“Only a few hours,” I answered.
“You will stay there?” she exclaimed.
I shook my head.
“I think not,” I answered. “I think I shall come back directly I have seen my brother.”
She lifted her eyes to mine.
“Why?” she whispered.
“In case I can be of service to you!” I answered.
“You are so very good, so very kind,” she said earnestly; “and to think that when I first saw you, I believed—but that does not matter!” she wound up quickly. “Please come to the lift with me and ring the bell. I lose my way in these passages.”
I watched her step into the lift, her skirts a little raised, she herself, to my mind, the perfection of feminine grace from the tips of her patent shoes to the black feathers in her hat. She waved her hand to me as the lift shot down, and I turned away….
At exactly half-past one I went down to the café for lunch. The room was fairly full, but almost the first person I saw was Louis, suave and courteous, conducting a party of guests to their places. I took my seat at my accustomed table, and watched him for a few moments as he moved about. What a waiter he must have been, I thought! His movements were swift and noiseless. His eyes seemed like points of electricity, alive to the smallest fault on the part of his subordinates, the slightest frown on the faces of his patrons. There was scarcely a person lunching there who did not feel that he himself was receiving some part of Louis’ personal attention. One saw him in the distance, suggesting with his easy smile a suitable luncheon to some bashful youth; or found him, a moment or two later, comparing reminiscences of some wonderful sauce with a bon viveur, an habitué of the place. Such a man, I thought, was wasted as a maître d’hôtel. He had the gifts of a diplomatist, the presence and inspiration of a genius.
I had imagined that my entrance into the room was unnoticed, but I found him suddenly bowing before my table.
“The Plat du Jour,” he remarked, “is excellent. Monsieur should try it. After a few days of French cookery,” he continued, “a simple English dish is sometimes an agreeable relief.”
“Thank you, Louis,” I answered. “Tell me what has become of Mr. Delora?”
My sudden attack was foiled with the consummate ease of a master—if, indeed, the man was not genuine.
“Mr. Delora!” he repeated. “Is he not staying here,—he and his niece? I have been looking for them to come into luncheon.”
“His niece is here,” I answered. “Mr. Delora never arrived.”
Louis then did a thing which I have never seen him do before or afterwards,—he dropped something which he was carrying! It was only a wine carte, and he stooped and picked it up at once with a word of graceful apology. But I noticed that when he once more stood erect, the exercise of stooping, so far from having brought any flush into his face, seemed to have driven from it every atom of color.
“You mean that Mr. Delora went elsewhere, Monsieur?” he asked.
I shook my head.
“They travelled up from Folkestone,” I said, “in my carriage. At Charing Cross Mr. Delora, who had been suffering, he said, from sea-sickness, and who was certainly very nervous and ill at ease, jumped out before the train had altogether stopped and hurried off to get a hansom to come on here. It had been arranged that I should bring his niece and follow him. When we arrived he had not come. He has not been here since. I have just left his niece, and she assured me that she had no idea where he was.”
Louis stood quite still.
“It is a most singular occurrence,” he said.
“It is the strangest thing I have ever heard of in my life,” I answered.
“Monsieur is very much interested, doubtless,” Louis said thoughtfully. “He travelled with them,—he expressed, I believe, an admiration for the young lady. Doubtless he is very much interested.”
“So much so, Louis,” I answered, “that I intend to do everything I can to solve the mystery of Delora’s disappearance. I am an idle man, and it will amuse me.”
Louis shook his head.
“Ah!” he said, “it is not always safe to meddle in the affairs of other people! There are wheels within wheels. The disappearance of Mr. Delora may not be altogether so accidental as it seems.”
“You mean—” I exclaimed hastily.
“But nothing, monsieur,” Louis answered, with a little shrug of the shoulders. “I spoke quite generally. A man disappears, and every one in the world immediately talks of foul play, of murder,—of many such things. But, after all, is that quite reasonable? Most often the man who disappears, disappears of his own accord,—disappears either from fear of things that may happen to him, or because he himself has some purpose to serve.”
