Hotel Mirador Read online

  “I’ve travelled, little one,” he said, his smile sardonic. “I may even have driven past your farm, some time or other.” A pause. “What’s so wonderful about that place where you grew up?”

  She answered casually, “You’d see it only as an old farmhouse that’s crumbling in places, an expanse of pasture, out'-buildings and sheep.” She laughed suddenly. “No, the house wouldn’t go down with you at all. You’d be annoyed with the small windows, the low beams—they’d certainly give you a crack or two on the head before you got used to them I And you’d hate the steep narrow stairs that' rise straight out of the living room—and having to pump up the water over the sink. There are bulges in the bedroom walls, and in the attic room where I sleep you can stand up straight only right in the centre.” He smiled, looked at her speculatively. “What else? There must be something good about the place or you wouldn’t go dreamy-eyed when you speak of it.”

  “Well ... it’s really a beautiful old farmhouse. The walls are two feet thick, the floors are dark and shining, the rooms are big, even if the ceilings are low, and the front door is carved oak and even older than the house itself. We have a herb garden and a river with stepping-stones, and if you walk up the ridge behind the house you can see the moor and a lake on one side, and a flourishing market town far away to the left. And there’s a scent,” she ended softly, “which you don’t get anywhere else in the world.”

  “That’s probably true of any place,” he said laconically.

  She agreed. “I did notice the smell of Shiran as we arrived. It was sweetish with a bitter, tobacco-like aroma in the background. I seem to have become acclimatized, because I can’t smell it now. But this hotel is somehow unreal, like something in a glossy advertisement.”

  “Really?” he said, cool and mocking. “That must be because you’ve stayed at home all your young life.”

  She regarded him candidly. “You don’t like criticism, do you? I mean, you like it even less than most people do.”

  “I can get along with a capable critic any time,” he answered, “but I can’t say that I take to having a girl with a childish stare throwing her opinions about. After all, your yardstick is a disintegrating farmhouse in Cumberland...”

  She broke in swiftly, “Our house will be even more lovely than it is now when this gilded palace is out of date! This may be a home to you, but that’s probably because you’ve never known a real home. And then, of course, you created the whole atmosphere of the hotel; it means something to you.”

  “It means nothing at all—I simply happen to be part owner. To me, the hotel is merely a business proposition.”

  “Then why do you live here?”

  He gave her the experienced but slightly jaded smile. “My dear child, a man has to live somewhere, and if he’s logical, he lives where he can do as he pleases, at any hour of the day. Here I have a suite, service and excellent cooking, and I’m absolutely free of all entanglements. What more could any man desire?”

  To Sally, of course, he was incomprehensible. She said, a little carelessly, “It’s as well for us women that all men don’t think that way. Most of us have the normal instincts.” He nodded tolerantly. “Marriage, and all that. Picked anyone out yet?”

  “Good heavens, no.”

  “But you mean to marry?”

  She sat up straighter. “You make it sound like one of your business propositions. I suppose you’ve managed everything in your life that way, but I haven’t. I let things happen.”

  “What does that mean—that you’ll marry the first man who asks you?”

  “Probably—because he wouldn’t propose unless I’d encouraged him, and I wouldn’t do that if I weren’t in love with him.”

  He laughed, lazily. “You’ve a long way to grow up. To you, romance means a subtle magic between two people and the inevitable wedding bells. What comes after—a houseful of youngsters, and slippers and a pipe for hubby?”

  “Perhaps not quite in that order,” she said, her smile bright and demure. “But it sounds awfully pleasant.”

  “And you sound horribly inexperienced,” he said tersely. “I can imagine nothing more grim than being tied to a wife and children for the rest of my life. I’d sooner live in bachelor quarters at the phosphate mine!”

  Not a whit put out by his forceful tones, Sally smiled cheerfully. “Well, few of us think alike, do we? For that matter, being married to you would hardly be a picnic, in any case.” Inconsequentially, she queried, “Where is this phosphate mine that you rescued?”

