SHE lay at anchor, rocking gently in the water of a sheltered cove. She was painted pink, the chilly pink of an ice cream, her line accentuated by a thin band of green, and on her bow was written Lou Cat in white lettering. She looked coquettish, conscious of her finery as she rode the glittering water, Paul thought, and he paused in his scramble over the rocks to admire her. The picture was completed by Adelaide, in a short white frock, as she jumped on board and began to handle the ropes in a seamanlike manner.
“I don’t know that rig,” Paul called to her as he continued his descent. The sail came down with a rattle and flapped in the breeze.
“It’s a tartan—usual Mediterranean rig,” she answered, her hands busy. “You won’t like it if you’re used to yachting in the grand manner. I prefer it myself—it’s such a relief to have an upright boom that doesn’t clip you on the head. I’ll be captain this morning till you’re used to it. Will you take the sheet?”
He clambered on board as she started the engine, and in a moment they were chug-chugging out of the little bay. Away from the shelter of the coast there was a light breeze, and soon she bent forward, close-hauled the mainsail and stopped the engine, and Lou Cat slipped through the water in an exquisite silence. The only sound was the water slapping the bow, the only colour an illimitable blue, and Paul was divinely happy, sniffing up the salt breeze and feeling his skin burn in the sun. He did not want to speak—he felt himself and Adelaide existing for the moment as part of the boat, the sea, and the clean wind. Presently when he looked at her she was sitting still and straight as a figurehead, the tiller under her hand and her eyes fixed on the distant horizon. Conscious of him, she brought them back to his face with a smile.
“This is more like it, isn’t it?” she said. “It’s nice to do something normal again. I’m always happy in Lou Cat—Ben taught me to sail her four years ago when I first came down here.”
“Are you certain he won’t mind our taking her out—I mean, oughtn’t I to have asked him?”
She laughed. “Of course he won’t mind. Didn’t you see him this morning?”
He bent forward. “Well, yes, for a minute. I wanted to tell you about it. You see, I didn’t get much chance to talk to him yesterday—he got very silent and absorbed, and I thought probably he was tired. So first thing this morning I went round to the studio; as you know, there are a million things to discuss since we were at the aërodrome yesterday—calculations to be made about De Najera’s possible journey to London last Tuesday, and so on. Also, I should have thought that this was the right moment to compile our suspicions against him and hand them to the police, because although Ben told the French authorities in Marseille yesterday about the absinthe smuggling, he didn’t say a word about suspecting him of murder. Of course, that isn’t their affair, I know; Scotland Yard is the place to inform, and I naturally thought Ben would be taking some steps in the matter. Instead of which, when I get round to the studio I found him sitting opposite a collection of eggs and oyster shells, a loaf of bread and some wine bottles, painting away like mad at a still-life. The room was full of smoke—he must have been at work for hours, and he’d hardly speak to me. Meanwhile I’m afraid De Najera will get clear away in that plane of his to some country like Paraguay or Chile where there’s no extradition.”
Adelaide regarded him with wrinkled brow, and shook her head slowly. “You can depend on it, Ben hasn’t been idle,” she said. “Either he’s got an idea incubating in his head or else he’s taken action of some sort and is waiting for results. It’s no good trying to probe him when he’s in one of his moods. The only thing to do is to leave him alone till he emerges of his own accord. In the meantime”—she shook her head in the wind and broke into a smile—“let’s have a day off. I say, wouldn’t you like to bathe soon?”
“Rather. Shall we put ashore or bathe from the boat?”
“There’s an island about a couple of miles along the coast—no one ever goes there, and I know a strip of shore out of the wind where we could tie up.” She held her hand up to the breeze. “It’s freshening a bit—we ought to do it in about a quarter of an hour if you can hang out till then. Hot, even out here, isn’t it?”
Paul stretched himself along the deck and looked up at her in perfect content, slowly took out his cigarette case, lazily gave one to her and one to himself.
“As leading ladies say on first nights, this is the happiest moment of my life,” he murmured, watching blue smoke vanish into the blue air. “It’s the sort of thing one dreams about on a wet, grey day in London—only better. I’ve never had the imagination to dream of such a day as this or such a boat, or—or you,” he added, only so low that he thought perhaps she hadn’t heard.
