The villa, like most in the vicinity, was white. It was not a large residence but it had all the comforts and luxuries of a villa set in a Mediterranean setting. The Comtesse saw to that. An open portico in the front of the house led to the main door. The amazingly big entrance hall had a table in the centre and its rose-coloured walls stretched the full height of the house. Straight ahead was a beautiful hand-carved staircase which led up to a gallery from which the bedrooms could be reached. Each of the bedrooms had a private bathroom. The sunken baths were coloured to match the tones used in the bedrooms.
Most of the rooms on the ground floor had plain white panelled walls. The morning-room was to the left of the main door and was furnished with a fine collection of Veronese antiques. Next to that was an entrance leading to the kitchen and servants’ quarters. Opposite the morning-room was a studio in which the Comtesse occasionally spent some time. She was a talented artist, and this was the room of which she was most proud. Venetian crystal lights threw a soft glow upwards to the painted ceiling. The furniture was Louis XV and over the mantelpiece was an old Venetian mirror which looked like a gem, and shone with all the brilliance of one.
Exquisite hand-painted frescoes everywhere were the envy of everyone who visited the villa. The library in particular had a magnificent display of murals. This room was entered by a door under the balcony. It was the library which Dr. Morelle used. Two walls of the library were covered in books and the fine old desk was Italian, as were the chairs.
The library opened on to a colonnaded veranda which ran the full length of the back of the house. The veranda overlooked an Italian garden and from it there was a magnificent view of the mountainous Riviera coastline leading to Italy. The wooded slopes of the Alpes Maritimes stretched away from the front of the house.
Somewhere behind the villa a motor-mower puttered its way across the lawn. A faint unobtrusive sound that failed to interrupt the peace of the gardens or the concentration of the occupant of the terrace.
Presently the gaunt figure in the wicker chair paused and put down his pen, pushing the foolscap sheets of manuscript away from him across the coffee table. He glanced along the terrace as he heard footsteps.
A dumpy woman in a black dress offset by a white lace apron appeared and came diffidently forward. ‘If there will be nothing more, m’sieu. I will take my leave.’ She spoke in excellent English but with a strong French accent. ‘I have laid out everything for your dinner as usual.’
Dr. Morelle took a Le Sphinx from the box on the table. His sombre face relaxed in a smile. ‘I am sure you have arranged everything for my comfort with your usual efficiency.’
‘Merci, m’sieu.’ The woman moved away quickly and disappeared into the house. Dr. Morelle noticed that the sound of the mower had ceased and a few minutes later the gardener appeared. He glanced up at the terrace and went off down the drive. Soon afterwards the dumpy woman followed him, a light coat over her severe dress, and a basket in her hand.
Dr. Morelle would have preferred unbroken solitude, but the Comtesse had insisted he have the attention of her servants for at least a few hours each day. So it had been arranged that the housekeeper and her husband arrived early each morning and left again in the afternoon. Dr. Morelle had to admit he hardly knew of their presence, so unobtrusive were they. The work upon which he was engaged took his undivided attention and he had felt that the presence of someone in the house, however silent, would disturb him.
The Comtesse was a beautiful woman, a persuasive woman. It had been difficult to refuse her generous offer of the villa while she was in America. It was a debt of gratitude, she insisted, for Dr. Morelle’s brilliant success in rescuing her from a somewhat menacing situation in which she had found herself in some little while ago. The Comtesse’s gratitude had been quite overwhelming. Dr. Morelle smiled a trifle sardonically to himself at the thought.
He had contrived to keep her at arm’s length but when they had met at a party in London a few weeks ago and he had mentioned his intention of working for a month somewhere in the sun, she had immediately offered him the Villa Midnight overlooking Monte Carlo. She was off to America and meanwhile her villa would be standing empty, and she did not like that. What better opportunity for her to return the favour? If Dr. Morelle would work there she would feel not only had she been of some service, but she might also take a little credit for the great work he would accomplish beneath the elegant roof of the Villa Midnight.
She had been so insistent, it would have been ungracious to refuse her. So the arrangements had been made and he had come to Monte Carlo and the Villa Midnight.
He had allowed himself a month to complete the work, no more, for work would be accumulating at his house in Harley Street and now Miss Frayle was no longer there to attend to the day-to-day routine he did not look forward to the mass of routine work which would face him on his return.
Dr. Morelle picked a letter from his table. It bore a Paris postmark and was written in a not entirely unfamiliar scrawl.
Dr. Morelle had missed Miss Frayle, though he would have admitted it to no one. For several months he had suffered the attentions of a succession of secretaries, who had emphasized the gap in his social and professional life Miss Frayle’s departure for Paris had caused. But there was nothing to be done about it. If Miss Frayle wished to be independent of him he would never consider any attempt to change her mind.
He reread snatches of her letter, that faint sardonic smile flickering across his face. Undoubtedly Miss Frayle was also missing him. Did he detect a hint that she would like to return to his employ? Was there also a suggestion that she might be coming to Monte Carlo? He sighed. It would be a further interruption to the quiet schedule he had set himself, but her services would undeniably be useful.
Dr. Morelle stubbed his cigarette into the ashtray and got up from his chair. He stared out through the palm fronds to the sea, his eyes dark and hooded. The sea looked warm, inviting, with sunlight flecking the blue with a myriad scintillating diamonds as a freshening breeze stirred the surface. Two yachts sailed close in company back to the harbour, white canvas taut, their lee rails under a bubbling cascade of foam.
Dr. Morelle turned abruptly. The Mediterranean was a seductive mistress and to linger in admiration of her beauty was fatal when there was work to be done. He gathered up his papers, thrust the two letters into his pocket, his thoughts as he entered the villa returning to Miss Frayle.
CHAPTER SIX
Miss Frayle hadn’t really meant to buy the Samurai sword.
Afterwards, in the train heading for the South, she could attribute it only to a combination of over-excitement an inflated sense of her own bargaining powers and the general noise and confusion of the Paris Flea Market.
She had been set on going there ever since her arrival in Paris. That it had taken her so many months to achieve her ambition she put down to the stuffiness of Madame Grimault, in whose apartment she had rented a room. Madame Grimault had frowned and raised her hands in dismay every time Miss Frayle suggested an outing. Either the season was wrong, or the time of day, or the place was too touristy, it would be vulgar to be seen gaping at it. Unwilling to offend her, Miss Frayle always gave in. But nothing would keep her from visiting the famous Flea Market. If need be, she would go alone.
She had gone alone. Cheeks pink with excitement, eyes gleaming behind her hornrims, she left the Metro at Porte de Clignancourt and looked about her for the market. What she saw had made her gasp. At a wide junction where several boulevards met was what appeared like a flattened bomb site on which stood rows of stalls. She felt indignant. Flea Market, she thought. Looks more like a moth-eaten Petticoat Lane.
She walked through the Marché Biron, the Marché Vernaison and the Cité Paul Bert. As she did so her first disappointment had begun to give away to excitement. Before her was a ghetto of streets and passageways, all crammed with treasure. Tiny shops and junk-laden stalls overflowed out of the narrow streets. Some vendors had spread blankets on the pavements, too poor to show their wares on stalls. Miss Frayle had been told there