Hotel Mirador Read online

  HOTEL MIRADOR

  Rosalind Brett

  When the physiotherapist Sally Yorke left the Beckmoor Orthopaedic Home in order to look after a patient at Morocco’s fabulous Hotel Mirador, she found herself with more on her hands than she had expected. Not only did she find her patient, Mike Ritchie, in a defeatist mood, but she found that Mike’s cousin, the owner of the Mirador, the immensely successful Dane Ryland, was an autocratic man with an inclination to run other people’s lives—including Sally’s. Sally herself was not the sort of girl to let anybody run her life, and yet Dane was accustomed always to getting his own way.

  Who would win?

  CHAPTER ONE

  SOFT-FOOTED Moors in white cotton trousers and shirt, a black cummberbund at the waist and a red fez covering dark oily hair, were clearing the trestle tables from the lawn, carrying away soiled napery and gigantic half-empty dishes baskets of sweetmeat papers and cigarette butts. A small brown-skinned boy crawled about collecting spent matches and other oddments, and another was diving into the long, spectacularly-tiled pool to retrieve whatever the wind had blown in that direction. By the time it was dark, the formal back gardens of the Hotel Mirador would be as attractively neat as they had been this morning, before outdoor preparations for the Caid’s garden party had begun.

  Dane Ryland looked down dispassionately from his balcony. The party had been the usual success—a milling throng in djellabahs and turbans, smoking khaki-colored cigarettes, eating pastries and other sweet concoctions, drinking mint tea but no wine. A few French officers had strolled with the Caid but no women. In their treatment of women, thought Dane, they had something here in Morocco. Not that he disliked the sex; he merely preferred them to stay where they belonged till he had time for them—which was seldom.

  He came in from the balcony, sat down at his desk and signed the letters his secretary had placed there. Then he spoke into the inter-com and gave a few instructions. Before he had finished speaking, the small dark secretary had knocked and entered.

  “Well, Maynier?” Dane asked. “Was the Caid satisfied?”

  “Extremely, monsieur. He added twenty per cent to the cheque for tips. Is it right to give so much?”

  “It has to be, if he insisted. But first ask the head waiter to put it to the staff that we’ll save the money for them if they wish. They don’t wish, of course.”

  Maynier laughed, and shrugged. “Very well. There are one or two things ... the Americans in Suite Fourteen are anxious to remain for three more days. I have told them the suite is already promised but they say they are willing to pay much more to stay, where they are.”

  Dane considered, stroked his lean brown jaw with long bony fingers. “Pierre’s better at diplomacy with the guests than I am. What about Suite One?”

  “They leave the day after tomorrow. Then it is free for only four days.”

  “And Seven?”

  The little middle-aged Frenchman lifted an expressive eyebrow. “Had you forgotten.” He paused pointedly. “She is not very pleased that you have not been able to see her yet. I told her you had been unusually busy with the Caid, but obviously she thought it a poor excuse.”

  “Lord, I’d forgotten her,” said Dane. “About those Americans—tell them I’ll probably be able to arrange it in the morning. Send one of the desk clerks up with the bookings.”

  “And the English girl?”

  “Girl?” echoed Dane fixing the secretary with a grey-green eye. “How old is she?”

  “She looks very young—not more than twenty.”

  “She appeared fairly juvenile in the photograph, but I thought it was faked a bit.” He thought for a moment looked at his watch. “I can give her ten minutes now. Fetch her, will you?”

  “And drinks?”

  “Not yet. English girls of twenty don’t drink—at least, they don’t while they’re with me. I’ll have a Scotch and soda in about half an hour. By the way, Maynier...”

  “Yes, monsieur?”

  “I’m expecting some sort of message from Monsieur de Chalain. See that I get it as soon as it arrives, will you?”

  “Of course.” The secretary picked up the signed letters. “I’ll bring the English mademoiselle.”

