The Devil at Archangel (5 page)

making it impossible to scream, and she thought it must be true,

because when the hand fell on her shoulder from behind her, the cry

that welled up inside her found utterance only as a strangled gasp.

The street dipped and swayed suddenly, and instinctively she closed

her eyes. A man was speaking in
patois,
his voice resonant, slightly

drawling even. The fingers that gripped her shoulder felt like a vice.

When she opened her eyes again, the street in front of her was empty

and the silence seemed to surge at her. She turned almost

incredulously to look at the man standing behind her. He was tall, his

leanness accentuated by the lightweight tropical suit he wore. His hair

was tawny, and there were lighter streaks in it where the sun had

bleached it. His grey eyes looked silver against his deep tan, and his

firm, rather thin-lipped mouth looked taut, either with anger or some

other emotion she could not comprehend. -

She wanted to thank him, and instead she said inanely, 'They've

gone.'

'Naturally,' he said coolly. 'Are you disappointed?' - His English was

faultless, without even a trace of an accent, she thought in the few

seconds before the meaning of his words got through to her.

'You must be out of your mind!' she flared at him.

'I must?' His brows rose. 'And what about you—roaming the back

streets of a strange town? Do your parents know where you are?'

'I'm not a child.' Infuriatingly her voice, trembled. 'And I'm here with

my employer.'

'Employer?' He studied her for a moment, and a smile touched his

mouth that flicked her, unaccountably, on the raw. 'My apologies. I

didn't think you were old enough to be a—working girl. But the way

you're dressed should have given me a clue, I suppose. What are

you—an actress or a model?'

He was laughing at her. He had to be, although she couldn't read even

the slightest trace of humour in his voice. Instead, there was a cold

cynicism which chilled her.

'I'm a sort ©f secretary,' she said quickly, trying to still her sense of

annoyance, reminding herself that she had to be grateful to him. 'And

I ought to be getting back. I'll be missed by now.'

'I don't doubt it,' he said drily. 'Well, Miss Sort-of- Secretary, and

what do your duties consist of, precisely? Can you type?'

'A little,' Christina said, her bewilderment increasing with every

moment that passed. After all, he had come to her rescue of his own

volition. She hadn't even called for help, so why was he behaving in

such a hostile manner?

'Only a little? But then I suppose your talents really lie in other

directions?'

For a moment, Christina remembered the advertisement she had

drafted in her own mind days ago in the back kitchen of the cottage,

and a rueful grin lifted the corners of her mouth.

'I suppose you could say that,' she admitted, then cast a distracted

glance at her watch. 'Heavens—the time! Can you—would you be

kind enough to direct me to the Hotel de Beauharnais? I thought I was

heading there, but I must have taken a wrong turning somewhere.'

'What an admission,' he said satirically. 'You know, you aren't

running true to type at all.' He put out lean brown fingers and cupped

her chin, lifting her face so he could study it more closely. The

insolent assurance of his touch unnerved her, and she jerked her chin

away.

'Please don't do that,' she said, making a perceptible effort to stop her

voice from trembling again. 'I—I don't like to be touched.' She

hesitated. 'I know I should have said so before, but I don't know how

to thank you for—for coming along when you did. I really was so

frightened. If you hadn't been there, I—I can't bear to contemplate

what might have happened.'

'You'd have had your handbag snatched,' he informed her mockingly.

His smile widened, as her startled disbelieving gaze flew to his face.

'Poor Sort-of-Secretary. Expecting to be another rape statistic when

all they wanted was your money!'

Their eyes met and held. To her horror, Christina realised she was

near to tears. The, shock of her recent experience coupled with this

incomprehensible attitude on the part of the stranger who had aided

her was having a devastating effect on her emotions. More than

anything else, she wanted the refuge of her hotel room.

'I didn't know what to think.' She lifted her chin with unconscious

dignity. 'Situations like this are rather new to me. Now, if you could

show me the way to the Beauharnais.'

'Just follow the scent of affluence,' he advised sardonically. 'Actually

you're not too far away. You want the next left turning, and the

second right after that, but unless you know them these back streets

can seem like a maze. Next time you want to play tourist, stick to the

boulevards. At least the people you meet there will know the rules of

the game.'

With a brief nod, he turned away and continued on down the street.

Christina watched him go, aware that her heart was thumping in an

erratic and totally unprecedented manned She told herself that she

was glad to see him go, to be free of that disconcerting silver gaze and

bewilderingly barbed tongue. She was thankful that he had not

offered to accompany her to the hotel, she told herself defiantly, and

if he had done so, she would have refused his offer.

No matter how odd his manner, his directions were reassuringly

accurate, she found a few minutes later as she emerged into the square

and saw the opulent colonial lines of the Beauharnais confronting her.

She quickened her steps, instinct telling her that Mrs Brandon's rest

would have ended long ago and that her absence would have been

noticed.

She crossed the
trottoir
quickly, swerving between the laughing,

chattering groups of people making a more leisurely return to the

hotel for dinner, followed by an evening's entertainment. For a brief

moment she felt envy stir within her. Her time here was
So
brief, and

tomorrow she would set out for a very different existence on Ste

Victoire, with no very clear idea what, if anything, she had to look

forward to. She shook her head impatiently, tossing back her hair.

