21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series)

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “You are disappointed?” he asked. “You see nothing here different? It is all the same to you.”

  “Not in the least,” I answered. “For one thing, it seems strange to find a restaurant de luxe up here, when below there is only a café of the worst. Are they of the same management?”

  “Up here,” he said, “come the masters, and down there the servants. Look around at these people, monsieur. Look around carefully. Tell me whether you do not see something different here from the other places.”

  I followed Louis’ advice. I looked around at the people with an interest which grew rather than abated, and for which I could not at first account. Soon, however, I began to realize that although this was, at first appearance, merely a crowd of fashionably dressed men and women, yet they differed from the ordinary restaurant crowd in that there was something a little out of the common in the faces of nearly every one of them. The loiterers through life seemed absent. These people were relaxing freely enough,—laughing, talking, and making love,—but behind it all there seemed a note of seriousness, an intentness in their faces which seemed to speak of a career, of things to be done in the future, or something accomplished in the past. The woman who sat at the opposite table to me—tall, with yellow hair, and face as pale as alabaster—was a striking personality anywhere. Her blue eyes were deep-set, and she seemed to have made no effort to conceal the dark rings underneath, which only increased their luminosity. A magnificent string of turquoises hung from her bare neck, a curious star shone in her hair. Her dress was of the newest mode. Her voice, languid but elegant, had in it that hidden quality which makes it one of a woman’s most attractive gifts. By her side was a great black-moustached giant, a pale-faced man, with little puffs of flesh underneath his eyes, whose dress was a little too perfect and his jewelry a little too obvious.

  “Tell me,” I asked, “who is that man?”

  Louis leaned towards me, and his voice sunk to the merest whisper.

  “That, monsieur,” said he, “is one of the most important persons in the room. He is the man whom they call the uncrowned king. He was a saddler once by profession. Look at him now.”

  “How has he made his money?” I asked.

  Louis smiled—a queer little contraction of his thin lips.

  “It is not wise,” he said, “to ask that question of any whom you meet here. Henri Bartot was one of the wildest youths in Paris. It was he who started the first band of thieves, from which developed the present hoard of apaches.”

  “And now?” I asked.

  “He is their unrecognized, unspoken-of leader,” Louis whispered. “The man who offends him to-night would be lucky to find himself alive to-morrow.”

  I looked across the room curiously. There was not a single redeeming feature in the man’s face except, perhaps, the suggestion of brute, passionate force which still lingered about his thick, straight lips and heavy jaw. The woman by his side seemed incomprehensible. I saw now that she had eyes of turquoise blue and a complexion almost waxenlike. She lifted her arms, and I saw that they, too, were covered with bracelets of light-blue stones. Louis, following my eyes, touched me on the arm.

  “Don’t look at her,” he said warningly. “She belongs to him—Bartot. It is not safe to flirt with her even at this distance.”

  I laughed softly and sipped my wine.

  “Louis,” I said, “it is time you got back to London. You are living here in too imaginative an atmosphere.”

  “I speak the truth, monsieur,” he answered grimly. “She, too,—she is not safe. She finds pleasure in making fools of men. The suffering which comes to them appeals to her vanity. There was a young Englishman once, he sent a note to her—not here, but at the Café de Paris—at luncheon time one morning. He was to have left Paris the next day. He did not leave. He has never been heard of since!”

  There was no doubt that Louis himself, at any rate, believed what he was saying. I looked away from the young lady a little reluctantly. As though she understood Louis’ warning, her lips parted for a moment in a faint, contemptuous smile. She leaned over and touched the man Bartot on the shoulder and whispered something in his ear. When I next looked in their direction I found his eyes fixed upon mine in a steady, malignant stare.

  “Monsieur will remember,” Louis whispered in my ear softly, “that I am responsible for his coming here.”

  “Of course,” I answered reassuringly. “I have not the slightest wish to run up against any of these people. I will not look at them any more. She knew what she was doing, though, Louis, when she hung blue stones about her with eyes like that, eh?”