  “About seventy miles away.” His smile was amused but narrow. “You think I’d make a rotten husband?”

  “Well, you’re pretty self-sufficient, aren’t you? You seem to have grown up without any aptitude for love. Who runs your mine?”

  “The mine doesn’t belong to me—I’m merely a director of the company.” He sounded impatient and a little sarcastic. “What’s your definition of an aptitude for love?” She rested an elbow on her knee and her chin on her fingers, and gazed thoughtfully at the floating bodies in the swimming pool. “I’ve never really thought much about it, but it seems to me you have to keep a sort of freshness in your mind and a feeling of harmony with other people. That way, you’re ready for bigger emotions when they turn up.”

  “You think I’ve forgotten how to be fresh?” he enquired.

  Sally laughed. “I daresay you have your moments,” she commented, “and I’m quite sure you could charm a woman into believing herself in love with you—if you wanted to, that is. How in the world did we get on to this topic?”

  His mouth had a mocking slant. "It’s a perennial between the sexes. With a woman, one could start out discussing fertilizers or nuclear physics and still end up by dissecting love and marriage.”

  “I expect you’ve gone over the ground a good many times?”

  “Afraid so. We get all kinds here, but most of them are single-purposed; they’re after something unusual in the way of a husband.”

  “Sounds horrid. I don’t wonder you’re warped.”

  Sally had spoken idly, but a moment later she knew she had managed to put her foot in it. There were people laughing and chattering in several languages; there were Moors serving wines and mint tea, a good-looking uniformed boy carrying a tray of cigarettes, the splashing of water in the pool, faint music from the lounge, where older people were taking mid-morning refreshment. In fact, there was everything one might expect of a sumptuous hotel on the hot coast of Morocco. Yet she felt an icy breath of wind about her and knew it had nothing to do with the elements.

  Quickly, she looked his way. Dane was a hard-faced man with sea-green eyes, a hooked nose and a formidable jaw. He was selecting a cheroot from a platinum case, slipping the case back into the pocket of his white linen jacket.

  “Sorry to upset one of your theories,” he said, “but with me you don’t quite pull off that atmosphere of harmony you mentioned. Like a cigarette?”

  She declined, and was relieved to see that they were being joined by a greying Frenchman in a tropical beige lounge suite. Dane introduced him as Dr. Demaire, and the man bowed and seated himself, looked Sally over both professionally and otherwise, and said he was glad she had come.

  “I have only a few minutes, I am afraid. You have some questions to ask me about the patient, mademoiselle?” She looked at Dane, then at the other man. “Aren’t I working under you, Doctor? To some extent I was primed by the doctor in England, but he told me I’d be working upon your instructions. That was what he understood.”

  “Yes, naturally. But I am not an orthopaedic man, mademoiselle. Michael Ritchie himself has his X-ray films and the file from the hospital, but I knew enough about the case to give Mr. Ryland the details to send to England. When it is convenient, you and I will go through his file together—if you can persuade Michael to part with it.” He turned to Dane. “You are going to see your cousin this morning, with Miss Yorke?”

  Dane nodded. “Why not come along with us?”


  “I am unable to do that, my friend. Your cousin has asked me never to go there unless I am called. While he is in such a frame of mind I can do him no good.” His smile at Sally was very French. “I think you do well to bring a pretty girl for Mike. In time she may succeed with him.”

  “You’re not much help,” Dane said. “I want you and Miss Yorke to work together and get Mike on his feet.” The doctor shrugged. “Tell your cousin, Dane. When he agrees to it, I will be happy to place myself at' his disposal. In any case, for a day or two it would be best for Mike and the mademoiselle to get to know each other, without prejudice. If I were you, I would not tell him that Miss Yorke is a physiotherapist”

  “Never?”

  “If he walks, perhaps, but not otherwise. They are of an age to enjoy each other—let them do so. If the chemical reaction is right, your cousin will soon stir himself to take the cure!”

