Read Online Death and the Dancing Footman by Ngaio Marsh - Free Book Online Page A

slowly.
    “What is it, Francis?” asked Madame Lisse without turning her head.
    Dr. Hart closed the door and in a moment his figure stood behind hers in the long glass.
    “It was unwise to come in,” she said, speaking very quietly. “That woman has the room next to yours and Mrs. Compline is on the other side of this one. Why have you not changed? You will be late.”
    “I must speak to you. I cannot remain in this house, Elise. I must find some excuse to leave immediately.”
    She turned and looked fixedly at him.
    “What is it now, Francis? Surely you cannot be disturbed
à
cause de Nicholas Compline. I assure you…”
    “It is not solely on his account. Although…”
    “What, then?”
    “His mother’s!”
    “His
mother’s
!” she repeated blankly. “That unfortunate woman? Have you ever seen a more disastrous face? What do you mean? I wondered if perhaps Mr. Royal had thought that by inviting her he might do you a service.”
    “A service,” Dr. Hart repeated. “A
service! Gott im Himmel
!”
    “Could you not do something?”
    “What you have seen,” said Dr. Hart, “I did.”
    “
You
! Francis, she was not…?”
    “It was in my early days. In Vienna. It was the Schmitt-Lipmann treatment — paraffin wax. We have long ago abandoned it, but at that time it was widely practised. In this case — as you see.”
    “But her name. Surely you remembered her name?”
    “She did not give her own name. Very often they do not. She called herself Mrs. Nicholas after her accursed son, I suppose. Afterwards of course she made a great scene. I attempted adjustments, but in those days I was less experienced, the practice of plastic surgery was in its infancy. I could do nothing. When I came to England my greatest dread was that I might one day encounter this Mrs. Nicholas.”
    Dr. Hart uttered a sort of laugh. “I believe my first suspicions of that young man arose from the associations connected with his name.”
    “Obviously, she did not recognize you.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Her manner was perfectly calm. How long ago was this affair?”
    “About twenty-five years.”
    “And you were young Doktor Franz Hartz of Vienna? Did you not wear a beard and moustaches then? Yes. And you were slim in those days. Of course she did not recognize you.”
    “Franz Hartz and Francis Hart, it is not such a difference. They all know I am a naturalized Austrian and a plastic surgeon. I cannot face it. I shall speak, now, to Royal. I shall say I must return urgently to a case—”
    “—And by this behaviour invite her suspicion. Nonsense, my friend. You will remain and make yourself charming to Mrs. Compline and, if she now suspects, she will say to herself: ‘I was mistaken. He could never have faced me.’ Come now,” said Madame Lisse, drawing his face down to hers, “you will keep your head, Francis, and perhaps to-morrow, who knows, you will have played your part so admirably, that we shall change places.”
    “What do you mean?”
    Madame Lisse laughed softly. “I may be jealous of Mrs. Compline,” she said. “No, no, you are disarranging my hair. Go and change and forget your anxiety.”
    Dr. Hart moved to the door and paused. “Elise,” he said, “suppose this was planned.”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Suppose Jonathan Royal knew. Suppose he deliberately brought about this encounter.”
    “What next! Why in the world should he do such a thing?”
    “There is something mischievous about him.”
    “Nonsense,” she said. “Go and change.”
    “Hersey, I want to speak to you.”
    From inside the voluminous folds of the dress she was hauling over her head Hersey said: “Sandra, darling, do come in. I’m longing for a gossip with you. Wait a jiffy. Sit down.” She tugged at the dress and her head, firmly tied up in a strong net, came out at the top. For a moment she stood and stared at her friend. That face, so painfully suggestive of an image in some distorting mirror, was the colour of