near
her flat in the Avenue Henri Martin. It was a terrible effort for her to
cover the short distance. Her legs gave under her; her heart was
thumping painfully. Each moment she thought she would sink to the ground
in a heap. But just as her strength was failing, she saw some one
running to help her, and when sink she did, it was into the arms of Jean
d’Enneris, who sat her down on a bench in the deserted Avenue.
“I was waiting for you,” he said, very softly. “I was sure that once
they had the diamonds you would be brought back to somewhere near your
home. It would have been much too dangerous to keep you. Now, rest for a
few minutes . . . and don’t cry any more.”
She was sobbing, her tension suddenly relaxed, full of a childlike
confidence in this man whom she hardly knew.
“I was so scared,” she said. “I’m still scared—stiff. . . . What _are_
we to do about the diamonds? . . .”
Her voice trailed off. Very gently d’Enneris led her to her flat, going
in the lift with her to the door.
They found her maid, who had just come back, in a terrible state, from
the Opéra—the other servants were gathered round. Almost on their heels
Van Houben burst in, wild-eyed.
“My diamonds!” he cried. “Have you got them all right, Régine? You hung
on to them, didn’t you? You’re alive, so you can’t have let them go!”
Then he ascertained that the precious corselet and tunic had been
stripped off, and burst into a kind of delirium. Jean d’Enneris
restrained him sternly.
“Be quiet, you fool. . . . Can’t you see she’s knocked up—she needs a
rest!”
“My diamonds!” wailed Van Houben. “They’re gone. Oh, if only Béchoux
were here! My diamonds!”
“I’ll find them for you. Now, beat it,” said d’Enneris, almost brutally.
Régine was lying on a divan, her frame shaken with racking sobs.
D’Enneris knelt at her side and began, lightly and methodically, to kiss
her forehead and her hair.
“Good heavens!” cried Van Houben, beside himself. “What do you think
you’re doing?”
“There, there,” said Jean d’Enneris, and his voice was as that of the
sucking-dove. “Nothing so soothing as this little massage. My own
patent. Normalizes the nervous system and restores circulation. A
beneficent warmth pervades the arteries. It works like a charm.”
And, under Van Houben’s furious eye, he went calmly on with his labour
of love, while Régine came slowly back to life, seeming to respond quite
voluntarily to treatment!
—–
[1] See _Jim Barnett Intervenes_ (Mills & Boon, 7_s._ 6_d._).
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