  “She is beautiful,” Louis admitted. “There are very many who admire her. But after all, what is the use? One has little pleasure of the things which one may not touch.”

  We were silent for several minutes. Suddenly my fingers gripped Louis’ arm. Had I been blind all this time that they had escaped my notice? Then I saw that they were sitting at an extra table which had been hastily arranged, and I knew that they could have only just arrived.

  “Tell me, Louis,” I demanded eagerly, “who are those two at the small round table on the left,—the two who seem to have just come in,—a man and a girl?”

  Louis turned his head, and I saw his lips come together—saw the quick change in his face from indifference to seriousness. For some reason or other my interest in these two seemed to be a matter of some import to him.

  “Why does monsieur ask?” he said.

  “The idlest curiosity,” I assured him. “I know nothing about them except that they are distinctive, and one cannot fail, of course, to admire the young lady.”

  “You have seen them often?” Louis asked, in a low tone.

  “I told you, Louis,” I answered, “that my mission in Paris is of the nature of a search. For ten days I have haunted all the places where one goes,—the Race Course, the Bois, the Armenonville and Pre Catelan, the Rue de la Paix, the theatres. I have seen them nearly every day. To-night they were at the Opera.”

  “You know nothing of them beyond that?” Louis persisted.

  “Nothing whatever,” I declared. “I am not a boulevarder, Louis,” I continued slowly, “and in England, you know, it is not the custom to stare at women as these Frenchmen seem to do with impunity. But I must confess that I have watched that girl.”

  “You find her attractive,” murmured Louis.

  “I find her delightful,” I assented, “only she seems scarcely old enough to be about in such places as these.”

  “The man,” Louis said slowly, “is a Brazilian. His name is Delora.”

  “Does he live in Paris?” I asked.

  “By no means,” Louis answered. “He is a very rich coffee-planter, and has immense estates somewhere in his own country. He comes over here every year to sell his produce on the London market. I believe that he is on his way there now.”

  “And the girl?” I asked.

  “She is his niece,” Louis answered. “She has been brought up in France at a convent somewhere in the south, I believe. I think I heard that this time she was to return to Brazil with her uncle.”

  “I wonder,” I asked, “if she is going to London with him?”

  “Probably,” Louis answered, “and if monsieur continues to patronize me,” he continued, “he will certainly see more of them, for Monsieur Delora is a client who is always faithful to me.”

  Notwithstanding its somewhat subdued air, there was all the time going on around us a cheerful murmur of conversation, the popping of corks, the laughter of women, the hurrying to and fro of waiters,—all the pleasant disturbance of an ordinary restaurant at the most festive hour of the night. But there came, just at this moment, a curious interruption, an interruption curious not only on its own account, but on account of the effect which it produced. From somewhere in the centre of the room there commenced ringing, softly at first, and afterwards with a greater volume, a gong, something like the siren of a motor-car, but much softer and more musical.
Instantly a dead silence seemed to fall upon the place. Conversation was broken off, laughter was checked, even the waiters stood still in their places. The eyes of every one seemed turned towards the door. One or two of the men rose, and in the faces of these was manifest a sudden expression in which was present more or less of absolute terror. Bartot for a moment shrank back in his chair as though he had been struck, only to recover himself the next second; and the lady with the turquoises bent over and whispered in his ear. One person only left his place,—a young man who had been sitting at a table at the other end of the room with one of the gayest parties. At the very first note of alarm he had sprung to his feet. A few seconds later, with swift, silent movements and face as pale as a ghost, he had vanished into the little service room from which the waiters issued and returned. With his disappearance the curious spell which seemed to have fallen upon these other people passed away. The waiters resumed their tasks. The room was once more hilariously gay. Upon the threshold a newcomer was standing, a tall man in correct morning dress, with a short gray beard and a tiny red ribbon in his button-hole. He stood there smiling slightly—an unobtrusive entrance, such as might have befitted any habitue of the place. Yet all the time his eyes were travelling restlessly up and down the room. As he stood there, one could fancy there was not a face into which he did not look during those few minutes.

