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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  The man glanced at the clock and shrugged his shoulders.

  “Perhaps in his office,” he said, “but Monsieur Louis often goes out for an hour about this time.”

  “Where is his office?” I asked.

  The man led me into the service room and turned to the left. He knocked at a closed door, and I heard a sleepy voice say—

  “Come in!”

  I entered, and found Louis in a tiny little sitting-room, curled up on a sofa. In his hand was a pocket-book and a pencil. He appeared to have been making memoranda. He sprang to his feet as I entered.

  “Monsieur!” he exclaimed, putting away the pocket-book and rising to his feet.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Louis,” I said. “Miss Delora is in the little smoking-room, and Bartot is there,—just arrived, I suppose, from Paris. He is terrifying her. She sent me to fetch you.”

  I saw Louis’ lips curl into something which I can only describe as a snarl. After that moment I never even partially trusted him again. He looked like a wild animal, one of those who creep through the hidden places and love to spring upon their prey unseen!

  “So!” he muttered. “I come, monsieur. I come.”

  He followed me out and into the restaurant. As he passed along his features composed themselves. He bent courteously toward me. He even opened the door of the little smoking-room and insisted that I should precede him. I stood on one side then while he went up to the pair. I heard Felicia give a little murmur of relief. Bartot turned round fiercely. The two faced one another, and it seemed to me that unutterable things passed between them. They were like wild animals, indeed,—Louis silent, composed, serene, yet with a jaguar-like glare in his eyes, his body poised, as though to spring or defend himself, as circumstances might dictate. Bartot, who had risen to his feet, was like a clumsy but powerful beast, showing his fierce primitivism through the disguise of clothes and his falsely human form. To me those few seconds were absolutely thrilling! There was another man in the room, who continued writing as though nothing were happening. A couple of strangers passed through on their way to the bar, and seemed to see nothing except the meeting of Louis—the maître d’hôtel—with a possible client. Felicia had let fall her veil, so that her terror was no longer written in her face. She had separated herself now from Bartot, and with an involuntary movement I came over to her side. Then the tension was suddenly broken. It was Louis who showed his teeth, but it was with the razor-edge of civility.

  “Monsieur Bartot is very welcome,” he said, speaking in French. “Monsieur Bartot has promised so often to make this visit, and has always disappointed us.”

  Bartot was no match for this sort of thing. His few muttered words at first were scarcely coherent. Louis bent towards him, always with the same attitude of polite attention.

  “If there is anything I can do,” he said softly. “Monsieur has already, without doubt, selected his rooms. It will give us great pleasure to see him in the café this evening.”

  Bartot commenced to talk, but his voice was almost inaudible, it was so thick with passion.

  “I come to know what it means! It is not for pleasure that I come to this villainous country! I come to know what the game is! I will be told! Mademoiselle here—she tells me that her uncle has been lost, and now that he is ill. She will not let me see him!”

  Louis shrugged his shoulders.

  “Alas!” he said. “That, I know, is quite impossible. Monsieur Delora was taken ill on the voyage over. This gentleman,” he added, turning to me, “will bear me out when I say this. He is now in bed, and a doctor is with him. I am sorry, but it would not be possible to have him disturbed.”

  “Then I wait!” Bartot declared, folding his arms. “I wait till monsieur recovers!”

  “Why not?” Louis asked. “It is what we most desire. We will do our best to make monsieur comfortable here.”

  I felt Felicia’s fingers press my arm. I glanced towards her, and she made a motion toward the door. We moved off, unnoticed, and I rang the bell for the lift.

  “Oh! Capitaine Rotherby,” she exclaimed, “once more you have come to my help! I was so frightened at that man! He did speak to me so angrily, and he did not believe anything I told him. Indeed, it is true that my uncle is ill. You do not disbelieve that, do you, Capitaine Rotherby?”

  The lift arrived a little opportunely for me. Then it stopped at the fifth floor.

  “We must walk softly,” she said. “My uncle is asleep, and the doctor says that he must not be wakened.”