  Dane nodded, made an entry on his desk pad. Then he half turned and looked across the balcony at the trees which surrounded the garden, and at the square white minaret beside the mosque dome, which rose behind the trees against' a deep pansy-blue sky. This was the most familiar picture he knew in Shiran, because this was the room in which he worked and did his thinking, where he hatched big business with his colleagues and entertained his friends. It was his office and sitting room and it adjoined his bedroom and bathroom. Dane liked his apartments, but then he liked everything about the Hotel Mirador; its opulence and velvet-smooth running, the soundless closing of the doors, the excellent food and swift valet service, the quiet, discreet staff. It had taken him four years to transform the old Mirador of twenty rooms and smelly back quarters into the luxury block of rooms and suites it was today. Not bad, particularly as he had handled a good deal of other business as well. He made another note on the desk pad. There came the secretary’s familiar tap on the door, his voice saying, “Mademoiselle, you will please enter.”

  The door closed behind Maynier. Dane stood up, and deliberately looked the girl over. She wore pale pink linen with a stiff white collar, flat white shoes which made her legs look long and brown, and a tiny steel-colored wrist-watch on a thin wrist. A string-bean of a girl, though her hair was good bronze, slightly wavy and cut short. Her features were too fine-boned, Dane thought, the blue eyes a shade too intelligent. He didn’t trust intelligent women, though this one was too young to have many tricks.

  “Miss Yorke?” he said. “I’m Dane Ryland. Sit down, will you?”

  She did, and looked at him with candid blue eyes. “Am I being interviewed?”

  “Of course not.” He sat down himself. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to see you when you arrived.”

  “That was three hours ago.”

  “Yes, I know. You were met at the airport all right, weren’t you?”

  “Thank you, yes.”

  “I’d have met you myself, but we’ve had a big day here and I couldn’t get away. I did make certain that you’d be met, taken to your rooms and served with a meal. Satisfied with your suite?”

  A tiny glint came into her eyes; perhaps she had noticed the trace of sarcasm. “It’ll do,” she said coolly. “I’d like to know what you expect of me.”

  “That’s natural.” Dane leaned forward in his chair, with his forearms along the immaculate crease of his off-white linen slacks. “Before you came. I knew exactly what I wanted of you, but now I’m not so sure. How old are you, Miss Yorke?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “How long is it since you qualified in physiotherapy?”

  “Only eight months, but I did lots of practical work during my training, and since then I’ve been with the Beckmoor Orthopaedic Home.”

  “You look a bit willowy for such hard work.”

  “If you have only one patient for me, Mr. Ryland, the next two or three months will be the easiest I’ve had since I chose my career. I’m as strong as an ox.”

  “We’ll see. You understand what sort of job this is, I suppose?”

  “The doctor you contacted in England vetted me very thoroughly before he sent me out.” Sally looked about her, at the fine carved desk, the modern Moorish ornamentation of ceiling and walls, the hand-made rugs, the white leather chairs. “Do I work here, in the hotel?”

  “Not at first. My cousin couldn’t settle here, so I got him into a house on the hillside. It’s only a few minutes’ walk. Perhaps I should give you some details about him. Cigarette?”
<
br />   “No, thank you.”

  He took one for himself from the silver box on the desk. “I daresay the doctor over in England gave you a few details about my cousin. Mike had an accident just under a year ago. He had a zippy little sports car and ran it off the road and into a chasm just outside Shiran, with the result that he had to spend several months in the hospital here. They patched him up very well, but he can’t use his left leg. It seems to be almost paralyzed from just above the knee down to the toes.”

  “Quite useless?”

  “Not quite, or it wouldn’t have been much use sending for you. He gets a faint pins-and needles sensation in the calf and across the foot, and occasionally the muscles ache. The doctor here is sure that with patience and the right treatment Mike could make the leg work again. Trouble is, he’s gone defeatist. That’s why we couldn’t send him over to England.”

  “You just want me to put in as much time as I can upon the leg? You realize, of course, that he’d do better in an orthopaedic hospital?”

  He said flatly, “If you can persuade him to enter one, I’ll buy you a slap-up trousseau when you’re ready to get married. So far, it’s been like battling with a sick dog.”

