Mission to Monte Carlo Read online

  He thought with satisfaction that he would be able to test some of his most recent innovations in the next few days, but at the moment the most important thing was to find his bearings and take the first step in his plan to discover Randall Sare.

  Nobody seeing him half an hour later, sauntering out into the sunshine, would have suspected that Craig was thinking of anything except his own enjoyment of the frivolities of the small Principality of Monaco.

  Already, although it was still early, many of the more important guests were taking the air, walking along the terraced garden behind the Casino, or across the Square towards the tables outside the Café de la Paix, where the gossips sat drinking aperitifs and criticising each other.

  Almost before he had gone a few steps Craig was greeted by friends and acquaintances.

  “Craig! I was sure you would be here!” one lovely woman wrapped in sables and wearing a King’s ransom in jewels, exclaimed.

  And Gaby Delys, the most talked of and acclaimed actress in Paris, wearing a hat covered in ospreys, kissed him on both cheeks.

  “Mon cher Craig! I am enchanted to see you!”

  Craig bowed, kissed the soft hands and moved as the morning progressed, from one table to another, from one group to the next.

  He was always sure of his welcome, always certain that there would be an invitation in the sparkling eyes of the women who saw him and a provocative pout to their red lips.

  When finally he had ordered himself a very small aperitif and was seated beside Zsi-Zsi de la Tour, who was a notorious gossip, he asked,

  “Tell me, Zsi-Zsi, who is in Monte Carlo?”

  “As far as I am concerned, mon brave, there is only you!”

  Craig twisted his lips.

  “What would the Grand Duke say to that?”

  She shrugged her shoulders in a typically French manner.

  “He will be jealous, which is good for him!”

  Craig laughed.

  “I have no desire to disrupt His Imperial Highness’s happy time with you.”

  “Which is a polite way of saying in English you have ‘other fish to fry’,” Zsi-Zsi answered.

  Craig laughed.

  Zsi-Zsi was always unpredictable and, although the fiery love affair they had enjoyed was over five years ago, they had remained friends and he would never have thought of going to Paris without visiting her.

  Craig looked round.

  “I see very few new faces – and quite a lot of them have grown older.”

  “That is definitely unkind of you, Craig, and not like the pretty speeches you used to make.”

  “I am not referring to you,” Craig protested. “You know, as well as I do, that you are eternally young and more beautiful with every year that passes.”

  “That is better!” Zsi-Zsi approved. “I only wish it were true. However Boris at least still finds me irresistible.”

  “I am glad about that. I like him and I see he has given you some very pretty baubles.”

  Craig looked mockingly as he spoke at the huge emeralds that encircled Zsi-Zsi’s neck and the one that was almost the size of a Louis on her finger.

  She gave him a provocative little glance from under her mascaraed eyelashes before she said,

  “Do you know which one I treasure most of all the jewels I have been given?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “The little St. Christopher you gave me! You may believe me when I tell you that I always carry it in my bag. It is my luck, my talisman and inevitably a bon chance in the Casino.”

  “I am glad,” Craig smiled, “and now I return to my original question. Who is here with whom I can amuse myself, since you are definitely engagée?”

  “Now let me think – ” Zsi-Zsi pondered. “I understand that you would not wish as the English say to ‘boil your vegetables in the same water twice’.”

  “Certainly not.”

  Zsi-Zsi pursed her lips together.

  “Now I think about it there are very few new faces.”

  She paused and then she added,

  “There is one, but I have no idea from where she comes.”

  “Who is that?” Craig asked in a voice of indifference, his eyes moving over the crowd drinking and talking around them.

  “She calls herself,” Zsi-Zsi replied, “the Countess Aloya Zladamir, but Boris says he has never heard of her.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  When Craig returned to the Hotel de Paris, he went first to the reception desk to ask if there were any letters for him.

  While the man was looking, he glanced quickly at the hotel register that stood open on the counter.

  He had long ago taught himself to read upside-down and among a long list of celebrities he saw the name he was looking for.

  It was a great satisfaction to know that the Countess was under the same roof and, when the man returned to hand him several letters bearing American stamps, Craig said casually,

  “I am pleased with my rooms, but I hope you have not placed a lot of noisy people on my floor, as you did two years ago.”

  “I am sure, Monsieur Vandervelt, you will find it very quiet,” the receptionist answered quickly.

  “I hope you are right,” Craig said with a doubtful note in his voice.

  The receptionist looked at the keys behind him.

  “One of the guests near you, monsieur, is the Duke of Norfolk, who always retires to bed early and another is the Grand Duke of Lichtenstein.”

  Craig nodded as if he was more or less satisfied, then, as if he was anxious to please him the receptionist, he added,

  “Another is the Countess Aloya Zladamir, a newcomer to the Hotel de Paris.”

  “I don’t think I have heard of her,” Craig said casually, and walked away with an air of indifference.

  He had, however, discovered what he wanted to know and asking more or less the same question of the waiter, who brought him some Evian water, he learned that the Countess’s room adjoined the last one that was a part of his own suite.

