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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  I saw a look pass between the two, and I no longer had any doubt whatever. I knew that they were in collusion, that I had been brought here to be pumped by mademoiselle.

  “Monsieur,” Bartot said, “you are apparently armed, and you can leave this room if you will, but I warn you that you will not leave Paris so easily.”

  The situation was quite plain to me. However little flattering it might be to my vanity, I should not have been in the least surprised if Monsieur Bartot had held out his hands, begged my pardon, and ordered a bottle of wine.

  “Be reasonable, monsieur,” I begged. “It is open to every one, surely, to admire mademoiselle? For the rest, I have been here only a few moments. So far as I am concerned,” I added, glancing at the table, “mademoiselle has lunched alone.”

  “If I could believe that!” Bartot muttered, with a look of coming friendship in his eyes.

  “Mademoiselle will assure you,” I continued.

  “Then what are you doing here?” he asked.

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “I was not aware,” I said, “that this was a private restaurant.”

  “But these are private rooms,” he answered. “Still, if it was a mistake,—I trust mademoiselle always.”

  She held out her hands to him with a theatrical gesture.

  “Henri,” she cried, “you could not doubt me! It is impossible!”

  “You are right,” he answered quickly. “I was too hasty.”

  I smiled upon them both.

  “Mademoiselle,” I said, “I am sorry that our pleasant little conversation has been interrupted. Believe me, though, to be always your devoted slave.”

  I opened the door. Monsieur Bartot turned towards me. I am convinced that he was about to offer me his hand and to call for that bottle of wine. I felt, however, that flight was safest. I went out and closed the door.

  “The bill, monsieur?” a waiter called after me as I descended the stairs.

  I gave him five francs for a pour boire.

  “Monsieur there will pay,” I told him, pointing towards the room.

  VIII. LOUIS INSISTS

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  I arrived at the Ritz to find Louis walking impatiently up and down the stone-flagged pavement outside the entrance. He came up to me eagerly as I approached.

  “I have been waiting for you for more than an hour!” he exclaimed.

  I looked at him in some surprise. I had not yet grown accustomed to hear him speak in such a tone.

  “Did I say that I was coming straight back?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” he answered. “After you left, though, I had some trouble with Monsieur Grisson. There is a chance that we may have to move Tapilow to a hospital, and he is just one of those fools who talk. Monsieur Grisson insists upon it that you leave Paris by the four o’clock train this afternoon.”

  I shook my head.

  “I could not catch it,” I declared. “It is half-past three now.”

  “On the other hand, you can and you must,” Louis answered. “I took the liberty of telephoning in your name and ordering the valet to pack your clothes. Your luggage is in the hall there, and that automobile is waiting to take you to the Gare du Nord.”

  I opened my mouth to protest, but Louis’ manner underwent a further change.

  “Captain Rotherby,” he said, “it is I and my friends who save you, perhaps, from a considerable inconvenience. Forgive me if I remind you of this, but it is not fitting that you should argue with us on this matter.”

  Louis was right. For more reasons than he knew of, it was well that I should leave Paris.

  “Are you coming with me?” I asked.

  “I am crossing by the night boat,” Louis answered. “I have not quite finished the work for which I came over. I have some things to buy.”

  I smiled.

  “Upon my word,” I said, “I had forgotten your profession.”

  I went back into the hotel and paid my bill. Louis drove with me to the station and saw to the registration of my luggage. Afterwards he found my reserved seat, in which I arranged my rug and books. Then I turned and walked down the corridor with him.

  “I trust,” he said, “that monsieur will have a pleasant journey and pleasant companions.”

  I glanced into the coupé which we were just passing. It seemed curious that even as the wish left his lips I should find myself looking into the dark eyes of the girl whose face had been so often in my thoughts during the last few days! Opposite her was the gray-bearded man Delora, already apparently immersed in a novel. Every seat in the compartment was laden with their small belongings,—dressing-bags, pillows, a large jewel-case, books, papers, flowers, and a box of chocolates. I turned to Louis.

  “Again,” I remarked, “we meet friends. What a small place the world is!”

  We stepped down on to the platform. Louis, for some reason, seemed slightly nervous. He glanced up at the clock and watched the few late arrivals with an interest which was almost intense.

  “Monsieur,” he said, a little abruptly, “there is a question which I should like to ask you before you leave.”

  “There are a good many I should like to ask you, Louis,” I answered, “but they will keep. Go ahead.”

  “I should like to know,” Louis said, “where you spent the hour which passed between your leaving the Café Normandy and arriving at the Ritz.”

  I hesitated for a moment. After all, I had no reason to keep my movements secret. It was better, indeed, to avoid complications so far as possible.

  “You shall know if you like, Louis,” I said. “I kept my appointment with the young lady of the turquoises.”

  Louis’ pale face seemed suddenly strained.

  “It was my fault!” he muttered. “I should not have left you! You do not understand how those affairs are here in Paris! If Bartot knew—”

  “Bartot did know,” I interrupted.

  Louis’ face was a study.

  “Bartot came in while I was talking to mademoiselle,” I said.

  “There was a scene?” Louis inquired breathlessly. “Bartot threatened monsieur? Perhaps there were blows?”

