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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  He found an excellent box reserved for him, and a measure of courtesy from the attendants not often vouchsafed to an ordinary visitor. The opera was Samson and Delilah, and even before her wonderful voice thrilled the house, it seemed to Laverick that no person more lovely than the woman he had come to see had ever moved upon any stage. It appeared impossible that movement so graceful and passionate should remain so absolutely effortless. There seemed to be some strange power inside the woman. Surely her will guided her feet! The necessity for physical effort never once appeared. Notwithstanding the slight prejudice which he had felt against her, it was impossible to keep his admiration altogether in check. The fascination of her wonderful presence, and then her glorious voice, moved him with the rest of the audience. He clapped as the others did at the end of the first act, and he leaned forward just as eagerly to catch a glimpse of her when she reappeared and stood there with that marvelous smile upon her lips, accepting with faint, deprecating gratitude the homage of the packed house.

  Just before the curtain rose upon the second act, there was a knock at his box door. One of the attendants ushered in a short man of somewhat remarkable personality. He was barely five feet in height, and an extremely fat neck and a corpulent body gave him almost the appearance of a hunchback. He had black, beady eyes, a black moustache fiercely turned up, and sallow skin. His white gloves had curious stitchings on the back not common in England, and his silk hat, exceedingly glossy, had wider brims than are usually associated with Bond Street.

  Laverick half rose, but the little man spread out one hand and commenced to speak. His accent was foreign, but, if not an Englishman, he at any rate spoke the language with confidence.

  “My dear sir,” he began, “I owe you many apologies. It was Mademoiselle Idiale’s wish that I should make your acquaintance. My name is Lassen. I have the fortune to be Mademoiselle’s business manager.

  “I am very glad to meet you, Mr. Lassen,” said Laverick. “Will you sit down?”

  Mr. Lassen thereupon hung his hat upon a peg, removed his overcoat, straightened his white tie with the aid of a looking-glass, brushed back his glossy black hair with the palms of his hands, and took the seat opposite Laverick. His first question was inevitable.

  “What do you think of the opera, sir?”

  “It is like Mademoiselle Idiale herself,” Laverick answered. “It is above criticism.”

  “She is,” Mr. Lassen said firmly, “the loveliest woman in Europe and her voice is the most wonderful. It is a great combination, this. I myself have managed for many stars, I have brought to England most of those whose names are known during the last ten years; but there has never been another Louise Idiale,—never will be.”

  “I can believe it,” Laverick admitted.

  “She has wonderful qualities, too,” continued Mr. Lassen. “Your acquaintance with her, I believe, sir, is of the shortest.”

  “That is so,” Laverick answered, a little coldly. He was not particularly taken with his visitor.

  “Mademoiselle has spoken to me of you,” the latter proceeded. “She desired that I should pay my respects during the performance.”

  “It is very kind of you,” Laverick answered. “As a matter of fact, it is exceedingly kind, also, of Mademoiselle Idiale to insist upon my coming here to-night. She did me the honor, as you may know, of paying me a visit in the city this morning.”

  “So she did tell me,” Mr. Lassen declared. “Mademoiselle is a great woman of business. Most of her investments she controls herself. She has whims, however, and it never does to contradict her. She has also, curiously enough, a preference for the men of affairs.”

  Laverick had reached that stage when he felt indisposed to discuss Mademoiselle any longer with a stranger, even though that stranger should be her manager. He nodded and took up his programme. As he did so, the curtain rang up upon the next act. Laverick turned deliberately towards the stage. The little man had paid his respects, as he put it. Laverick felt disinclined for further conversation with him. Yet, though his head was turned, he knew very well that his companion’s eyes were fixed upon him. He had an uncomfortable sense that he was an object of more than ordinary interest to this visitor, that he had come for some specific object which as yet he had not declared.

  “You will like to go round and see Mademoiselle,” the latter remarked, some time afterwards.

  Laverick shook his head.

  “I shall find another opportunity, I hope, to congratulate her.”

  “But, my dear sir, she expects to see you,” Mr. Lassen protested. “You are here at her invitation. It is usual, I can assure you.”

  “Mademoiselle Idiale will perhaps excuse me,” Laverick said. “I have an engagement immediately after the performance is over.”

  His companion muttered something which Laverick could not catch, and made some excuse to leave the box a few minutes later. When he returned, he carried a little, note which he presented to Laverick with an air of triumph.

  “It is as I said!” he exclaimed. “Mademoiselle expects you.”

  Laverick read the few lines which she had written.

  I wish to see you after the performance. If you cannot come round or escort me yourself, will you come later to the restaurant of Luigi, where, as always, I shall sup. Do not fail.

  Louise Idiale.

  Laverick placed the note in his waistcoat pocket without immediate remark. Later on he turned to his companion.

  “Will you tell Mademoiselle Idiale,” he said, “that I will do myself the honor of coming to her at Luigi’s restaurant. I have an engagement after the performance which I must keep.”

  “You will certainly come?” Lassen asked anxiously.

  “Without a doubt,” Laverick promised.