  “If he used to be very active, he feels the inaction more than most people would. Is he willing to co-operate?”

  “Ah, that’s the point. He doesn’t know anything about you.”

  She stared at him. “You actually got me here without his knowledge? That was risky, wasn’t it?”

  “Not so very,” he said easily. “At the worst I’d only have to pay your expenses and send you back. Actually, I was hoping for someone a little older who might be able to influence him mentally, while plugging away at the physical side of things.”

  “I see.” She was trying very hard to hide her vexation and for that' reason sounded over-polite. “You should have worded your advertisement a little differently, Mr. Ryland—made some mention of the fact that you needed someone with a superior brain. Even the doctor you appointed to do the interviewing wasn’t aware of that requirement.” Just slightly, he smiled. “You’re here, so you may as well have a shot at it. But I want you to go about it in my way.”

  “What way is that?” she asked coolly.

  “Well, he’ll have to take to you before he’ll let you get busy. I suggest that we go along there together tomorrow morning, and I’ll introduce you as someone who’s staying at the hotel. Wear your prettiest frock and use all that invalid psychology they must have taught you while you were training.”

  “It sounds a little odd. Surely he’s anxious to have the use of his leg?”

  “He’s anxious, all right, but he doesn’t believe it’s possible. If you can convince him, you’ll have done a wonderful job without using your hands.”

  She asked carefully, “Why should I look pretty, rather than efficient?”

  He grinned. “Mike used to be a glutton for girls. With a spot more make-up and less clinical-looking dress, you might remind him of the good things he’ll miss if he doesn’t get shuffling on that leg.”

  “You engaged a physiotherapist, Mr. Ryland! This may be Morocco, but we all happen to be English, and we’ll behave that way, if you don’t' mind.”

  He gazed curiously at her bright cheeks and eyes, her parted lips. “You are young,” he said, with tantalizing softness. “What made you apply for this job?”

  “I had reasons.” She cast a fleeting look over his face, apparently taking in the distinctive jut of his jaw and nose, the peak of dark hair in the centre of his forehead, the keen, sea-colored eyes. Her glance lowered. “I have to work with the local doctor, of course.”

  “He’s French,” he told her gently, mockingly. “What were you running away from when you left England?” Sally ignored this. “I’d still like to meet the doctor before I see your cousin. Will you arrange it?”

  “Why not? I’ll get' him over early in the morning, and we’ll go to Mike’s house directly afterwards.” He dropped the unlighted cigarette on to an ashtray. “May I ask your first name?”

  “It’s Sally.”

  He nodded. “Thanks for that concession, Sally Yorke. Shall we leave it that the doctor it our first appointment tomorrow morning?”

  “Yes, I think so. I hope very much that I shall be able to help your cousin,” she ended abruptly.

  His dark brow lifted. Patently, he was unaccustomed to Sally’s type of woman. But his tone was sauve.

  “You’re a country girl, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, from Cumberland.”

  “What made you take the job at the Beckmoor Home? It’s a bleak spot, isn’t it?”

  “It’s lovely in the summer. I wanted to work with children, and the post was open.”

  “Didn’t you feel you’d like to go a little wild after your training was finished?”

  “No, I’m afraid I didn’t; I’m just not that sort. In our family we all have an opportunity of training for something, and I chose physiotherapy. The Beckmoor, as you know, is in Yorkshire—near enough to my home for me to go there at the weekend quite often.”

  “Do you belong to a large family?”

  “Fairish—a sister and three brothers. Except for one brother, we’re all farming types.”

  “That explains your candor.” He waved a brown hand at the picture-postcard vividness of the scene beyond the balcony. “What do you think of Shiran?”

  “It’s pretty,” she said.

  “But you prefer the dales of Cumberland?”

  “Oh, of course.”

  He gave a short laugh. “You know, Miss Yorke, you’re missing out somewhere. We have tourists who pay Hotel Mirador prices to soak in the atmosphere of Shiran; they’re milked right and left by the guides who take them to the holy tombs and other monuments—and leave us with the utmost regret.”

