Then, just as I was half undressed, there came a soft knock at my door. I rose to my feet and stood for a moment undecided. For some time my own personal danger seemed to have slipped out of my memory. Now it came back with a sudden terrible rush. Perhaps the man Tapilow was dead! If so, this was the end!
I went out into the little hall and opened the door. The corridors outside were dimly lit, but there was no mistaking the two men who stood there waiting for me. One was obviously a police inspector, and the man by his side, although he wore plain clothes, could scarcely be anything but a detective.
XII. FELICIA DELORA
Table of Contents
I looked at the two men, and they returned my gaze with interest.
“Are you Captain Rotherby, sir?” the inspector asked.
I nodded.
“That is my name,” I said.
“We shall be glad to have a few words with you, sir,” he declared.
“You had better come inside,” I answered, and led the way into my sitting-room.
“We have been sent for,” the inspector continued, “to inquire into the disappearance of Mr. Delora,—the gentleman who was expected to have arrived at this hotel this evening,” he added, referring to his notes.
To me, who with a natural egotism had been thinking of my own affairs, and had been expecting nothing less than arrest, this declaration of the object of their visit had its consolations.
“We understand,” the inspector continued, “that you travelled with Mr. Delora and his niece from Folkestone to Charing Cross.”
“That is quite true,” I answered. “The guard put them in my carriage.”
“Did you converse with them during the journey, sir?”
“The man was asleep all the way,” I answered. “He never even opened his eyes till we were practically in London.”
“You talked, perhaps, with the young lady?” the man inquired.
“If I did,” I answered serenely, “it seems to me that it was my business.”
The police inspector was imperturbable.
“When was the last time you saw this Mr. Delora?” he asked.
“At Charing Cross Station,” I answered. “He left the carriage directly the train stopped and went to get a hansom. He had been sea-sick coming over, and was anxious to get to the hotel very quickly.”
“Leaving his niece alone?” the man asked.
“Leaving her in my care,” I answered. “We were all coming to the same hotel, and the young lady and I had been in conversation for some time.”
“He asked you, then, to take care of her?” the man inquired.
“The request as he made it,” I answered, “was a perfectly natural one. By the bye,” I continued, “who sent for you?”
“We were advised of Mr. Delora’s disappearance by the proprietor of the hotel,” the inspector answered.
“How do you know that it is a disappearance at all?” I asked. “Mr. Delora may have met some friends. He is not obliged to come here. In other words, if he chooses to disappear, he surely has a perfect right to! Are you acting upon Miss Delora’s instructions?”
“No!” the inspector answered. “Miss Delora has not moved in the matter.”
“Then I consider,” I declared, “that your action is premature, and I have nothing to say.”
The inspector was temporarily nonplussed. My view of the situation was perfectly reasonable, and my assumption that there was some other reason for their visit was not without truth. The man in the plain clothes, who had been listening intently but as yet had not spoken, intervened.
“Captain Rotherby,” he said, “I am a detective from Scotland Yard,—in fact I am the head of one of the departments. We know you quite well to be a young gentleman of family, and above suspicion. We feel sure, therefore, that we can rely upon you to help us in any course we may take which is likely to lead to the detection of crime or criminals.”
“Up to a certain point,” I assented, “you are perfectly right.”
“There are circumstances connected with these people the Deloras, uncle and niece,” the detective continued, “which require investigation.”
“I am sorry,” I answered, “but I cannot at present answer any more questions, except with Miss Delora’s permission.”
“You can tell me this, Captain Rotherby,” the detective asked, looking at me keenly, “do you know whether Miss Delora has been in communication with her uncle since she reached the hotel?”
“I have no idea,” I answered.
“There is a telephone in her room,” the detective continued, without removing his eyes from my face. “We understand from the hall-porter that a message was received by her soon after her arrival.”
“Very likely,” I answered. “I should suggest that you go and interview Miss Delora. She will probably tell you all about it.”
They were both silent. I felt quite certain that they had already done so. At that moment my own telephone bell rang. The two men exchanged quick glances. I took up the receiver.
“Is that Capitaine Rotherby?”
I recognized the voice at once. It was Miss Delora speaking.
“Yes!” I answered.
“I thought I should like to let you know,” she continued, “that I am no longer in the least anxious about my uncle. He is always doing eccentric things, and I am sure that he will turn up,—later to-night, perhaps, or at any rate to-morrow. I do not wish any inquiries made about him. It would only annoy him very much when he came to hear of it.”
“I am very glad to hear you say so, Miss Delora,” I answered. “To tell you the truth, there are some men here at present who are asking me questions. I have told them, however, that you are the only person to whom they should apply.”
Her voice, when she answered me, showed some signs of agitation.
