Fred M. White

The Cardinal Moth

Or The Accused Orchid

Warsaw 2018

Contents

I. FLOWERS OF BLOOD

II. ANGELA

III. CROSSED SWORDS

IV. A DUSKY POTENTATE

V. AN INTERRUPTED FEAST

VI. A BIT OF THE ROPE

VII. A GRIP OF STEEL

VIII. THE WEAKER VESSEL

IX. A WORD TO THE WISE (I)

X. A WORD TO THE WISE (II)

XI. BORROWED PLUMES

XII. A MODEL HUSBAND

XIII. THE QUEEN OF THE RUBIES

XIV. "UNEASY LIES THE HEAD..."

XV. HUNT THE SLIPPER

XVI. DIPLOMACY

XVII. A FRIEND IN NEED

XVIII. A DEFENSIVE ALLIANCE

XIX. WHAT DID SHE MEAN?

XX. CHECK TO FROBISHER

XXI. DENVERS LEARNS SOMETHING

XXII. STRANDS OF THE ROPE

XXIII. A LUNCH AT THE BELGRAVE

XXIV. A WOMAN'S WAY

XXV. A STRIKING LIKENESS

XXVI. A BAD QUARTER OF AN HOUR

XXVII. MRS. BENSTEIN INTERVENES

XXVIII. NEMESIS

XXIX. THE TIGHTENED CORD

I. FLOWERS OF BLOOD

The purple darkness seemed to be filled with a nebulous suggestion of things beautiful; long trails and ropes of blossoms hung like stars reflected in a lake of blue. As the eye grew accustomed to the gloom these blooms seemed to expand and beautify. There was a great orange globe floating on a violet mist, a patch of pink swam against an opaque window-pane like a flight of butterflies. Outside the throaty roar of Piccadilly could be distinctly heard; inside was misty silence and the coaxed and pampered atmosphere of the Orient. Then a long, slim hand–a hand with jewels on it–was extended, and the whole vast dome was bathed in brilliant light.

For once the electric globes had lost their garish pertinacity. There were scores of lamps there, but every one of them was laced with dripping flowers and foliage till their softness was like that of a misty moon behind the tree-tops. And the blossoms hung everywhere–thousands upon thousands of them, red, blue, orange, creamy white, fantastic in shape and variegated in hue, with a diabolical suggestiveness about them that orchids alone possess. Up in the roof, out of a faint cloud of steam, other blossoms of purple and azure peeped.

Complimented upon the amazing beauty of his orchid-house, Sir Clement Frobisher cynically remarked that the folly had cost him from first to last over a hundred thousand pounds. He passed for a man with no single generous impulse or feeling of emotion; a love of flowers was the only weakness that Providence had vouchsafed to him, and he held it cheap at the money. You could rob Sir Clement Frobisher or cheat him or lie to him, and he would continue to ask you to dinner, if you were a sufficiently amusing or particularly rascally fellow, but if you casually picked one of his priceless Cypripediums––!

He sat there in his bath of brilliant blossoms, smoking a clay pipe and sipping some peculiarly thin and aggressive Rhine wine from a long, thin-stemmed Bohemian glass. He had a fancy for that atrocious grape juice and common ship’s tobacco from a reeking clay. Otherwise he was immaculate, and his velvet dinner-jacket was probably the best-cut garment of its kind in London.

A small man, just over fifty, with a dome-like head absolutely devoid of hair, and shiny like a billiard-ball, a ridiculously small nose suggestive of the bill of a love-bird, a clean-shaven, humorous mouth with a certain hard cruelty about it, a figure slight, but enormously powerful. For the rest, Sir Clement was that rare bird amongst high-born species–a man, poor originally, who had become rich. He was popularly supposed to have been kicked out of the diplomatic service after a brilliant operation connected with certain Turkish Bonds. The scandal was an old one, and might have had no basis in fact, but the same Times that conveyed to an interested public the fact of Sir Clement Frobisher’s retirement from the corps diplomatique, announced that the baronet in question had purchased the lease of 947, Piccadilly, for the sum of ninety-five thousand pounds. And for seven years Society refused to admit the existence of anybody called Sir Clement Frobisher.

But the man had his title, his family, and his million or so well invested. Also he had an amazing audacity, and a moral courage beyond belief. Also he married a lady whose social claims could not be contested. Clement Frobisher went back to the fold again at a great dinner given at Yorkshire House. There it was that Earl Beauregard, a one-time chief of Frobisher’s, roundly declared that, take him all in all, Count Whyzed was the most finished and abandoned scoundrel in Europe. Did not Frobisher think so? To which Frobisher replied that he considered the decision to be a personal slight to himself, who had worked so hard for that same distinction. Beauregard laughed, and the rest of the party followed suit, and Frobisher did much as he liked, ever after.