  This meant that the balcony of her sitting room looked out in the same direction as his, at the magnificent view of the sea, the harbour and the Palace perched high on the promontory.

  Craig already had an invitation to luncheon and, as he went downstairs, he found his friends drinking in the anteroom of the restaurant and wondered if he would see the Countess and if he would be able to recognise her.

  He had known a number of Russian women, who were exceedingly beautiful, and he thought they usually had a flamboyance about them that appealed, as their male counterparts did, to the romantic notions that the rest of the world had about the Russians.

  It might be true of the aristocrats, but no one knew better than Craig how completely ruthless and often brutal the Russian soldiers were in Afghanistan and in other countries under their control.

  In the crowded restaurant, with its painted walls, crystal chandeliers and gold ornamentation, were a great number of people he knew and who greeted him with varying degrees of delight, but there was no one he thought likely to be the Countess.

  He also saw Lord Neasdon lunching with two gentlemen of about the same age as himself, but without any female companion.

  When luncheon was over, Craig with some difficulty disentangled himself from his friends, and saying he needed the exercise walked from the Hotel de Paris down the hill in the direction of the harbour.

  He knew that by this time his yacht had arrived, but he had another mission on the way, which took him, surprisingly enough, to the small Church under the railway arch where few of the gambling visitors to Monte Carlo were ever seen.

  The Chapel to St. Dévoté had been built at the foot of a deep ravine so that little light penetrated through the stained-glass windows and inside it was dark, save for the candles flickering in front of a statue.

  There were only two old women with shawls over their heads kneeling in prayer as Craig entered, and he moved softly up the side aisle to where there was a confessional box
.

  He entered it and was aware that there was a Priest on the other side of an open grating.

  They could not see each other, but the Priest obviously sensed his presence and after a moment intoned in Latin,

  “In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, Amen.”

  Craig knelt so that his face was near to the grating and he said in a voice so low that it would have been impossible for anybody outside to hear,

  “Is that you, Father Augustin? This is Craig.”

  There was a short silence of surprise before the Priest reacted,

  “I had not heard, mon fils, that you had arrived.”

  “I only reached Monte Carlo a few hours ago.”

  “It is agreeable to know that you are back with us again.”

  “I am glad to be here, but Father, I need your help.”

  There was a faint note of amusement in the Priest’s voice as he answered,

  “I might have guessed that would be the reason for such an immediate visit.”

  “I am searching for somebody,” Craig said, “who is, I believe, in great danger.”

  “And you think I may know of him?”

  “I have no other way of contacting him and you, Father, have helped me in the past to prevent a man losing his life, which is a gift from God.”

  “Tell me the name of the man you seek.”

  “Randall Sare.”

  “Should I have heard of him?”

  “You may have done. His father, Conrad Sare, was a great Oriental scholar whose books are read all over the world by those who would learn from the East. I am sure most Monastery libraries contain his work on Buddhism.”

  The Priest gave a low exclamation.

  “Now I know of whom you speak. It is his son you are looking for?”

  “I know he was in Monte Carlo a few weeks ago, but I think he is now hiding from men who are pursuing him.”

  “Where did he come from?”

  Just for a moment Craig hesitated. Then, knowing that he could trust the man he was speaking to, he said quietly,

  “From Tibet.”

  He knew there was no need to say any more. Father Augustin was extremely intelligent and, as Craig had found in the past, well informed.

  There was a pause before he said,

  “I will do what I can.”

  “That is all I ask,” Craig said, “and thank you, Father. I am quite certain you have a large number of poor who need the solace of a few American dollars.”

  “Do not thank me until I have been able to help you,” the Priest answered, “and come, if you can, again tomorrow.”

  “I will do so and thank you. I would like you to know that the last man you helped is living comfortably outside New York and is very content to be an American citizen.”

  “I will thank God for His help in enabling me to rescue him,” the Priest said quietly.

  Craig rose from his knees.

  “Goodbye Father, and I cannot tell you how grateful I am for your help.”

  In a voice that carried beyond the thin walls of the Confessional, the Priest added,

  “Misereatur vestri omnipoteus Deus, et dimissis peccatis vestris perducat vos ad vitam aeternam.”

  As Craig parted the curtain and went back into the Church, he saw there was only one elderly woman waiting to take his place at the confessional box and she did not even raise her eyes as he passed.

  At the same time he knew that he could not be too careful and, as he reached the statue of Joan of Arc, he lit a candle and dropped a few coins noisily into the box in front of it.

  Then he walked out into the sunshine feeling as if he had transferred some of his problems onto shoulders that were broader than his own.

  Nobody who knew Craig would have expected him to be friends with a Catholic Priest and, as he walked quickly to the road leading directly to the harbour, he hoped he would not be noticed.

  There was little likelihood of that since at this time of day the visitors to Monte Carlo were either sleeping off the very large luncheon they had eaten or already were finding their fingers itching for the cards in the exclusive Salle Touzet.