“I have not asked the help of the police,” she declared, “and I do not need it! They would have come to my rooms, but I refused to receive them.”
“I quite agree with you, Miss Delora,” I answered. “Good night!”
“Good night, Capitaine Rotherby!” she said softly. I laid down the receiver.
“You have probably overheard my conversation,” I said to the inspector. “After that, I can only wish you good night!”
He moved at once to the door in stolid, discontented fashion. The detective, however, lingered.
“Captain Rotherby,” he said, “I cannot blame you for your decision. I think, however, it is only fair to warn you that you will probably find yourself better off in the long run if you do not mix yourself up in this affair.”
“Indeed!” I answered.
“There are wheels within wheels,” the man continued. “I have no charge to make against Mr. Delora. I have no charge to make against any one. But I think that so far as you are concerned, you would be well advised to remember that these are merely travelling companions, and that even the most accomplished man of the world is often deceived in such. Good night, sir!”
They left me then without another word. I heard their footsteps die away along the corridor, the ring of the lift bell, the clatter of its ascent and descent. Then I undressed and went to bed.
I awoke the next morning rather late, dressed and shaved in my rooms, and descended to the café for breakfast. The waiter who usually served me came hurrying up with a welcoming smile.
“Monsieur Louis,” he announced, “returned early this morning.”
“He is not here now?” I asked, looking around the room.
The waiter smiled deprecatingly.
“But for the early breakfast, no, sir!” he said. “Monsieur Louis will come at one o’clock, perhaps,—perhaps not until dinner-time. He will be here to-day, though.”
I unfolded my paper and looked through the list of accidents. There was nothing which could possibly have applied to Mr. Delora. I waited until eleven o’clock, and then sent up my name to Miss Delora. A reply came back almost at once,—Miss Delora had gone out an hour ago
, and had left no word as to the time of her return. Once more I was puzzled. Why should she go out unless she had received some news? She had told me that she had no friends in London. It was scarcely likely that she would go out on any casual expedition in her present state of uncertainty. I made my way to the manager’s office, whom I knew very well, and with whom I had often had a few minutes’ talk. He received me with his usual courtesy, and gave me a handful of cigarettes to try. I lit one, and seated myself in his easy-chair.
“Mr. Helmsley,” I said, “you know that I am not, as a rule, a curious person, and I should not like to ask you any questions which you thought improper ones, but you have some guests staying here in whom I am somewhat interested.”
Mr. Helmsley nodded, and by his genial silence invited me to proceed.
“I mean Mr. Delora and his niece,” I continued.
The smile faded from the manager’s face.
“The gentleman who did not arrive last night?” he remarked.
I nodded.
“I travelled up with them,” I said, “from Folkestone, and certainly Mr. Delora’s behavior was a little peculiar as we neared London. He seemed nervous, and anxious to quit the train at the earliest possible moment. I brought his niece on here, as you know, found that he had not arrived, and I understand that, up to the present, nothing has been heard of him.”
“It is quite true,” Mr. Helmsley admitted thoughtfully. “The matter was reported to me last night, and very soon afterwards an inspector from Scotland Yard called. I gave him all the information I could, naturally, but on reference to the young lady she declined to consider the matter seriously at all. Her uncle, she said, had probably met some friends, or had made a call upon the way. Under the circumstances, there was nothing else to do but to drop the matter, so far as any direct inquiries were concerned.”
I nodded.
“But the man himself?” I asked. “What do you know of him?”
“I have always understood,” Mr. Helmsley said slowly, “that he was a gentleman from South America who had large coffee plantations, and who came over every year to sell his produce. He has stayed at the hotel about this time for the last four years. He has always engaged a good suite of rooms, has paid his accounts promptly,—I really do not know anything more about him.”
“Has his niece accompanied him always?” I asked.
“Never before,” Mr. Helmsley answered,—“at least, not to my recollection.”
“You do not know what part of South America he comes from?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” Mr. Helmsley declared. “His letters are always forwarded to an agent.”
“So practically you can tell me nothing,” I said, rising.
“Nothing at all, I fear,” Mr. Helmsley answered. “I shall make it a point of calling upon the young lady within an hour or so, to inquire again about her uncle.”
“The young lady has gone out,” I remarked. “I have just sent my own name up.”
Mr. Helmsley raised his eyebrows. He, too, was surprised.
“Then she has probably heard something,” he remarked.
“Perhaps,” I answered. “By the bye, I understand that Louis is back.”
“He came by the night train,” Mr. Helmsley answered. “I scarcely expected him so soon. You will probably see him in the café at luncheon-time.”
I took my leave of the manager and returned to my own side of the hotel.
“If Miss Delora should come in,” I said to the hall-porter on my way to the lift, “please let me know. I shall be in my room, writing letters.”