  “You are going to have dinner with me?” I asked.

  “I think so,” she answered. “Yes, I think so! Let us go somewhere a long way off. Take me somewhere quiet, Capitaine Rotherby, where I shall not see any one I know.”

  “I will,” I promised her. “Put on a high-necked gown and a hat. I will take you where there is plenty of music but few people. We will get a quiet table and talk. Indeed,” I continued, “there are several things which I want to say to you, Miss Delora.”

  “And I,” she murmured. “It will be delightful. But step gently, monsieur. He must not be awakened.”

  She pointed to that closed door, and I looked steadfastly into her eyes. It was not possible that she was acting. I was convinced that she believed that her uncle was really in the next room.

  “I call for you here,” I whispered, “at half-past seven.”

  “I shall be ready,” she answered, “quite ready. You must not be late or I shall be impatient. Oh!” she added, with a little impulsive gesture, “I am beginning to hate this place. I begin to long to escape from it forever. I look forward so much to going away,—the further the better, Capitaine Rotherby! I shall be ready when you come. Good-bye!”

  XVII. A VERY SPECIAL DINNER

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  At seven o’clock that evening I passed through the café on my way to the American bar. There was already a good sprinkling of early diners there, and Louis was busy as usual. Directly he saw me, however, he came forward with his usual suave bow.

  “The table in the left-hand corner,” he said, “is engaged for monsieur. I have also taken the liberty of commanding a little dinner.”

  “But I am not dining here, Louis!” I protested.

  Louis’ expression was one of honest surprise.

  “Monsieur is serious?” he inquired. “It is only a short time ago that I was talking with Mademoiselle Delora, and she told me that she was dining with you here.”

  “I am dining with Miss Delora,” I answered, “but I certainly did not understand that it was to be here.”

  Louis smiled.

  “Perhaps,” he remarked, “mademoiselle had, for the moment, the idea of going away for dinner. If so, believe me, she has changed her mind. Monsieur will see when he calls for her.”

  I passed on thoughtfully. There was something about this which I scarcely understood. It seemed almost as though Louis had but to direct, and every one obeyed. Was I, too, becoming one of his myrmidons? Was I, too, to dine at his café because he had spoken the word?

  I made my way to number 157 precisely at half-past seven. Felicia was waiting for me, and for a moment I forgot to ask any questions,—forgot everything except the pleasure of looking at her. She wore a black lace gown,—beautifully cut, and modelled to perfection to reveal the delicate outline of her figure,—a rope of pearls, and a large hat and veil, arranged as only those can arrange them who have learnt how to dress in Paris. She looked at me a little anxiously.

  “You like me?” she asked. “I will do?”

  “You are charming,” I answered, “You take my breath away. Indeed, mademoiselle, I have never dined with any one so charming.”

  She dropped me a little curtsey. Then her face clouded over.

  “There is something I have to ask,” she said, looking at me ruefully. “Do you mind if we dine downstairs?”

  “Louis has already told me that it is your wish,” I answered.

  She picked up the train of her gow
n. I fancied that she turned away in order that I should not see her face.

  “He was so disappointed,” she murmured, “and he has been so kind, I did not like to disappoint him.”

  “How is your uncle?” I asked.

  “I have not yet been allowed to see him,” she answered, “but they tell me that he is better. If he has a good night to-night, to-morrow morning I may go to him.”

  “I certainly hope that he will have a good night!” I remarked. “Shall we go down?”

  “If you are ready,” she answered. “There, you shall carry my purse and handkerchief while I put on my gloves. To put them on is foolish, is it not, when one does not leave the place? Still, one must do these things.”

  “Your purse is heavy,” I remarked, swinging it on my finger.

  “I carry always with me much money,” she answered. “It is my uncle’s idea. Some day, I tell him, one of us will be robbed. He has always one or two hundred pounds in his pocket. I have there fifty or sixty pounds. It is foolish, you think?”

  “I do,” I answered. “It rather seems like asking people to rob you.”