  “Nothing of the sort,” I answered. “Bartot blustered a little and mademoiselle wrung her hands, but they played their parts badly. Between you and me, Louis, I have a sort of an idea that Bartot’s coming was not altogether accidental.”

  “It was a trap,” Louis murmured softly. “But why?”

  I shook my head.

  “Louis,” I said, “I am the wrong sort of man to be even a temporary dweller in this nest of intrigue. I do not understand it at all. I do not understand any of you. I only know that I owe you and those other gentlemen a very considerable debt, and I have been solemnly warned against you by the young lady whom I met at the Café de Paris. I have been assured that association with you is the first step toward my undoing. Monsieur Bartot, for all his bluster, seemed very anxious to be friendly.”

  “It was the girl!” Louis exclaimed. “Bartot was too big a fool to understand!”

  I sighed.

  “I fear that I am in the same position as Monsieur Bartot,” I said. “I do not understand!”

  There was a warning cry. I had only just time to swing myself on to the slowly moving train. Louis ran for a moment by the side.

  “Those people are harmless,” he said. “They merely wished, if they could, to make use of you. Mademoiselle has tied other fools to her chariot wheels before now, that Bartot may grow fat. But, monsieur!”

  I leaned over to catch his words.

  “If Monsieur or Mademoiselle Delora should address you,” he said, “you need have no fear. They are not of the same order as Bartot and Susette.”

  “I will remember,” I answered, waving my farewells.

  I regained my compartment, which I was annoyed to find had filled up till mine was the only vacant seat. I had not had time to buy any papers or magazines, but, after all, I had enough to interest me in my thoughts. Of T
apilow I scarcely thought at all. He and I had met, and I had kept my oath. So far as I was concerned, that was the end. I had not even any fears for my own safety as regards this matter. My interview with Decresson and his friend had had a curiously convincing effect upon me. I felt that I had been tried for my crime, and acquitted, in the most orthodox fashion. For me the curtain had fallen upon that tragedy. It was the other things which occupied my mind. I seemed to have found my way into a maze, to have become mixed up in certain affairs in a most mysterious and inexplicable way. What was the meaning of that place to which Louis had introduced me? Was it some sort of secret organization,—an organization which assumed to itself, at any rate, the power to circumvent the police? And Bartot, too! Had he really the power which Louis had declared him to possess? If so, why had he baited a clumsy trap for me and permitted me to walk out of it untouched? What did they want from me, these people? The thought was utterly confusing. I could find absolutely no explanation. Then, again, another puzzle remained. I remembered Louis’ desire, almost command, that I should return to London by this particular train. Had he any reason for it? Was it connected in any way, I wondered, with the presence of this man and girl in the next compartment? It seemed feasible, even if inexplicable.

  I rose and strolled down the corridor, looking in at the coupé where these two people sat, with all the banal impertinence of the curious traveller. The girl met my eyes once and afterwards simply ignored me. The man never looked up from his magazine. I passed and repassed three or four times. The effect was always the same. At last I resumed my seat. At any rate, they showed no pressing desire to make my acquaintance!

  At Boulogne I descended at once into the saloon and made a hasty meal. When I came up on deck in the harbor I found that the chair which I had engaged was lashed close to the open door of a private cabin, and in the door of that cabin, standing within a few feet of me, was the niece of Monsieur Delora. I racked my brains for something to say. She gave me no encouragement whatever. At last I descended to a banality.

  “We shall have rather a rough crossing, I am afraid,” I said, touching my cap.

  She looked at me as though surprised that I should have ventured to address her. She did not take the trouble to be annoyed. She answered me, indeed, with civility, but in a manner which certainly did not encourage me to attempt any further conversation. There was a moment’s pause. Then she turned away and spoke to some one behind her in the cabin. A moment or two later the door was closed and I was left alone. After that it seemed ridiculous to imagine that there was any special significance to be attached to the fact that we were fellow passengers.

  The crossing was a rough one, and I saw nothing more of either Delora or the girl. I had very little hand baggage, and I was one of the first to reach the train, where I made myself comfortable in the corner seat of a carriage towards the rear end. The inspector, whom I knew very well, locked my door, and until the last moment it seemed as though I should have the compartment to myself. The train, indeed, was on the point of starting, and I had almost given up looking out for my fellow passengers when they came hurrying up along the platform. I saw them glancing into the windows of every carriage in the hope of finding a seat. Two porters carried their small baggage. An obsequious guard followed in the rear. Just as they were opposite to the carriage in which I was sitting the whistle blew.

  “Plenty of room higher up!” the inspector exclaimed. “Take your seats, please.”

  “We will get in here,” the girl answered,—“that is to say, unless it is a reserved carriage. Please to open the door at once.”

  The inspector hesitated, remembering the tip which I had given him, but he had no alternative. The guard produced his key and opened the door. It was not until that moment that the girl recognized me. She stepped back, and the look which she threw in my direction was certainly not flattering.

  “Can you find us another carriage?” she asked the guard, imperiously.

  “Quite impossible, miss,” the man answered. “You must get in here or be left behind.”