The coast was changing, the grey rocks of St. Antoine were left behind, and instead high cliffs of deep red, capped with pine trees, rose from the water, casting purple shadows on to the intense blue. Rounding a point, a chain of small islands three or four miles from the coast came into view. Paul, propping himself on an elbow, looked at them with interest. “What a marvellous place,” he said. “Does anyone live out there?”
Adelaide shook her head. “There’s no water, and in rough weather it’s difficult to land. There’s nothing on them but what you see—rocks and a few pine trees—and they’re very seldom visited. I landed once with Ben, when we were out sailing last year. Ben’s a wonderful sailor—the fishermen round here think he’s crazy, the weather he goes out in.” She laughed. “We were out once in a mistral, the big wind they get round here, and when we got back to the town we found the natives offering up prayers for us.”
“Tell me more about Ben,” he said, sitting up and clasping his knees. “Have you known him long?”
“He used to dandle me on his knee—when I was five and he was twenty,” she added, her eyes twinkling. “During the war I didn’t see much of him—I was only ten when it ended. He was in the Secret Service, you know; he did simply brilliantly and got covered in decorations—he’ll never talk about it. I know he was offered a marvellous job in the Foreign Office after the war, but he refused, and took up painting, and has wandered about all over the world since then. He’s always had this passion for elucidating mysteries, and has had the most amazing adventures in the most obscure places. He’s always promised me he’ll write them down for me one day. Of course, if he hadn’t been such an independent creature he’d have been a terrific success—in the F. O. or the Diplomatic Service or the Police or anything he’d chosen to take up. But he never would—he’s got a perfect passion for flying his own flag. As things are, he’s making himself a reputation as a painter, and sells awfully well in Paris and in the States, although, as I told you, he didn’t take it up till after the war. When I ran away from my school in Paris—four years ago—and came down here to try and paint, Ben was here too, and he took me under his wing, pacified my irate guardian, and persuaded him to let me do what I wanted. We’ve been tremendous pals ever since—we both come here every year. Then, two years ago, Adrian turned up and we always went about together, all three. Oh, Paul, I wish—I wish I knew what had happened to him!” She sighed and then shook her head. “Sorry. I said we’d have a day off. And here we are at the islands—we’ll run into the biggest one, it’s the best beach. Stand by to go about.”
Quite a high sea was running as they tacked, and their faces were drenched with spray before Adelaide skillfully piloted Lou Cat into a kind of rocky fjord that cut into the island, ending in a sandy beach. Here there was no wind, and Paul took the oars for the last few yards until the boat grounded on the sand. Adelaide jumped out and made fast, splashing through the surf in her bare feet.
“Bring the bathing things,” she called. “Isn’t this a wonderful place? There are a lot of these fjords along the coast—calanques they call them here.”
Paul followed her and stared about him. It was curiously impressive, like some roofless cathedral, for water action had twisted and tortured the walls of grey rock into high pillars, some resembling organ pipes, others in the shapes of men and beasts. Adelaide’s voice had wakened a dozen echoes, and Paul felt a little awed as he stood there. The calanque continued some way inland, turning at an angle so that the end was not in sight, and what looked like a stony path was overgrown with bushes and stunted pine trees. Adelaide, seated on the shore, was pulling her frock over her head, and Paul retired behind a bush to get into his bathing suit. When he emerged she was already in the water, her scarlet costume bright as a poppy, and one brown arm flashing up into the sun as she swam swiftly out towards the open sea. Paul was a strong swimmer, and overtaking her they went side by side down the calanque to a rocky ledge. Together they climbed a natural stairway, and looked down from twenty feet into the clear deep water.
“Can you dive with your eyes open?” she said. He nodded, and in a second she was a red bird skimming through the air, a moment later a goldfish in the translucent depths. It was a good dive, and Paul pulled himself together—she was watching him. He went in neatly and for cool moments of silence saw the green world slide past his eyes, saw the smooth stones of the ocean bed, and fish that flickered and vanished mysteriously, before he shot up into the dazzling sunshine.
When they were lazily swimming back she said, “I’d like to live here forever.”