  Dane was non-committal. “Thanks for your advice, anyway. Wine or coffee?”

  Regretfully, Dr. Demaire had to decline both; he took his departure. He had to drive out to one of the kasbahs for the day. Dane left his unlighted cheroot on an ashtray and remained standing.

  “We’ll go up and see Mike at once—but I can wait while you change into something more delicious, if you like.”

  Sally stood up and shook her head. “I prefer to look what I am.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” he said offhandedly.

  They walked across the grounds, and guests in gay playsuits and swimming gear smiled at Dane and eyed his companion. His dark head inclined this way and that as he passed the groups, and, instinctively, Sally knew that he would be glad when this particular crowd had given way to another which did not know him. These people had regarded him as the manager during Pierre de Chalain’s absence and he was forced to be friendly with them; but it was a friendliness which, she was sure, he did not feel.

  She wondered about him as a man. He was the lone type, shrewd, far-seeing and daring in anything he undertook; that much was obvious to anyone. But somewhere behind that lean, faintly mocking and rather distinguished exterior there was a human being—a being, anyway, she qualified philosophically, even if he was only slightly human. Yet he did feel some things, she conceded; and, somewhat surprisingly, she came to the conclusion that he disliked and distrusted everything that made him even faintly aware of emotion. In fact, a many-faceted character.

  He took her to a car, which stood in a bougainvillaea-covered shelter, and saw her seated, backed out on to the wide main drive and swung round towards the esplanade. He turned left along a narrow, cobbled street between sheer, windowless white walls, and impatiently followed a laden donkey till the road widened into an offshoot from the souks. There were shops full of wickerware and carved wood, sticky sweetmeats and spices, and then they turned left again and drove straight out of the main part of the town and up the hillside. Sally saw olive trees and date palms, the remains of crenellated walls, which had once surrounded a fort, a few houses set in gardens full of flowering bushes and fruit frees.

  It was to one of these houses that Dane took Sally. He turned between a couple of low white pillars and drove along a well-kept path which had a modest lawn at each side and the usual profusion of bignonia and grapevine, mandarin and passion fruit in the background. The house was small and white, with an arched terrace in the front and much climbing greenery at the sides, and a thin dark boy was clipping a leaf here and there and standing back to admire the effect.

  As the car pulled in below the porch, Dane said quickly and quietly, “You’re just someone staying at the hotel. A holiday-maker.”

  “Do I look like a holiday-maker?” she retorted. “Besides, I’m not up to Mirador standards.”

  He glanced at her with cold appraisal. “Don’t ever say a thing like that again—don’t even think it! You’re way above most of the people we get here.”

  “Good lord,” she said soberly, staring at him.

  Sarcasm came back into his voice. “That’s about enough softness for one morning. Come in and meet Mike. If he’s in a good mood, you’ll like him.”

  “And if he isn’t?”

  “Seeing that you’re a little contrary by nature, it’s possible you’ll still like him, Miss Yorke.” Then, more quietly, “Play along, there’s a good girl.”

  Astonished, and with an odd quiver in her throat, Sally went with him up the three shallow steps into the dimness of a tiled porch. Dane opened the door and she stepped into a cool hall, which showed a charming sitting room through an archway.

  Dane went first, called, “Mike! Where are you?”

  He came from another room into the sitting room, a red-haired young man propelling himself in a wheel chair. Sally watched him as he looked up at his cousin, saw a tight smile on thin features, which once had been healthily tanned. Then she met Mike Ritchie’s eyes, and was aware that the next moment they had deliberately looked past her.

  Dane shoved his hands into his pockets. “Sally, this is my cousin, Mike Ritchie,” he said conversationally. “Thought you might like to meet a friend of mine, Mike. Miss Yorke has just come over from England.”

  “How do you do?” said the young man perfunctorily. “Sit down, won’t you?”