  They had barely time to take their seats. As my place was next to the window, I felt bound to help the porter hand in the small packages. The man Delora, who was wrapped up in a fur coat, and who looked ghastly ill, thanked me courteously enough, but the girl ignored my assistance. They took the two corner seats at the further end of the carriage. Delora immediately composed himself to sleep.

  “It was a wretched crossing!” he said to the girl,—“the most miserable crossing I have ever had! And these trains,—so small, so uncomfortable!”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “When one travels,” she said, “I suppose that one must put up with inconveniences of all sorts.”

  I knew very well that the last part of her sentence not only had reference to me, but was intended for my hearing. I affected, however, to be absorbed in the magazine which I was reading, and under cover of which I was able to make a close observation of the man, who was sitting on the same side as myself. He had put up his feet and closed his eyes, but he had evidently suffered badly from sea-sickness, for his face remained almost deathly white, and he shivered now and then as though with cold. He had lost the well-groomed air which had distinguished him in Paris. His features were haggard and worn, and he looked at least ten years older. His clothes were excellently made, and the fur coat which he had wrapped around himself was magnificent. For the rest, he seemed tired out—a man utterly wearied of life. Before we had reached the town station he was asleep.

  The train rushed on into the darkness, and after a time I ventured to glance toward the girl. She, too, was leaning back in her place, but her face was turned a little away from me towards the window, through which she was gazing with the obvious intentness of one whose thoughts are far away. I had all my life been used to observing closely people of either sex who interested me, and I found now, as I had found during those various accidental meetings in Paris, that the study of this young woman afforded me a peculiar pleasure. Apart from her more personal fascination, she was faultlessly dressed. She wore a black tailor-made suit, perhaps a little shorter than is usual for travelling in England, patent shoes,—long and narrow,—and black silk stockings. Her hat was a small toque, and her veil one of those for which Frenchwomen are famous,—very large, but not in the least disfiguring. This, however, she had raised for the present, and I was able to study the firm but fine profile of her features, to notice the delicacy of her chin, her small, well-shaped ears, her eyebrows—black and silky. Her eyes themselves were hidden from me, but their color had been the first thing which had attracted me. They were of a blue so deep that sometimes they seemed as black as her eyebrows themselves. It was only when she smiled or came into a strong light that they seemed suddenly to flash almost to violet. Her figure was slim—she was, indeed, little more than a girl—but very shapely and elegant. She could scarcely be called tall, but there was something in her carriage which seemed to exaggerate her height. The very poise of her head indicated a somewhat contemptuous indifference to the people amongst whom she moved.

  I had kept my scrutiny under control, prepared for any sudden movement on the part of the girl; but after all she was too quick for me. She turned from the window with a perfectly natural movement, and yet so swiftly that our eyes met before I could look away. She leaned a little forward in her place, and her forehead darkened.

  “Perhaps, sir,” she said, “you will be good enough to tell me the meaning of your persistent impertinence?”

  IX. A TRAVELLING ACQUAINTANCE

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  Her words were so unexpected that for a moment or two I was speechless. On the whole, I scarcely felt that I deserved the cold contempt of her voice or the angry flash in her eyes.

  “I am afraid I don’t understand you,” I said. “If you refer to the fact that I was watching you with some interest at that moment, I suppose I must plead guilty. On the other hand, I object altogether to the term ‘impertinen
ce.’”

  “And why do you object?” she asked, looking at me steadily, and beating with her little hand the arm-rest by her side. “If your behavior is not impertinence, pray what is it? We meet at the Opera. You look. It is not enough for you that you look once, but you look twice, three times. You come out on to the pavement to hear the address which my uncle gives the chauffeur. We go to a restaurant for supper, where only the few are admitted. You are content to be brought by a waiter, but you are there! You travel to England by the same train,—you walk up and down past my compartment. You presume to address me upon the boat. You give a fee to the guard that he should put us in your carriage. Yet you object to the term ‘impertinence’!”

  “I do,” I answered, “most strongly. I consider your use of the word absolutely uncalled for.”

  She looked across at the sleeping man. He was breathing heavily, and was evidently quite unconscious of our conversation.

  “Your standard of manners is, I am afraid, a peculiar one,” she said. “In Paris one is used always to be stared at. Englishmen, I was told, behaved better.”

  She took up a magazine and turned away with a shrug of the shoulders. I leaned a little further forward in my place, and lowered my voice so as not to disturb the sleeping man.

  “You are really unjust to me,” I said. “I will plead guilty to noticing you at the Opera House, but I did so as I would have done any well-dressed young woman who formed a part of the show there. So far as regards my visit to the Café des Deux Epingles, I went at the suggestion of Louis, whom I met by accident, and who is the maître d’hôtel at my favorite restaurant. I had no idea that you were going to be there. On the contrary, I distinctly heard your companion tell your chauffeur to drive to the Ritz. I came on this train by accident, and although it is true that I spoke to you as I might have done to any other travelling companion, I deny that there was anything in the least impertinent either in what I said or how I said it. So far as regards your coming into this carriage,” I added, “I feed the guard to keep it to myself, and although I will not say that your presence is unwelcome, it is certainly unsought for.”