“Miss Delora came in just after you crossed the courtyard, sir,” the man answered. “She is in her room now.”
“Alone?” I asked.
“I believe that she came in with a gentleman, sir. Shall I ring up and ask for her?”
I hesitated for a moment. I was recalling to myself her statement that she had no friends in London whatsoever.
“Yes!” I answered. “Send up my name, and say that I should like to see her.”
The man went to the telephone, and emerged from the box a moment later.
“Miss Delora would be much obliged,” he said, “if you would kindly go to her room in a quarter of an hour.”
I nodded, and turned away for the lift. The cigarette between my lips was suddenly tasteless. I was experiencing a new sensation, and distinctly an unpleasant one. With it was coupled an intense curiosity to know the identity of the man who was even now with Felicia!
XIII. LOUIS, MAÎTRE D’HÔTEL
Table of Contents
I measured out that quarter of an hour into minutes, and almost into seconds. Then I knocked at the door of the sitting-room, and was bidden enter by Felicia Delora herself. She was alone, but she was dressed for the street, and was apparently just leaving the hotel again. Her clothes were of fashionable make, and cut with the most delightful simplicity. Her toilette was that of the ideal Frenchwoman who goes out for a morning’s shopping, and may possibly lunch in the Bois. She was still very pale, however, and the dark lines under her eyes seemed to speak of a sleepless night. I fancied that she welcomed me a little shyly. She dropped her veil almost at once, and she did not ask me to sit down.
“I hope that you have some news this morning of your uncle, Miss Delora?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“I have not heard—anything of importance,” she answered.
“I am sorry,” I said. “I am afraid that you must be getting very anxious.”
She bent over the button of her glove.
“Yes,” she admitted. “I am very anxious! I am very anxious indeed. I scarcely know what to do.”
“Tell me, then,” I said, “why do you not let me go with you to the police and have some inquiries made? If you prefer it, we could go to a private detective. I really think that something ought to be done.”
She shook her head.
“I dare not,” she said simply.
“Dare not?” I repeated.
“Because when he returns,” she explained, “he would be so very, very angry with me. He is a very eccentric man—my uncle. He does strange things, and he allows no one to question his actions.”
“But he has no right,” I declared hotly, “to leave you like this in a strange hotel, without even a maid, without a word of farewell or explanation. The thing is preposterous!”
She had finished buttoning her gloves, and looked up at me with a queer little smile at the corner of her lips and her hands behind her.
“Capitaine Rotherby,” she said, “there are so many things which it seems hard to understand. I myself am very unhappy and perplexed, but I do know what my uncle would wish me to do. He would wish me to remain quite quiet, and to wait.”
I was silent for a few moments. It was difficult to reason with her.
“You have been out this morning,” I said, a little abruptly.
“I have been out,” she admitted. “I do not think, Capitaine Rotherby, that I must tell you where I have been, but I went to the one place where I thought that I might have news of him.”
“You brought back with you a companion.”
“No, not a companion,” she interposed gently. “You must not think that, Capitaine Rotherby. He was just a person who—who had to come. You are not cross with me,” she asked, lifting her eyes a little timidly to mine, “that there are some things which I do not tell you?”
“No, I am not cross!” I answered slowly. “Only, if you felt it possible,” I added, “to give me your entire confidence, it seems to me that it would be better. I will ask you to believe,” I continued, “that I am not merely a curious person. I am—well, more than a little interested.”
She held out both her hands and raised her eyes to mine. Through the filmy lace of her veil I could see that they were very soft, almost as though tears were gathering there.
“Oh! I do believe you, Capitaine Rotherby,” she said, “and I would be very, very happy if I could tell y
ou now all the things which trouble me, all the things which I do not understand! But I may not. I may not—just now.”
“Whenever you choose,” I answered, “I shall be ready to hear. Whenever you need my services, they are yours.”
“You do trust me a little, then?” she asked quickly.
“Implicitly!” I answered.
“You do not mind,” she continued, “that I tell you once more that I am going out, and that I must go out alone?”
“Why, no!” I answered. “If you do not need me, there is an end of it.”
“You are very good to me,” she said. “Perhaps this afternoon, if you have a few minutes to spare, we might talk, eh?”
“At any time you say,” I answered.
“At four o’clock, then,” she said, “you will come here and sit with me for a little time. Perhaps this evening, if you have nothing to do—” she asked.
“I have nothing to do,” I interrupted promptly.
“I do not know how I shall feel,” she said, “about going out, but I would like to see you, anyhow.”
“I shall come,” I promised her. “Some time within the next few days I must go down to Norfolk—”
“To Norfolk?” she interrupted quickly. “Is that far away?”
21 Greatest Spy Thrillers in One Premium Edition (Mystery & Espionage Series) Page 401