“You mean to suggest, then, Louis,” I said, “that the disappearance of Mr. Delora is a voluntary one?”
Once more Louis shrugged his shoulders.
“Who can tell, monsieur?” he answered. “I suggest nothing. I spoke only as one might speak, hearing of this case. One moment, monsieur.”
He darted away to welcome some newcomers, ushered them to their table, suggested their lunch, passed up and down the room, stopping here and there to bow to a patron, to examine the dishes standing ready to be served, to correct some fault of service. It seemed to me, as I watched him, that he did a hundred things before he returned. Yet in a very few moments he was standing once more before my table, examining with a complacent air the service of my luncheon.
“Monsieur will find the petits carots excellent,” he declared. “My friend Henry, he tries to serve this dish, but it is not the same thing; no! Always the vegetables must be served in the country where they are grown. Monsieur will drink something?”
“A pint of Moselle,” I ordered. “I dare not order whiskey and soda before you, Louis.”
He made a little grimace.
“It is as monsieur wishes,” he declared, “but it is a drink without finesse,—a crude drink for a man of monsieur’s tastes. It shall be the Moselle No. 197,” he added, turning to the waiter. “Do not forget the number. 197,” he added, turning to me, “is an absolutely light wine,—for luncheon, delicious!”
We were alone once more. Louis bent, smiling, over my table.
“Monsieur is much interested,” he said, “in the disappearance of an acquaintance, a passing travelling companion, but he does not ask of affairs which concern him more gravely.”
“Of Tapilow!” I exclaimed quickly.
Louis nodded.
“Tapilow is in an hospital and he will live,” Louis declared slowly, “but all his life he will limp, and all his life he will carry a scar from his forehead to his mouth.”
I nodded meditatively.
“It is, perhaps,” I answered, “a more complete punishment.”
I fancied that in Louis’ green eyes there shot for a moment a gleam of something like admiration.
“Monsieur has courage,” he murmured.
“Why not?” I answered. “We all of us have a certain amount of philosophy, you know, Louis. It was inevitable that when that man and I met, I should try to kill him. I had no weapon that night. I simply took him into my hands. But there, you know the rest. If he had died, I might have had to pay the penalty. It was a risk, but you see I had to take it. The thing was inevitable. The wrong that he had done some one who is very dear to me was too terrible, too hideous, for him to be allowed to go unpunished.”
“When he recovers,” Louis remarked thoughtfully, “monsieur will have an enemy.”
“A great man, Louis, once declared,” I reminded him, “that one’s enemies were the salt of one’s life. One’s friends sometimes weary. One’s enemies give always a zest to existence.”
Again Louis was summoned away. I ate my lunch and sipped my wine. Louis was right. It was excellent, yet likely enough to be overlooked by the casual visitor, for it was of exceedingly moderate price.
So Tapilow was not likely to die! So much the better, perhaps! The time might have come in my life
when the whole of that tragedy lay further back in the shadows, and when the thought that I had killed a man, however much he had deserved it, might chill me. I understood from Louis’ very reticence that I had nothing now to fear from the law. So far as regards Tapilow himself, I had no fear. It was not likely that he would ever raise his hand against me.
I dismissed the subject from my thoughts. It was just then I remembered that, after all, I had not gathered from Louis a single shred of information on the subject in which I was most interested. I almost smiled when I remembered how admirably he had contrived to elude my curiosity. The only thing which I gathered from his manner was that Mr. Delora’s disappearance was unexpected by him. Never mind, the end was not yet! I ordered coffee and a liqueur, and laid my cigarette case upon the table. I would wait until Louis chose to come to me once more. There were certain things which I intended to ask him point blank.
XIV. LOUIS EXPLAINS
Table of Contents
Louis returned of his own accord before long.
“Monsieur has been well served?” he asked genially.
