Free Mediterranean Nights by Dennis Wheatley Page A

middle—brown eyes, a kind, firm mouth, and a pleasant smile—that was all she could remember, but there must be a dozen such figures in Monte Carlo, and none of the hall porters she questioned could give her any help.
    All day she roamed wildly up and down the principality from the Café de Paris, with its umbrella-covered tables, to the Rock of Monaco—from the pigeon-shooting stands to the steps on the harbour. A dozen times she followed unsuspecting men, only to surprise them by peering into their faces to discover that she was once more mistaken. Many of them seemed quite prepared to enter into conversation, for Sally was an attractive girl, but she had turned her back before they could speak to her. At one time she had two of them following her, and once to her intense disgust a gendarme cautioned her—high and low she sought, but all in vain.
    She returned to her hotel worn out and late for dinner; even Aged Aunt came out of her lethargic calm to inquire into the cause of the girl’s distraction.
    Directly dinner was over Sally darted off to the Casino, and, taking up a position in the vestibule, stood watching the arrivals with anxious eyes. After a time the bearded official came up and questioned her; she pulled herself together sufficiently to talk to him quietly. He made it plain that she would be allowed to remain only so long as she caused no disturbance—at the least sign of trouble she would be put out into the street.
    Sally sat there till the muscles of her neck grew stiff with the constant turning of her head in her anxiety not to miss the features of a single man, but all to no purpose. At halfpast two she gave it up, returned to her hotel utterly exhausted, and cried herself to sleep. The following day she was on her way back to England.
    .      .      .      .      .
    Sally sat brooding in her sanctuary at Mallowhayes. It was a little room in which she kept what she called ‘her dirts’. There were tennis racquets, boxes of paints, knitting, books—a tambourine, and a hundred other odds and ends littered about.
    The pale rays of winter sunshine filtered through the tiny panes of the mullioned windows; soon, all these treasured bits and pieces must be removed. Cousin Henry was coming down for the week-end. In a month her time was up, he would take possession, and out she must go.
    With an impatient movement she wriggled out of her favourite chair. Cousin Henry would not be down till teatime; she thought she would go for a run in her little car, the fresh air would do her good. She would have to be polite to the man anyhow—after all, it was not his fault that her father had made that stupid will.
    She went down to the garage and got out the two-seater that Aged Aunt had given her as a twenty-first birthday present. She drove slowly down the drive. There was another cottage near the one she had hoped to live in, just outside the gates; she gave the object of her affections a wistful look as she drove by, and failed to notice that a child had run out from the other house into the road.
    When Sally saw the infant standing there waving a toy flag it was too late to pull up—a big car had swung round the corner on the other side—she must run down the child or swerve straight into that. She did not hesitate, but charged the Bentley, There was a grinding shriek as the brakes locked on, the tearing sound of metal, and with a dull crash the two cars came to a standstill.
    Having given herself a little shake she found she was uninjured. She looked at the driver of the Bentley; his head was tilted forward on his chest, one hand hung, limp and still, over the side of the car.
    Sally started up her engine and found to her surprise thatshe could back it away from the other. The steering felt a bit queer, and her lamps were smashed, but the bumpers of the two cars had saved a broken axle. She got out quickly and