  “I daresay they’re people with pots of cash and no home ties,” she said reasonably. “I always feel a little sorry for people who have to travel in search of sensation.”

  With satire he said, “I suppose at the farm there’s a sensation every day?”

  “Small ones, you know,” she answered, with a guileless nod of the bronze head.

  “Weren’t you excited about coming to Morocco?”

  “Well ... yes. I’d never travelled by plane before.”

  “And you think Shiran is merely ... pretty?”

  She hesitated, gave him the frank blue glance. “It’s as I rather expected a Moroccan coastal city to be, only more so. Actually, I was thinking rather intensely about something as we came in to land, and on the way to the hotel in the car I could only see the palms and the sea. Your esplanade is more or less a stock scene, isn’t it?”

  “You may be right,” he said a little tersely. “I don’t know that I’ve met your brand of repartee before, Miss Yorke.”

  “You think I’m too prosaic?”

  He shook his head. “I think you’re asleep. Perhaps for your own peace of mind it would be better for you to stay that way while you’re in Shiran.” He got up, a tall, wide shouldered figure towering above her chair. Then he moved towards the door. “Make yourself at home in the suite, Miss Yorke, and if there’s anything you need just ring for it.”

  She came to his side. “Thank you. I hope I’ll have some success with your cousin.”

  “So do I,” but he sounded doubtful.

  He had half opened the door when someone knocked quickly and looked into the room. She saw a man in his early fifties, not very tall but handsome in a florid fashion. His black wavy hair was streaked with grey, his olive-skinned features were heavy and regular, and his dark eyes were bright and kind as he suddenly became aware of Sally.

  “I am sorry,” he said with a thick foreign accent. “I thought you would be alone, Dane.”

  “We were about to part,” Dane said in his most tolerant tones. “Monsieur Pierre de Chalain ... Miss Sally Yorke, from England.”

  “Ah, you come to help our poor Mike, no?” beamed the older man. />
  “I’ll do my best,” said Sally.

  “Pierre is a family man,” Dane explained with a trace of satire. “He’s also my partner in the Hotel Mirador.”

  “A small partner,” Pierre explained, “but I am certainly the manager here—a much more patient manager than Dane could be! The hotel was mine, mademoiselle—an old dirty place which could scarcely pay for my wine bill. Then comes Dane Ryland, with big ideas and the courage to carry them out. And now you see the Mirador, which is famous and has everything of the best. He is a genius in business, this Dane.”

  “I thought he might be,” said Sally, smiling at the man because he was so extremely pleasant and frank.

  Pierre de Chalain looked at her rather longer than was really necessary, a thoughtfulness in his expression. Then, very charmingly, he took her hand and bowed over it.

  “Mademoiselle, you are a guest of the hotel. Will you allow me the privilege of dining with you this evening?”

  “Miss Yorke,” put in Dane coolly, “has arrived only today. She’ll want meals served in her room till she’s accustomed to the place.”

  Sally moved out into the corridor, inclined her head to the two men and walked along to her suite. She passed carved embrasure seats, damask armchairs, a rose quartz pedestal which spilled a profusion of pink camellias, and came to the pastel blue door of Suite Seven. She found her key and unlocked the door, crossed a white carpet which was thick enough to hide in and covered the whole floor, and stood in the doorway to the balcony. Then she turned and surveyed the sitting room. The chairs were purple, the curtains lavender, and the tables and cabinet were of rich dark wood, handsomely carved. The open doorway showed a vast bed; its covers, and even the quilted head, which was delicately shaped, were lavender, and it had a twin which she couldn’t see from here. In there, too, the white carpet spread to every wall, and there were deep purple rugs beside the beds for good measure. Sumptuous, lulling and yet vaguely exciting, the whole atmosphere had been planned for the rich tourist. The upper floors, Sally learned later, catered for people of more moderate means, but in their way they were as exotic as this.