  The main Casino, to which the Salle Touzet was a recent addition, would be filled by the ordinary people of the town and the unimportant visitors, hypnotised by the rolling balls of the roulette tables and Craig was glad that he had no reason to join them.

  He reached the harbour and found, as he expected, that his yacht was already moored and the gangplank was down on the quay.

  He walked aboard to be greeted by his Captain and First Officer, who were obviously genuinely delighted that they had been ordered to put to sea after spending the winter in harbour at Marseilles.

  “Where do you plan to go, Mr. Vandervelt?” the Captain asked eagerly and Craig knew he was hoping that they would not linger too long in any harbour.

  “I don’t know for the moment,” he replied, “but I would like you to be ready to leave at a moment’s notice. You know how restless I become when I am confined to one place.”

  “That is what I was hoping you would say, sir,” the Captain replied. “The Greek islands are very attractive at this time of the year.”

  “I had not forgotten that,” Craig agreed, then added in a more practical tone, “Are all the new gadgets I ordered installed?”

  “Aye, aye, sir, and I hope you will come and inspect them.”

  Craig started with the bridge and saw some of his inventions in action there.

  Then he walked round the yacht noting that the pictures he had ordered had been hung, a new idea for keeping the tables steady in a storm had been installed, and that the very much larger bed he had bought for his State room, because he found the last one too cramped, was in place.

  It was only when he went back on deck again that he said,

  “I see there are two Russian yachts in the harbour. Will you find out who they belong to?”

  “I have already asked that, sir,” the Captain answered, “but when I enquired I could not obtain an answer. The Duke of Westminster’s yacht, however, is magnificent and Mr. Pierpont Morgan is aboard his, which arrived here, I am told, last week.”

  Craig was listening and he was also noting that there was a mooring between the Duke of Westminster’s and the first of the Russian yachts.

  After a moment he remarked,

  “As I am rather interested to see if the Russians are as advanced as we are ourselves, I think it might be a good idea if we go out to sea for the next hour and when we return, move into the mooring next to the first yacht carrying the Imperial Flag.”

  “I am sure that can be arranged, sir,” the Captain replied. “I will just go and have a word with the Harbour Master.”

  The Captain went ashore and Craig spent the time on a further inspection of his yacht.

  She was named The Mermaid and he had supervised every inch of her while she was being built. He thought how piqued he would feel if any of the other magnificently expensive yachts in the harbour had more advanced technology than his or were in any way more comfortable.

  He did not have to wait long before the Captain returned and he knew before the man spoke that his request had been refused.

  “I am sorry, Mr. Vandervelt,” he said, “but the Harbour Master tells me that the Russians are not at the moment using that particular mooring, but have reserved and paid for it.”

  Craig raised his eyebrows, but he did not say anything and the Captain went on,

  “It seems extraordinary and rather high-handed, but the Harbour Master told me that all the best places, which are those straight onto the Quay, are fully booked. Apparently he has already had three requests this morning, which he has had to turn down and offer the applicants a mooring out in the harbour.”

  Because this meant being rowed ashore every time one left the yacht, Craig knew that most owners found it extremely irritating.

  Now with a smile he declared,

  “Well, we should be thankful you were clever en
ough to get this place. Now show me what speed The Mermaid can do with her new engine.”

  Two hours later when Craig left the yacht he again walked up the hill towards the Casino.

  He had his own car in Monte Carlo although he had not yet asked for it and he was aware that his chauffeur would not only be wanting to see him, but would also be anxious to enquire if he would enter in the Concours d’Elegance which had been inaugurated two years ago and had proved a tremendous success.

  This thought gave Craig an idea, as he remembered that those who owned their own cars would be looking for a beautiful lady to show it off to.

  He had taken part in the Concours the previous year and remembered that the motorcars were exhibited on the terrace below the Casino, where a jury examined them.

  At 3 o’clock they went in procession around the gardens, then pulled up in front of a grandstand where the prizes were awarded. After this they circled the gardens again and further prizes were given to the most elegantly dressed woman in a car.

  Last year, Craig had taken the Grand Prix d’Honneur as the chief award. Although the policy was never to give second or third prizes, the announcements gave not only the names of those who were first in the Prix d’Honneur, the Grand Prix d’Honneur and the Premier Prix, but also the names of the ladies, their dressmakers and milliners.

  This ensured frantic competition both amongst the ladies themselves and those who dressed them.

  Craig remembered with amusement that the very alluring beauty who won the prize with him had told him that this ensured that she would be dressed by her Parisian dressmaker for the rest of the year in gowns that would be either free or at half price.

  Because he was looking for somebody spectacular who he was certain he would recognise on sight, he walked into the Casino and through the ordinary gaming rooms into the Salle Touzet.

  There were lovely, elegantly dressed and beautiful women at almost every table, their eyes glued to the cards or the roulette wheel, and therefore paying little attention either to the men who sat beside them or to those who wandered about looking for somebody to entertain them.

  Craig found the Grand Duke Boris smoking a large cigar while Zsi-Zsi was for the moment intent only on staking the gold Louis he had given her on what she considered were her ‘lucky numbers’.