  IV. DANGEROUS PLAY

  Table of Contents

  I leaned towards Louis, but he anticipated my question. His hand had caught my wrist and was pinning it down to the table.

  “Wait!” he muttered—“wait! You perceive that we are drinking wine of the vintage of ‘98. I will tell you of my trip to the vineyards. Do not look at that man as though his appearance was anything remarkable. You are not an habitue here, and he will take notice of you.”

  As one who speaks upon the subject most interesting to him, Louis, with the gestures and swift, nervous diction of his race, talked to me of the vineyards and the cellars of the famous champagne house whose wine we were drinking. I did my best to listen intelligently, but every moment I found my eyes straying towards this new arrival, now deep in apparently pleasant conversation with Monsieur Carvin.

  The newcomer had the air of one who has looked in to smile around at his acquaintances and pass on. He accepted a cigarette from Carvin, but he did not sit down, and I saw him smile a polite refusal as a small table was pointed out to him. He strolled a little into the place and he bowed pleasantly to several with whom he seemed to be acquainted, amongst whom was the man Bartot. He waved his hand to others further down the room. His circle of acquaintances, indeed, seemed unlimited. Then, with a long hand-shake and some parting jest, he took leave of Monsieur Carvin and disappeared. Somehow or other one seemed to feel the breath of relief which went shivering through the room as he departed. Louis answered then my unspoken question.

  “That,” he said, “is a very great man. His name is Monsieur Myers.”

  “The head of the police!” I exclaimed.

  Louis nodded.

  “The most famous,” he said, “whom France has ever possessed, Monsieur Myers is absolutely marvellous,” he declared. “The man has genius,—genius as well as executive ability. It is a terrible war that goes on between him and the haute école of crime in this country.”

  “Tell me, Louis,” I asked, “is Monsieur Myers’ visit here to-night professional?”

  “Monsieur has observation,” Louis answered. “Why not?”

  “You mean,” I asked, “that there are criminals—people under suspicion—”

  “I mean,” Louis interrupted, “that in this room, at the present moment, are some of the most famous criminals in the world.”

  A question half framed died away upon my lips. Louis, however, divined it.

  “You were about to ask,” he said, “how I obtained my entry here. Monsieur, one had better not ask. It is one thing to be a thief. It is quite another to see something of the wonderful life which those live who are at war with society.”

  I looked around the room once more. Again I realized the difference between this gathering of well-dressed men and women and any similar gathering which I had seen in Paris. The faces of all somehow lacked that tiredness of expression which seems to be the heritage of those who drink the cup of pleasure without spice, simply because the hand of Fate presses it to their lips. These people had found something else. Were they not, after all, a little to be envied? They must know what it was to feel the throb of life, to test the true flavor of its luxuries when there was no certainty of the morrow. I felt the fascination, felt it almost in my blood, as I looked around.

  “You could not specify, I suppose?” I said to Louis.

  “How could monsieur ask it?” he replied, a little reproachfully. “You will be one of the only people who do not belong who have been admitted here, and you will notice,” he continued, “that I have asked for no pledge—I rely simply upon the honor of monsieur.”

  I nodded.

  “There is crime and crime, Louis,” said I. “I have never been able to believe myself that it is the same thing to rob the widow and the millionaire. I know that I must not ask you any questions,” I continued, “but the girl with Delora,—the man whom you call Delora,—she, at least, is innocent of any knowledge of these things?”

  Louis smiled.

  “Monsieur is susceptible,” he remarked. “I cannot answer that question. Mademoiselle is a stranger. She is but a child.”

  “And Monsieur Delora himself?” I asked. “He comes here when he chooses? He is not merely a sightseer?”

  “No,” Louis repeated, “he is not merely a sightseer!”

  “A privileged person,” I remarked.