In the boat was a bottle of wine and some cakes they had brought with them, and they lay on the sand and drank from the bottle, turn and turn about. The sun and wine were making him relaxed and sleepy, Paul felt—and it was fine. Here he was, alone for the first time with Adelaide; she was terribly attractive, they were on a desert island. He wished he could express what he felt about everything, especially about her; he would give anything to tell her. How did one begin? He could think of nothing but a classical quotation, and cursed himself for a clumsy fool. Why wasn’t he able to flirt graciously with her?
He had just decided to begin by saying he wished the boat would sink and they would be marooned, when she said, looking up at the sky, “What I like about you, Paul, is that you don’t try to make love to me.”
“Damn,” he thought, and then aloud, “Perhaps it’s because I haven’t the courage.”
“You know,” she went on, ignoring his remark, “there are awfully few men I could come out here alone with who would behave nicely, like you do, and not spoil everything by flattering me, and making me use all my wits to stop them being what the Americans call ‘fresh.’ And all without making enemies of them, if you see what I mean.”
“I say,” said Paul indignantly, “how perfectly horrible for you.”
“On the contrary I find it most agreeable,” she said, and gave a peal of laughter at his bewilderment. “I believe somebody has poisoned your life,” she went on solemnly, making him embarrassed to a degree, “and I think it’s monstrous.”
He sat up. “You’re making fun of me and I deserve it; I must be an intolerably boring companion. But honestly I don’t know much about women, except that I think they are wonderful.”
“You don’t deserve anything of the kind and I’m awfully sorry. Really we have a good time, don’t we, Paul? And—I only wanted to make you talk to me.”
He bent forward eagerly. “You know, I believe I could talk to you. . . .”
Dressing again behind a clump of bushes, he decided to explore the calanque a little until she was ready to go. It looked desolate and mysterious, and he thought he heard an animal moving away through the undergrowth as he strolled up the path. The sun beat down on his head, the stones slipped and rolled under his feet, and he subsided under a pine tree, lit a cigarette, and felt sleepy. There was a heavy scent of some strong herb in the air and a buzz of insects. A great pile of grey rocks beside him, that had tumbled at some time from the high walls, seemed to throw back the sun’s rays with redoubled intensity.
He leant against the bark of the tree. What a delightful morning he had had—and what a charming companion she was; as intelligent as she was beautiful. As easy to talk to as a man, he thought, lazily watching a bright green lizard that was crawling slowly down the sunny rock. And how near he had been to putting his foot in it and trying to make love to her. He shuddered at the recollection, and then drifted into thinking of the talk they had had. It was curious, he thought with half his mind . . . the lizard seemed to be growing longer and longer . . . He sat up and rubbed his eyes as a clear whistle rang through the calanque, and jumping to his feet ran down the path to join her.
She was already on board and he untied the mooring rope and climbed in. In a moment they were heading for the open sea, the noisy little engine waking echoes across the water on each side of them.
“The breeze has gone,” she said. “We’ll have to go back on the engine. Oh, Paul, I’m so hungry—where shall we lunch?”
Half an hour brought them back to the little cove, and making fast the boat they scrambled over the rocks towards the town. They passed the American boy perched up on a ledge, intent on a canvas he was painting. He waved a brush to Adelaide and begged a cigarette as they passed. “The Mark of the Beast,” she laughed, as they turned to leave him, and pointed to the rock beside him streaked with different-coloured paints. Paul stood still, staring at it. In one place a blob of paint was running down the hot rock—of what did it remind him? He followed Adelaide, puzzling over it. After all, it was too hot to think consecutively about anything—and then, just as they reached the town, it came to him. The green lizard on the island that seemed to grow longer as it crawled was nothing but green paint—and wet paint at that, fresh from somebody’s palette. He remembered the movement through the undergrowth that he had thought was some animal startled by his approach, and determined he would go back to the island and investigate. Better not say anything to Adelaide—after all, it might be a mistake, it might have been a lizard and his eyes had played him tricks in the sun.
Meanwhile there was lunch to think of. Inside the little restaurant it was cool and dark. “Let’s have some of these hors d’œuvres,” he said, pausing on the way to their table; “they look delicious.”