He was looking just a little bored now, and was debating whether he should go to bed, though it was not long after eleven o’clock, and that in the creamy month of the London season. Down below somewhere an electric bell was purring impatiently. The butler, an Armenian with a fez on his black, sleek head, looked in and inquired if Sir Clement would see anybody.

“If it’s a typical acquaintance, certainly not, Hafid,” Frobisher said, sleepily. “If it happens to be one of my picturesque rascals, send all the other servants to bed. But it’s sure to be some commonplace, respectable caller.”

Hafid bowed and withdrew. Down below the bell was purring again. A door opened somewhere, letting in the strident roar of the streets like a dirge, then the din shut down again as if a lid had been clapped on it. From the dim shadow of the hall a figure emerged bearing a long white paper cone, handled with the care and attention one would bestow on a sick child.

“Paul Lopez to see you,” Hafid said.

“Lopez!” Frobisher cried. “See how my virtue is rewarded. It is the return for all the boredom I have endured lately. Respectability reeks in my nostrils. I have been longing for a scoundrel–not necessarily a star of the first magnitude, a rival to myself. Ho, ho, Lopez!”

The newcomer nodded and smiled. A small, dark man with restless eyes, and hands that were never still. There was something catlike, sinuous, about him, and in those restless eyes a look of profound, placid, monumental contempt for Frobisher.

“You did not expect to see me?” he said.

“No,” Frobisher chuckled. “I began to fear that you had been hanged, friend Paul. Do you recollect the last time we were together? It was––”

The voice trailed off with a muttered suggestion of wickedness beyond words. Frobisher lay back in his chair with the tangled ropes of blossoms about his sleek head; a great purple orchid with a living orange eye broke from the cluster and hung as if listening. Lopez looked round the bewildering beauty of it all with an artistic respect for his surroundings.

“The devil has looked after his dear friend carefully,” he said, with the same calm contempt. Frobisher indicated it all with a comprehensive hand. “Now you are jealous,” he said. “Hafid, the other servants are gone to bed? Good! Then you may sit in the library till I require you. What have you got there, Paul?”

“I have a flower, an orchid. It is at your disposal, at a price.”

“At a price, of course. What are you asking for it?”

Paul Lopez made no reply. He proceeded to remove the paper from the long cone, and disclosed a lank, withered-looking stem with faded buds apparently hanging thereto by attenuated threads. It might have been nothing better than a dead clematis thrown by a gardener on the dust-heap. The root, or what passed for it, was simply attached to a slap of virgin cork by a couple of rusty nails. Frobisher watched Lopez with half-closed eyes.

“Of course, I am going to be disappointed,” he said. “How often have I gone hunting the eagle and found it to be a tit? The rare sensation of a new blossom has been denied me for years. Is it possible that my pets are going to have a new and lovely sister?”

He caressed the purple bloom over his head tenderly. Lopez drew from his pocket a great tangle of Manilla rope, yards of it, which he proceeded to loop along one side of the orchid-house. Upon this he twisted his faded stem, drawing it out until, with the dusty laterals, there were some forty feet of it.

“Where is your steam-pipe?” he asked.

Frobisher indicated the steam-cock languidly. Ever and again the nozzle worked automatically, half filling the orchid-house with the grateful steam which was as life to the gorgeous flowers. Lopez turned the cock full on; there was a hiss, a white cloud that fairly enveloped his recent work.

“Now you shall see what you shall see,” he said in his calm, cool voice. “Oh, my friend, you will be with your arms about my neck presently!”

Already the masses of flowers were glistening with moisture. It filled up the strands of the loose Manilla rope, and drew it up tight as a fiddle-string. Through the dim cloud Frobisher could see the dry stalks literally bursting into life.

“Aaron’s rod,” murmured Frobisher. “Do you know that for Aaron’s rod, properly verified, and in good working order, I would give quite a lot of money?”

“You would cut it up for firewood to possess what I shall show you presently,” said Lopez. “See here.”

He turned off the steam-cock and the thin, vapoury cloud rapidly dispelled. And then behold a miracle! The twisted, withered stalk was a shining, joyous green, from it burst a long glistening cluster of great white flowers, pink fringed, and with just a touch of the deep green sea in them. They ran along the stem like the foam on a summer beach. And from them, suspended on stems so slender as to be practically invisible to the eye, was a perfect fluttering cloud of smaller blossoms of the deepest cardinal red. Even in that still atmosphere they floated and trembled for all the world like a palpitating cloud of butterflies hovering over a cluster of lilies. Anything more chaste, more weird, and at the same time more bewilderingly beautiful, it would be impossible to imagine.