  Mr. Lassen took up his hat…

  “I will go and tell Mademoiselle. For some reason or other she seemed particularly desirous of seeing you this evening. She has her whims, and those who have most to do with her, like myself, find it well to keep them gratified. If I do not see you again, sir, permit me to wish you good evening.”

  He disappeared with several bows of his pudgy little person, and Laverick was left with another puzzle to solve. He was not in the least conceited, and he did not for a moment misinterpret this woman’s interest in him. Her invitation, he knew very well, was one which half London would have coveted. Yet it meant nothing personal, he was sure of that. It simply meant that for some mysterious reason, the same reason which had prompted her to visit him in the city he was of interest to her.

  At a few minutes before eleven Laverick left the place and drove to the stage-door of the Universal Theatre. Zoe came out among the first and paused upon the threshold, looking up and down the street eagerly. When she recognized him, her smile was heavenly.

  “Oh, how nice of you!” she exclaimed, stepping at once into his taxicab. “You don’t know how different it feels to hope that there is some one waiting for you and then to find your hope come true. To-night I was not sure. You had said nothing about it, and yet I could not help believing that you would be here.”

  “I was hoping,” he said, “that we might have another supper together. Unfortunately, I have an engagement.”

  “An engagement?” she repeated, her face falling.

  Laverick loved the truth and he seldom hesitated to tell it.

  “It is rather an odd thing,” he declared. “You remember that woman at Luigi’s last night—Mademoiselle Idiale?”

  “Of course.”

  “She came to my office to-day and gave me six thousand pounds to invest for her. She made me take her out and show her where the murder was committed, and asked a great many questions about it. Then she insisted that I should go and hear her sing this evening, and I find that I was expected to take her on to supper afterwards. I excused myself for a little while, but I have promised to go to Luigi’s, where she will be.”

  The girl was silent for a moment.

  “Where are we going now, then?”
she asked.

  “Wherever you like. I can take you home first, or I can leave you anywhere.”

  She looked at him with a piteous little smile.

  “The last two nights you have spoiled me,” she said. “I have so many evil thoughts and I am afraid to go home.”

  “I am sorry. If I could think of anything or anywhere—”

  “No, you must take me home, please,” said she. “It was selfish of me. Only Mademoiselle Idiale is such a wonderful person. Do you think that she will want you every night?”

  “Of course not,” he laughed. “Come, I will make an engagement with you. We will have supper together to-morrow evening.”

  She brightened up at once.

  “I wonder,” she asked timidly, a few minutes afterwards, “have you heard anything from Arthur? He promised to send a telegram from Queenstown.”

  Laverick shook his head. He said nothing about the marconigram he had sent, or the answer which he had received informing him that there was no such person on board. It seemed scarcely worth while to worry her.

  “I have heard nothing,” he replied. “Of course, he must be half-way to America by now.”

  “There have been no more inquiries about him?” she asked.

  “No more than the usual ones from his friends, and a few creditors. The latter I am paying as they come. But there is one thing you ought to do with me. I think we ought to go to his rooms and lock up his papers and letters. He never even went back, you know, after that night.”

  She nodded thoughtfully.

  “When would you like to do this?”

  “I am so busy just now that I am afraid I can spare no time until Monday afternoon. Would you go with me then?”

  “Of course… My time is my own. We have no matinee, and I have nothing to do except in the evening.”

  They had reached her home. It looked very dark and very uninviting. She shivered as she took her latchkey from the bag which she was carrying.

  “Come in with me, please, while I light the gas,” she begged. “It looks so dreary, doesn’t it?”

  “You ought to have some one with you,” he declared, “especially in a part like this.”

  “Oh, I am not really afraid,” she answered. “I am only lonely.”

  He stood in the passage while she felt for a box of matches and lit the gas jet. In the parlor there was a bowl of milk standing waiting for her, and some bread.

  “Thank you so much,” she said. “Now I am going to make up the fire and read for a short time. I hope that you will enjoy your supper—well, moderately,” she added, with a little laugh.

  “I can promise you,” he answered, “that I shall enjoy it no more than last night’s or to-morrow night’s.”

  She sighed.

  “Poor little me!” she exclaimed. “It is not fair to have to compete with Mademoiselle Idiale. Good night!”

  Something he saw in her eyes moved him strangely as he turned away.

  “Would you like me,” he asked hesitatingly, “supposing I get away early—would you like me to come in and say good night to you later on?”

  Her face was suddenly flushed with joy.

  “Oh, do!” she begged. “Do!”

  He turned away with a smile.

  “Very well,” he said. “Don’t shut up just yet and I will try.”

  “I shall stay here until three o’clock,” she declared,—“until four, even. You must come. Remember, you must come. See.”

  She held out to him her key.

  “I can knock at the door,” he protested. “You would hear me.”

  “But I might fall asleep,” she answered. “I am afraid. If you have the key, I am sure that you will come.”

  He put it in his waistcoat pocket with a laugh.

  “Very well,” he said, “if it is only for five minutes, I will come.”