She mustn't think like that, she chided herself. It was the chance of a

lifetime, and she was just allowing the afternoon's experience to upset

her unduly. After all, here she was back safe and sound, with only her

pride bruised a little—and that was a condition she had learnedto live

with.

As she approached the hotel's imposing portico, she noticed that a

group of tourists had gathered at one side of it, and were obviously

watching something that was taking place in the shade of one of the

tall columns which decorated the entrance.

She hesitated for a moment, then deciding she might as well be

hanged for a sheep as a lamb in the matter of lateness, threaded her

way through the group to see what was interesting them all so closely.

It didn't at first glance seem to be too impressive. A tall, lanky Negro

with grizzled hair was crouching on the ground, tossing what

appeared to be chicken bones in front of him. In front of him, a

matronly-looking woman with blue-rinsed hair was also crouching,

oblivious of the damage the dusty ground wasdoing to an expensive

suit. As Christina paused, she got to her feet, brushing her skirt

almost absently, an expression of mingled alarm and delight on her

plump good-natured face. She took the arm of a well-dressed man

standing behind her and they moved away. As they passed her,

Christina heard the woman say, 'But that was truly amazing, honey.

He knew everything ...' Oh, she thought, as comprehension dawned, a

fortune-teller.

Momentarily, she lingered, waiting to see who his next client would

be from the laughing jostling little throng that surrounded him, but no

one seemed very willing to step forward. The man waited, leaning his

back against the column, his calm liquid eyes travelling speculatively

round the group as if there was all the time in the world. He made no

effort to tout for custom, Christina noticed curiously. With a feeling

of anti-climax she began to back away and to her alarm felt someone

grasp her arm.

'Now then, little lady.' A plump, bespectacled man in brightly

coloured sports shirt and slacks beamed at her. 'Why don't you try

your luck?'

The people round him agreed enthusiastically and in spite of her

protests, Christina found herself being pushed to the forefront of the

crowd. She was blushing with annoyance and embarrassment. She

wasn't altogether averse to having her fortune told and she knew—of

course she did— that it was all harmless fun, yet at the same time she

was reluctant to take part in what amounted to a public performance.

It must be her day for finding herself in situations that were none of

her making, she told herself philosophically as she squatted

obediently in front of the fortuneteller and added some coins to the

battered tin at his side. She didn't know what to do—whether or not to

extend her palm for him to read, but in fact he seemed totally

oblivious of fier presence. All his attention seemed to be concentrated

on the small pile of bones he was tossing in his hands. She waited

rather uncomfortably, feeling that she was making a fool of herself

for the second time that day, and that she did not want to be told that

she would soon make a long journey and meet a dark stranger. That

was the usual jargon, wasn't it?

The bones cascaded to the ground with heart-stopping suddenness

and the man bent forward to examine them. There was a long silence,

and Christina felt suddenly edgy. Oh, why couldn't he do his spiel and

get it over with?, she wondered, visualising Mrs Brandon's reaction if

she were to emerge from the hotel and find her new companion sitting

around in the dust, waiting to hear details of an imaginary future.

'You must take care,
m'm'selle.''
The man's voice, suddenly hoarse

and harsh, recaptured her wandering attention. 'I see evil. You must

beware—beware of the devil at Archangel.'

Abruptly he rose to his feet, snatching up the bones and the tin cup,

and walked off through the crowd, ignoring the disappointed protests

that followed him. Christina got to her feet, smoothing her skirt,

aware of the curious glances that were being directed at her. Her face

flaming, she almost ran to the hotel entrance, the man's words

sounding like a warning drum beat in her head—
'Beware—beware of

the devil at Archangel.'

She still had not fully recovered her composure the next day when she

set out on the last lap of her journey to Ste Victoire with Mrs

Brandon. But, if she was honest, the fortune-teller was not wholly to

blame for this. Mrs Brandon had indeed been angry to find that she

had gone out— unaccountably so—and Christina had found herself

wilting under the lash of her tongue. Nor had a halting attempt to

describe her afternoon's ordeal and its strange aftermath led to any

softening of her employer's attitude. Mrs Brandon did not hesitate to

imply that Christina had asked for everything she had got and more,

and when Christina had tried to tell her about the fortune-teller, she

had been imperiously waved to silence.

Dinner was an uncomfortable meal, with Mrs Brandon maintaining

an icy reserve which boded ill for the future. It was not as if her anger

had been roused by concern for Christina and the danger she had been

in. It seemed simply to have been caused by the fact that her

instructions had not been obeyed to the letter.

Christina was thankful when she could at last withdraw to her own

room. She felt unutterably weary, but perhaps predictably, sleep

would not come. No amount of logical reasoning could dismiss the

chill of the fortune-teller's warning.

She told herself over and over again that he must have an accomplice

in the hotel who made it his business to acquaint him with details

about guests which he could use. And Mrs Brandon was obviously

well-known at the Beauharnais. The very fact that Christina was

travelling with her revealed that her destination was Archangel, and

the man had simply been trying to give the crowd their money's worth

by introducing a touch of drama into a very prosaic situation. It was

so simple, when she worked it out. Why, then, couldn't she believe it?

She wished that she had been given the trite prediction of wealth and

a handsome husband that she had originally envisaged. It would have