  “Ah, well, they do not know!” she answered, stepping into the lift. “I am hungry, Capitaine Rotherby. I have eaten so little to-day.”

  “Louis has chosen the dinner himself,” I remarked, “so we shall probably find it everything that it should be.”

  We found our way to the table which had been reserved for us, escorted by one of Louis’ subordinates. Louis himself was busy in the distance, arranging the seating of a small dinner-party. He came up to us directly, however. The waiter was serving us with caviare.

  “I hope you will enjoy very much your dinner,” he said, bowing. “I have taken special pains with everything. Two dinners to-night I have ordered with my own lips from the chef. One is yours, and the other the dinner of our friend Monsieur Bartot.”

  He pointed to a table a little distance away, where Monsieur Bartot was already dining. His back was towards us—broad and ugly, with its rolls of fat flesh around the neck, almost concealing the low collar.

  “Some day,” I remarked, “our friend Monsieur Bartot will suffer from apoplexy.”

  “It would not be surprising,” Louis answered. “He is looking very flushed to-night. The chef has prepared for him a wonderful dinner. They say that he is never satisfied. We shall see to-night.”

  I looked away with a little gesture of disgust. Louis was summoned elsewhere, a fact for which I was duly grateful.

  “Tell me, Miss Delora,” I said, “how long have you known Louis?”

  “Oh! for a very long time,” she answered, a little evasively. “He is wonderful, they all say. There is no one quite like him. A rich man has built a great restaurant in New York, and he offered him his own price if he would go and manage it. But Monsieur Louis said ‘No!’ He loves the Continent. He loves London. He will not go so far away.”

  “Monsieur Louis has perhaps, too, other ties here,” I remarked dryly.

  She looked at me across the table meaningly.

  “Ah!” she said, “Louis—he does interest himself in many things. He and my uncle always have had much to say to one another. What it is all about I do not know, but I heard my uncle say once that Louis very soon would be as rich as he himself.”

  “Tell me how long you thought of staying in London?” I asked.

  “It is not sure,” she answered. “My uncle’s business may be settled in a few hours, or it may take him weeks.”

  “The selling of his coffee?” I asked dryly.

  “But certainly!” she answered.

  “And from here you go to where?” I asked.

  “Back to Paris,” she answered, “and then, alas, to South America. It is to be buried!”

  “You have lived long in Paris?” I asked.

  “Since I came there first to boarding-school,” she answered. “A little child I was, with my hair in pigtails and frocks to my knees. I have learned to think, somehow, that Paris is my home. What I have heard of South America I do not love. I wish very much that my uncle would stay here.”

  “There is no chance of that, I suppose?” I asked.

  “I think not,” she answered. “In South America he is a very important man. They speak of him one day as President.”

  “Had you any idea,” I asked, “that he had enemies over here?”

  She shook her head.

  “It is not that,” she said. “We will not talk of it just now. It is not that he has enemies, but he has very, very important business to arrange, and there are some who do not think as he thinks about it. Shall we talk about something else, Capitaine Rotherby? Tell me about your friends or relations, and where you live? I would like so much to know everything.”

  “I am afraid there is not much to tell,” I answered. “You see I am what is called over here a younger son. I have a brother who owns the house in which I was born, and all that sort of thing, and I have had to go out into the world and look for my fortune. So far,” I continued, “I can’t say that I have been very successful.”

  “You are poor, then?” she asked timidly.

  “I am not rich,” I answered. “Still, on the whole, I suppose for a bachelor I am comfortably off. Then my brother has no sons, and his health is always delicate. I do not count on that, of course, but I might have to succeed him.”

  “Tell me his name?” she asked.

  “Lord Welmington,” I answered,—“the Earl of Welmington he is called.”

  “And you would be that,” she asked naively, “if he died?”

  “I should,” I answered, “but I should be very sorry to think that there was any chance of it. I am going to find something to do very soon, probably at one of the embassies on the Continent. The army at home, with no chance of a war, is dull work.”

