The Lost Ambassador written by E. Phillips Oppenheim
E >>
E. Phillips Oppenheim >> The Lost Ambassador
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 | 7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18
"Oh! I do believe you, Capitaine Rotherby," she said, "and I would be
very, very happy if I could tell you 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?"
"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 cafe 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 habitue of the
place. Such a man, I thought, was wasted as a _maitre d'hotel._
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.
CHAPTER XIV
LOUIS EXPLAINS
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 _entree_ to the Cafe 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 Cafe 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 Cafe
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 Cafe 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 cafe 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
Cafe 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."
She drew a little sigh.
"I wonder!" she said, half to herself. "I think, perhaps,--yes, we
will dine together, monsieur, you and I!" she said. "You must take me
somewhere where it is quite quiet--where no one will see us!"
"Not down in the cafe, then?" I asked smiling.
She held up her hands in horror.
"But no!" she declared. "If it is possible, let us get away somewhere
without Louis knowing."
"It can be arranged," I assured her. "May I come in and see you later
on, and you shall tell me where to meet you?"
She thought for a minute.
"At seven o'clock," she answered. "Please go away now. I have a
dressmaker coming to see me."
I turned away, but I had scarcely gone half a dozen paces before she
called me back.
"Capitaine Rotherby," she said, "there is something to tell you."
I waited expectantly.
"Yes?" I murmured.
She avoided meeting my eyes.
"You need not trouble any further about my uncle," she said. "He has
returned."
"Returned!" I exclaimed. "When?"
"A very short time ago," she answered. "He is very unwell. It will not
be possible for any one to see him for a short time. But he has
returned!"
"I am very glad indeed," I assured her.
Her face showed no signs of exultation or relief. I could not help
being puzzled at her demeanor. She gave me no further explanation.
There was a ring at the door, and she motioned me away.
"The dressmaker!" she exclaimed.
I went upstairs to my rooms to wait for Louis.
CHAPTER XV
A DANGEROUS IMPERSONATION
Louis appeared, as ever, punctual to the moment. He carried a menu
card in his hand. He had the air of having come to take my orders for
some projected feast. I closed the door of the outer hall and the door
of my sitting-room.
"Now, Louis," I said, "we are not only alone, but we are secure from
interruption. Tell me exactly what it is that you have in your mind."
Louis declined the chair to which I waved him. He leaned slightly back
against the table, facing me.
"Captain Rotherby," he said, "I have sometimes thought that men like
yourself, of spirit, who have seen something of the world, must find
it very wearisome to settle down to lead the life of an English farmer
gentleman."
"I am not proposing to do anything of the sort," I answered.
Louis nodded.
"For you," he said, "perhaps it would be impossible. But tell me,
then, what is there that you care to do? I will tell you. You will
give half your time to sport. The rest of the time you will eat and
drink and grow fat. You will go to Marienbad and Carlsbad, and you
will begin to wonder about your digestion, find yourself growing
bald,--you will realize that nothing in the world ages a man so much
as lack of excitement."
"I grant you everything, Louis," I said. "What excitement have you to
offer me?"
"Three nights ago," Louis said, "I saw you myself take a man into your
hands with the intention of killing him. You broke the law!"
"I did," I admitted, "and I would do it again."
"Would you break the law in other ways?" Louis asked.
"Under similar circumstances, yes!" I answered.
"Listen, monsieur," Louis continued. "It is our pleasure to save you
from the unpleasant consequences which would certainly have befallen
you in any other place than the Cafe des Deux Epingles after
your--shall we say misunderstanding?--with James Tapilow."
"I admit my indebtedness, Louis," I answered.
"Will you do something to repay it?" Louis asked, raising his eyes to
mine.
"You will have to tell me what it is first," I said.
"It is concerned with the disappearance of Mr. Delora," Louis said.
"But Mr. Delora has returned!" I exclaimed. "His niece told me so
herself. He has returned, but he is very unwell--confined to his room,
I believe."
"It is the story which has been agreed upon," Louis answered. "We were
obliged to protect ourselves against the police and the newspaper
people, but, nevertheless, it is not the truth. Mr. Delora has not
returned!"
"Does mademoiselle know that?" I asked quickly.
"She does not," Louis admitted. "She has been told exactly what she
told you,--that her uncle had returned, but that he was ill and must
be kept quiet for a little time. It was necessary that she should
believe his room occupied, for reasons which you will understand
later. She shall be told the truth very soon."
I was conscious of a distinct sense of relief. The thought that she
might have told me a falsehood had given me a sudden stab.
"Where is Mr. Delora, then?" I asked.
"That we can guess," Louis said. "We want you to go to him."
"Very well, Louis," I said. "I am perfectly agreeable, only you must
tell me who this Mr. Delora is, why he is in hiding, and who you mean
when you say 'we'."
"Monsieur," Louis said, "if it rested with me alone I would tell you
all these things. I would give you our confidence freely, because we
are a little company who trust freely when we are sure. The others,
however, do not know you as I know you, and I have the right to
divulge only certain things to you. Mr. Delora has come to this
country on a mission of peculiar danger. He has a secret in his
possession which is of immense value, and there are others who are not
our friends who know of it. Mr. Delora had a signal at Charing Cross
that there was danger in taking up his residence here. That is why he
slipped away quietly and is lying now in hiding. If monsieur indeed
desires an adventure, I could propose one to him."
"Go ahead, Louis," I said.
"Let it be understood that Mr. Delora has returned.--As I have already
told you, he has not returned. The door of his room is locked, and no
one is permitted to enter. It is believed that to-night an attempt
will be made to force a way into that room and to rob its occupant."
"The room is empty, you say? There is no one there?" I interrupted.
"Precisely, monsieur," Louis said, "but if some one were there who was
strong and brave it might be possible to teach a lesson to those who
have played us false, and who have planned evil things! If that some
one were you, Captain Rotherby, we should consider--Monsieur Decresson
and the others would consider--that your debt to them was paid!"
Pages:
1 |
2 |
3 |
4 |
5 |
6 | 7 |
8 |
9 |
10 |
11 |
12 |
13 |
14 |
15 |
16 |
17 |
18