“Excellently, Louis,” I answered, “so far as the mere question of food goes. You have not, however, managed to satisfy my curiosity.”
“Monsieur?” he asked interrogatively.
“Concerning the Deloras,” I answered.
Louis shrugged his shoulders.
“But what should I know?” he asked. “Mr. Delora, he has come here last year and the year before. He has stayed for a month or so. He understands what he eats. That is all. Mademoiselle comes for the first time. I know her not at all.”
“What do you think of his disappearance, Louis?” I asked.
“What should I think of it, monsieur? I know nothing.”
“Mr. Delora, I am told,” I continued, “is a coffee planter in South America.”
“I, too,” Louis admitted, “have heard so much.”
“How came he to have the entrée to the Café des Deux Epingles?” I asked.
Louis smiled.
“I myself,” he remarked, “am but a rare visitor there. How should I tell?”
“Louis,” said I, “why not be honest with me? I am certainly not a person to be afraid of. I am very largely in your hands over the Tapilow affair, and, as you know, I have seen too much of the world to consider trifles. I do not believe that Mr. Delora came to London to sell his crop of coffee. I do not believe that you are ignorant of his affairs. I do not believe that his disappearance is so much a mystery to you as it is to the rest of us—say to me and to mademoiselle his niece.”
Louis’ face was like the face of a sphinx. He made no protestations. He denied nothing. He waited simply to see where I was leading him.
“I am not sure, Louis,” I said, “that I do not believe that you had some object in taking me to the Café des Deux Epingles that night. Be honest with me. I can be a friend. I have influence here and there, and, as I think you know, I love adventures. Tell me what you know of this affair. Tell me if you had any motive in taking me to the Café des Deux Epingles that night?”
Louis looked around the room with keen, watchful eyes. Without abandoning his attitude of graceful attention to what I was saying, he seemed in those few moments to be absorbing every detail of the progress of the affairs in the restaurant itself. The arrangement of the service at some tables a little way off seemed to annoy him. He frowned and called one of his subordinates, speaking in a rapid undertone to him, and with many gestures. The man hurried away to obey his instructions, and Louis turned to me.
“Monsieur,” said he, “there are many times when it is not wise or politic to tell the truth. There are many times, therefore, when I have to speak falsehoods, but I will confess that I do not like it. Always I would prefer the truth, if it were possible. When I saw you at the Opera in Paris I thought of you only as one of my best and most valued patrons. It was only as we stood there talking that another idea came into my head. I acted upon it. There was a reason why I took you to the Café des Deux Epingles!”
“Go on, Louis,” I said. “Go on.”
“I took you there,” Louis continued, “because I knew that some time during the night Tapilow would come. Already I knew what would happen if you two met.”
“You wished it to happen, then?” I exclaimed.
Louis bowed.
“Monsieur,” he said, “I did wish it to happen! The person of whom we have spoken is no friend of mine, or of my friends. He had entered into a scheme with certain of them, and it was known that he meant to play them false. He deserved punishment, and I was content that he should meet it at your hands.”
“Is that all, Louis?” I asked.
“Not all, monsieur,” he continued. “I said to myself that if monsieur quarrels with his enemy, and trouble comes of it, it will be I—I and my friends—who can assist monsieur. Monsieur will owe us something for this, and the time may come—the time, indeed, may be very close at hand—when the services of monsieur might be useful.”
“Come, Louis,” I said, “this is better. Now I am beginning to understand. Go on a little further, if you please. I acknowledge your claim upon me. What can I do?”
“Monsieur likes excitement,” Louis murmured.
“Indeed I do!” I answered fervently.
Louis hesitated.
“If there were some plot against this man Delora,” he said, “to prevent his carrying out some undertaking, monsieur would help to frustrate it?”
“With all my heart,” I answered. “There is only one thing I would ask. What is Mr. Delora’s undertaking?—To sell his coffee?”