  “He is a wonderful man,” Louis answered calmly. “He has travelled all over the world. He knows a little of every capital, of every side of life,—perhaps,” he added, “of the underneath side.”

  “His niece is very beautiful,” I remarked, looking at her thoughtfully. “It seems almost a shame, does it not, to bring her into such a place as this?”

  Louis smiled.

  “If she were going to stay in Paris—yes!” he said. “If she is really going to Brazil, it matters little what she does. A Parisian, of course, would never bring his womankind here.”

  “She is very beautiful,” I remarked. “Yes, I agree with you, Louis. It is no place for girls of her age.”

  Louis smiled.

  “Monsieur may make her acquaintance some day,” he remarked. “Monsieur Delora is on his way to England.”

  “She is a safer person to admire,” I remarked, “than the lady opposite?”

  “Much,” Louis answered emphatically. “Monsieur has already,” he whispered, “been a little indiscreet. The lady of the turquoises has spoken once or twice to Bartot and looked this way. I feel sure that it was of you she spoke. See how she continually looks over the top of her fan at this table. Monsieur would do well to take no notice.”

  I laughed. I was thirty years old, and the love of adventure was always in my blood. For the first time for many days the weariness seemed to have passed away. My heart was beating. I was ready for any enterprise.

  “Do not be afraid, Louis,” I said. “I shall come to no harm. If mademoiselle looks at me, it is not gallant to look away.”

  Louis’ face was puckered up with anxiety. He saw, too, what I had seen. Bartot had walked to the other end of the room to speak to some friends. The girl had taken a gold and jewelled pencil from the mass of costly trifles which lay with her purse upon the table, and was writing on a piece of paper which the waiter had brought. I could see her delicately manicured fingers, the blue veins at the back of her hands, as she wrote, slowly and apparently without hesitation. Both Louis and myself watched the writing of that note as though Fate itself were guiding the pencil.

  “It is for you,” Louis whispered in my ear. “Take no notice. It would be madness even to look at her.”

  “Louis!” I exclaimed protest
ingly.

  “I mean what I say, monsieur,” Louis declared, leaning toward me, and speaking in a low, earnest whisper. “The café below, the streets throughout this region, are peopled by his creatures. In an hour he could lead an army which would defy the whole of the gendarmes in Paris. This quarter of the city is his absolutely to do with what he wills. Do you believe that you would have a chance if he thought that she had looked twice at you,—she—Susette—the only woman who has ever led him? I tell you that he is mad with love and jealousy for her. The whole world knows of it.”

  “My dear Louis,” I said, “you know me only in London, where I come and sit in your restaurant and eat and drink there. To you I am simply like all those others who come to you day by day,—idlers and pleasure seekers. Let me assure you, Louis, that there are other things in my life. Just now I should welcome anything in the world which meant adventure, which could teach me to forget.”

  “But monsieur need not seek the suicide,” Louis said. “There are hundreds of adventures to be had without that.”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “If mademoiselle should send me the note,” I said, “surely it would not be gallant of me to refuse to accept it.”

  “There are other ways of seeking adventures,” Louis said, “than by ending one’s days in the Seine.”

  The girl by this time had finished her note and rolled it up. She looked behind her to the other end of the room, where only Bartot’s broad back was visible. Then she raised her eyes to mine,—turquoise blue as the color of her gown,—and very faintly but very deliberately she smiled. I was not in the least in love with her. The affair to me was simply interesting because it promised a moment’s distraction. But, nevertheless, as she smiled I felt my heart beat faster, and I reached a little eagerly forward as though for the note. She called a waiter to her side. I watched her whisper to him; I watched his expression—anxious and perturbed at first, doubtful, even, after her reassuring words. He looked down the room to where Bartot was standing. It seemed to me, even then, that he ventured to protest, but mademoiselle frowned and spoke to him sharply. He caught up a wine list and came to our table. Once more, before he spoke, he looked behind to where Bartot’s back was still turned.