  XXIV. A SUPPER PARTY AT LUIGI’S

  Table of Contents

  Laverick walked into Luigi’s Restaurant at about a quarter to twelve, and found the place crowded with many little supper-parties on their way to a fancy dress ball. The demand for tables was far in excess of the supply, but he had scarcely shown himself before the head maitre d’hotel came hurrying up.

  “Mademoiselle Idiale is waiting for you, sir,” he announced at once. “Will you be so good as to come this way?”

  Laverick followed him. She was sitting at the same table as last night, but she was alone, and it was laid, he noticed with surprise, only for two.

  “You have treated me,” she said, as she held out her fingers, “to a new sensation. I have waited for you alone here for a quarter of an hour—I! Such a thing has never happened to me before.”

  “You do me too much honor,” Laverick declared, seating himself and taking up the carte.

  “Then, too,” she continued, “I sup alone with you. That is what I seldom do with any man. Not that I care for the appearance,” she added, with a contemptuous wave of the hand. “Nothing troubles me less. It is simply that one man alone wearies me. Almost always he will make love, and that I do not like. You, Mr. Laverick, I am not afraid of. I do not think that you will make love to me.”

  “Any intentions I may have had,” Laverick remarked, with a sigh, “I forthwith banish. You ask a hard task of your cavaliers, though, Mademoiselle.”

  She smiled and looked at him from under her eyelids.

  “Not of you, I fancy, Mr. Laverick,” she said. “I do not think that you are one of those who make love to every woman because she is good-looking or famous.”

  “To tell you the truth,” Laverick admitted, “I find it hard to make love to any one. I often feel the most profound admiration for individual members of your sex, but to express one’s self is difficult—sometimes it is even embarrassing. For supper?”

  “It is ordered,” she declared. “You are my guest.”

  “Impossible!” Laverick asserted firmly. “I have been your guest at the Opera. You at least owe me the honor of being mine for supper.”

  She frowned a little. She was obviously unused to being contradicted.

  “I sup with you, then, another night,” she insisted. “No,” she continued, “If you are going to look like that, I take it back. I sup with you to-night. This is an ill omen for our future acquaintance. I have given in to you already—I, who give in to no man. Give me some champagne, please.”

  Laverick took the bottle from the ice-pail by his side, but the sommelier darted forward and served them.

  “I drink to our better understanding of one another, Mr. Laverick,” she said, raising her glass, “and, if you would like a double toast, I drink also to the early gratification of the curiosity which is consuming you.”

  “The curiosity?”

  “Yes! You are wondering all the time why it is that I chose last night to send and have you presented to me, why I came to your office in the city to-day with the excuse of investing money with you, why I invited you to the Opera to-night, why I commanded you to supper here and am supping with you alone. Now confess the truth; you are full of curiosity, is it not so?”

  “Frankly, I am.”

  She smiled good-humoredly.

  “I knew it quite well. You are not conceited. You do not believe, as so many men would, that I have fallen in love with you. You think that there must be some object, and you ask yourself all the time, ‘What is it?’ in your heart, Mr. Laverick, I wonder whether you have any idea.”

  Her voice had fallen almost to a whisper. She looked at him with a suggestion of stealthiness from under her eyelids, a look which only needed the slightest softening of her face to have made it something almost irresistible.

  “I can assure you,” Laverick said firmly, “that I have no idea.”

  “Do you remember almost my first question to you?” she asked.

  “It was about the murder. You seemed interested in the fact that my office was within a few yards of the passage where it occurred.”

  “Quite right,” she admitte
d. “I see that your memory is very good. There, then, Mr. Laverick, you have the secret of my desire to meet you.”

  Laverick drank his wine slowly. The woman knew! Impossible! Her eyes were watching his face, but he held himself bravely. What could she know? How could she guess?

  “Frankly,” he said, “I do not understand. Your interest in me arises from the fact that my offices are near the scene of that murder. Well, to begin with, what concern have you in that?”

  “The murdered man,” she declared thoughtfully, “was an acquaintance of mine.”

  “An acquaintance of yours!” Laverick exclaimed. “Why, he has not been identified. No one knows who he was.”

  She raised her eyebrows very slightly.

  “Mr. Laverick,” she murmured, “the newspapers do not tell you everything. I repeat that the murdered man was an acquaintance of mine. Only three days ago I traveled part of the way from Vienna with him.”

  Laverick was intensely interested.

  “You could, perhaps, throw some light, then, upon his death?”

  “Perhaps I could,” she answered. “I can tell you one thing, at any rate, Mr. Laverick, if it is news to you. At the time when he was murdered, he was carrying a very large sum of money with him. This is a fact which has not been spoken of in the Press.”

  Once again Laverick was thankful for those nerves of his. He sat quite still. His face exhibited nothing more than the blank amazement which he certainly felt.

  “This is marvelous,” he said. “Have you told the police?”

  “I have not,” she answered. “I wish, if I can, to avoid telling the police.”

  “But the money? To whom did it belong?”

  “Not to the murdered man.”

  “To any one whom you know of?” he inquired.

  “I wonder,” she said, after a moment of hesitation, “whether I am telling you too much.”