Louis’ inimitable smile spread over his face.
“Ah!” he said, “monsieur is pleased to be facetious!”
Then I knew that I was on the point of learning a little, at any rate, of the truth.
“Mr. Delora has other schemes,” Louis said slowly.
“So I imagined,” I answered.
I saw Louis half turn his head. There was no change in his tone nor in his expression. Naturally, therefore, his words sounded a little strangely.
“My conversation with monsieur, for the moment, is finished,” he said. “There is some one quite close who would give a great deal to overhear. It follows, therefore, that one says nothing. If monsieur will grant me a quarter of an hour at any time, in his room, after four o’clock—”
“At half-past four, Louis,” I answered.
Louis gave a final little twist to my tablecloth and departed with a bow. I saw then that at the table next to mine, hidden from me, for the moment, by Louis himself, was seated the man who had stood by our side at Charing Cross!
After luncheon I took a taxicab, called on my tailor, looked in at the club, and bought some cigarettes. The whole of London seemed covered with dust sheets, to smell of paint. My club was in the hands of furbishers. My tobacconist was in his house-boat on the Thames. I met only one or two acquaintances, who seemed so sorry for themselves that their depression was only heightened by recognizing me. The streets were given over to a strangely clad crowd of pilgrims from other lands,—American women with short coats, pince-nez, and Baedekers, dragging along their mankind in neat suits and outrageous hats. One seemed to recognize nothing familiar even in the shop-windows. I was glad enough to get back to the Milan, especially so as in the lift I came upon Felicia. She started a little at seeing me, and seemed a little nervous. When the lift stopped at her floor I got out too.
“Let me walk with you to your room,” I said. “It is nearly four o’clock.”
“If you please,” she answered. “I wanted to speak to you, Capitaine Rotherby. There was something I forgot to say before I went out this morning.”
I sighed.
“There is always a good deal that I forget to say when I am with you!” I answered.
She smiled.
“You, too!” she exclaimed. “You are beginning to say the foolish things! But never mind, we do not joke now. I speak seriously. Louis—Louis
is back, eh?”
“Certainly,” I answered. “He was in the café at luncheon time.”
“Capitaine Rotherby,” she said, as we passed into her room together, “Louis is a very strange person. I think that he has some idea in his head about you just now. Will you promise me this,—that you will be careful?”
“Careful?” I repeated. “I don’t quite understand; but I’ll promise all the same.”
She took hold of the lapels of my coat as though to pull me down a little towards her. I felt my heart beat quickly, for the deep blue light was in her eyes.
“Ah, Capitaine Rotherby,” she said, “you do not understand! This man Louis—he is not only what he seems! I think that he took you to the Café des Deux Epingles that night with a purpose. He thinks, perhaps, that you are in his power, eh, because you did fight with the other man and hurt him badly? And Louis knows!”
“Please go on,” I said.
“I want you to be careful,” she said. “If he asks you to do anything for him, be sure that it is something which you ought to do,—which you may do honorably! You see, Capitaine Rotherby,” she went on, “Louis and his friends are not men like you. They are more subtle,—they have, perhaps, more brain,—but I do not think that they are honest! Louis may try to frighten you into becoming like them. He may try very many inducements,” she went on, looking up at me. “You must not listen. You must promise me that you will not listen.”
“I promise with all my heart,” I answered, “that neither Louis nor any one else in the world shall make me do anything which I feel to be dishonorable.”
“Louis is very crafty,” she whispered. “He may make a thing seem as though it were all right when it is not, you understand?”
“Yes, I understand!” I answered. “But tell me, how did you get to know so much about Louis?”
“It does not matter—that,” she answered, a little impatiently. “I have heard of Louis from others. I know the sort of man he is. I think that he will make some proposal to you. Will you be careful?”
“I promise,” I answered “May I see you again to-day? Remember,” I pleaded, “that I am staying here only for your sake. I ought to have gone to Norfolk this afternoon.”
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