Frobisher jumped to his feet with a hoarse cry of delight. Little beads of perspiration stood on his sleek head. The man was quivering from head to foot with intense excitement. With hesitating forefinger he touched the taut Manilla rope and it hummed like a harp-string, each strand drawn rigid with the moisture. And all the moths there leapt with a new, hovering life.

“The Cardinal Moth,” Frobisher said hoarsely. “Hafid, it is the Cardinal Moth!”

Hafid came, from the darkness of the study with a cry something like Frobisher’s, but it was a cry of terror. His brown face had turned to a ghastly, decayed green, those lovely flowers might have been a nest of cobras from the terror of his eye.

“Chop it up, destroy it, burn it!” he yelled. “Put it in the fire and scatter the ashes to the four winds. Trample on it, master; crush the flower to pieces. He is mad, he has forgotten that dreadful night in Stamboul!”

“Would you mind taking that tankard of iced water and pouring it over Hafid’s head?” said Frobisher. “You silly, superstitious fool! The Stamboul affair was a mere coincidence. And so there was another Cardinal Moth besides my unfortunate plant all the time! Oh, the beauty, the gem, the auk amongst orchids! Where, where did you get it from?”

“It came from quite a small collection near London.”

“The greedy ruffian! Fancy the man having a Cardinal Moth and keeping it to himself like that! The one I lost was a mere weed compared to this. Name your price, Paul, and if it is too high, Hafid and I will murder you between us and swear that you were a burglar shot in self-defence.”

Lopez laughed noiselessly–a strange, unpleasant laugh.

“You would do it without the slightest hesitation,” he said. “But the orchid is quite safe with you, seeing that the owner is dead, and that his secret was all his own. And the price is a small one.”

“Ah, you are modest, friend Paul! Name it.”

“You are merely to tell a lie and to stick to it. I am in trouble, in danger. And I hold that hanging is the worst use you can put a man to. If anything happens, I came here last night at ten o’clock. I stayed till nearly midnight. Hafid must remember the circumstances also.”

“Hafid,” Frobisher said slowly, “will forget or remember anything that I ask him to.”

Hafid nodded with his eyes still fixed in fascinated horror on the palpitating, quivering, crimson floating over its bed of snow. He heard and understood, but only by instinct.

“I was at home all the evening, and her ladyship is away,” said Frobisher. “I was expecting a mere commonplace rascal–not an artist like yourself, Paul–and the others had gone to bed. And you were here for the time you said. Is not that so, Hafid?”

“Oh, by the soul of my father, yes!” Hafid said in a frozen voice. “Take it and burn it, and scatter it. What my lord says is the truth. Take it and burn it, and scatter it.”

“He’ll be all right in the morning,” Frobisher said. “Lopez, take the big steps and festoon that lovely new daughter of mine across the roof. You can fasten it to those hooks. To-morrow I will have an extra steam valve for her ladyship. Let me see–if she gets her bath of steam every night regularly she will require no more. Aphrodite, beautiful, your bath shall be remembered.”

He kissed his fingers gaily to the trembling flowers now hooked across the roof. Already the loose Manilla rope was drying and hanging in baggy folds that made a more artistic foil for the quivering red moths. It was only when the steaming process was going on that the thin, strong ropes drew it up humming and taut as harp-strings.

“Ah, that is like a new planet in a blue sky!” Frobisher cried. “Lopez, I am obliged to you. Come again when I am less excited and I will suitably reward you. To-night I am tête montêe–I am not responsible for my actions. And the lie shall be told for you, a veritable chef-d’oeuvre amongst lies. Sit down, and the best shall not be good enough for you.”

“I must go,” Lopez said in the same even tones. “I have private business elsewhere. I drink nothing and I smoke nothing till business is finished. Good-night, prince of rascals, and fair dreams to you.”

Lopez passed leisurely into the black throat of the library, Hafid following. Frobisher nodded and chuckled, not in the least displeased. He had not been so excited for years. The sight of those blossoms filled him with unspeakable pleasure. For their sakes he would have committed murder without the slightest hesitation. He had eyes for nothing else, ears deaf to everything. He heeded not the purr of the hall bell again, he was lost to his surroundings until Hafid shook him soundly.

“Count Lefroy to see you, and Mr. Manfred,” he said. “I told them you were engaged, but they said that perhaps––”

Frobisher dropped into his chair with the air of a man satiated with a plethora of good things.

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