  Sally sat. She watched the young man’s profile as he turned to Dane. It was good but not handsome, and there were lines in his face that should not have appeared for another fifteen years. His mouth seemed to be perpetually drawn in and his eyes, which had once been a soft hazel, were now an opaque brown and permanently narrowed. With pain? she wondered, and thought not. This cousin of Dane Ryland’s was no more than twenty-six or seven, but his mind had twisted and his outlook become bitter because he had lost the use of a limb.

  Sally had often tried to put herself in the patient’s place, to feel lost and worried and bitter and without trust. She had never quite succeeded because she was so well aware of the orthopaedic miracles which were happening every day, but she had realized the hopelessness of a healthy young man who is suddenly and completely laid low. Mike Ritchie’s case, she thought, was a fairly simple one, and, considering he had smashed himself up in a sports car, he did have quite a lot to be thankful for.

  Dane was saying, “I’m sorry I didn’t get along yesterday, Mike. The Caid gave a party, and Pierre didn’t get back till late in the afternoon. By the way, Tony is with him.”

  “I don’t want to see him.”

  “You don’t have to.” Dane leaned back in his chair. “He wants a date plantation in the El Riza district.”

  This drew no comment. Mike Ritchie sat there as conscious of Sally as she was of him, yet he looked only at Dane, or at the window beyond the broad shoulders. Obviously, this girl could go back to wherever she had sprung from.

  Sally’s compassion grew. She said softly; “This is such a tranquil house, and you have incredible views. You know, I saw bougainvillaea for the first time when I arrived yesterday.”

  “I suppose it’s more exciting than rambler roses,” Mike commented stiffly.

  She nodded. “The flowers here are so gaudy, but there always seems to be a cypress in the background to tone things down. And I haven’t yet seen a garden without some kind of pavilion in it. Didn’tI see a sortof pillared sun house as we came along the drive?”

  “It’s never used, except by the doves.”

  “It looked an ideal spot for day-dreaming.”

  “Could be.”

  Dane said nothing. He just sat back and watched, casually, but Sally knew that nothing escaped those grey-green eyes. She was also fairly sure that he considered her approach rather feeble, but it was no use caring.

  “May we go into the garden now?” she asked.

  Mike hesitated, as if the request startled him. Then he said, “Dane will take you.”

  She stood up brightly. “Can’t we all go? Let me push the chair—I know the wheels dirty your hands when you’re outdoors.”

  For the first time Mike looked at her, rather queerly. He s
hook his head abruptly. “Dane will take you! I’ll have drinks ready for you when you come in.”

  “I much prefer to see a garden with the owner of it,” she confessed.

  “Well, Dane is the owner!”

  “I’m sure he doesn’t know much about gardens.”

  “You’re wrong, young Sally,” remarked Dane, with a lazy inflection. “I designed the grounds of the Hotel Mirador. A Frenchwoman planned this garden many years ago and, in my opinion, it’s the untidiest in the district. It has a certain something, but if has as much form as a rag rug.” He paused. “Come up here some other morning and look round by yourself. Perhaps we’d better have that drink now and get moving. I’ll fetch some ice.”

  He went out, and Sally remained standing, only a foot or so from the wheel chair and looking through the window, as Mike did. Dane had left her purposely, she knew, but she couldn’t think of a thing to say to the young man—nothing that made sense, anyway. He was so tight within himself.

  She prevaricated. “You remind me of someone I once knew. He wrote songs.”

  “What are you trying to say?” he asked tautly. “That I should forget my body and try to find some way of using my brain?”

  “It helps, you know.” Then, very suddenly, she said, “I can do quite a lot for you, Mr. Ritchie—physically, I mean. There’s no reason why you shouldn’t be driving a car again within a year.”

  He swung the chair, blazed up at her with those brown eyes. “So you’re a nurse! Dane brought you here as a friend, because he hoped you’d make an impression on me. Well, you have, but the wrong kind of impression. Do me a favor, Miss Yorke. Go back to the Hotel Mirador and have fun with the playboys, and when you’re fed up with it, go home! I don’t want to see you again!”