  “You play games and shoot, of course,” she asked, “like all your countrymen?”

  “I am afraid I do,” I admitted. “I have wasted a good deal of time the last few years. I have made up my mind definitely now, though, that I will get something to do. Ralph—that’s my brother—wants me to stand for Parliament for the division of Norfolk, where we live, and has offered to pay all my expenses, but I am afraid I do not fancy myself as a politician.”

  “I would come and hear you speak,” she murmured.

  “Thank you,” I answered, “but I have other accomplishments at which I shine more. I would rather—”

  I broke off in the middle of my sentence, attracted by a sudden little exclamation from my companion. There was the sound of a heavy fall close at hand. I sprang to my feet.

  “By Jove, it’s Bartot!” I exclaimed.

  The man was leaning half across the table, his arms stretched out in an unnatural fashion,—the wine which he had overturned streaming on to the floor. His face was flushed and blotchy. His eyes were closed. He was groaning quite audibly, and gasping.

  “Empoisonné!” he muttered. “Empoisonné!”

  “Poisoned?” I repeated. “What does the fellow mean?”

  I stopped short. A sudden realization of what he did mean assailed me! He was desperately ill, there was no doubt about that. The word which he had uttered seemed likely to be his last for some time to come. They formed a sort of stretcher and carried him from the room. Felicia was sitting back in her chair, white to the lips. I was feeling a little queer myself. I called Louis, who had been superintending the man’s removal.

  “Louis,” I whispered in his ear, “there were two dinners which you prepared yourself to-night!”

  Louis smiled very quietly.

  “You need have no anxiety, monsieur,” he assured me,—“no anxiety at all!”

  XVIII. CONTRASTS

  Table of Contents

  We sat out in the foyer and took our coffee. I did not suggest a visit to any place of entertainment, as I knew it was better for Felicia to retire early, in order that I might pass through the sitting-room to her uncle’s room, unheard. The orchestra was playing delightfu
l music; the rooms were thronged with a gay and fashionable crowd. Nevertheless, my companion’s spirits, which had been high enough during dinner, now seemed to fail her. More than once during the momentary silence I saw the absent look come into her eyes,—saw her shiver as though she were recalling the little tragedy of a few minutes ago. I had hitherto avoided mentioning it, but I tried now to make light of the matter.

  “I spoke to Louis coming out,” I remarked. “The man Bartot has only had a slight stroke. With a neck like that, I wonder he has not had it before.”

  She found no consolation in my words. She only shook her head sadly.

  “You do not understand,” she said. “It is part of the game. So it goes on, Capitaine Rotherby,” she said, looking at me with her sad eyes. “So it will go on to the end.”

  “Come,” I said, “you must not get morbid.”

  “Morbid,” she repeated. “It is not that. It is because I know.”

  “Do you believe, then,” I asked, “that Bartot was poisoned?”

  She looked at me as though in surprise. Her eyes were like the eyes of a child.

  “I know it!” she answered simply. “There is not any question about it at all.”

  I listened to the music for several moments in silence. Once or twice I stole a glance at her. Notwithstanding a certain perfection of outline, and a toilette which removed her wholly from any suggestion of immaturity, there was yet something childish in the pale, drawn face,—in the eyes with their look of fear. My heart was full of sympathy for her. Such adventures as this one into which I seemed to have stumbled were well enough for men. She, at any rate, was wholly out of place in her present position! I had wild dreams at that moment. The wine and the music, and the absolute trustfulness with which she seemed, for the moment, to have committed herself to my keeping, fired my blood. I had thoughts of taking her hand in mine, of bidding her leave the hotel that night, that minute, with me,—of taking her away into the country, into some quiet place where we could be married, and where none of these things which terrified her could throw their shadows across her life! Yet barely had the thought come to me before I realized how impossible it all was. I, too, was an adventurer! If I were not actually in the power of these men, it was to them that I owed my liberty! My own spirits began to fall. It was a queer maze this into which I had been drawn.