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

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  “For monsieur,” he whispered, setting the wine list upon the table, and under it the note.

  I nodded, and he hastened away. At that moment Bartot turned and came down the room. As he approached he looked at me once more, as though, for some reason or other, he was more than ordinarily interested in my presence. It may have been my fancy, but I thought, also, that he looked at the wine card stretched out before me.

  “Be careful!” Louis whispered. “Be careful! And, for God’s sake, destroy that note!”

  I laughed, and as Bartot was compelled to turn his back to me to regain his seat, this time at the table with his companion, I raised my glass, looking her full in the face, and drank. Then I slipped the note from underneath the wine card into my pocket. She made the slightest of signs, but I understood. I was not to read it until I was alone.

  “Go outside,” Louis whispered to me. “Read your letter and get rid of it.”

  I obeyed him. A watchful waiter pulled the table away, and I walked out into the anteroom. Here, with a freshly lit cigarette in my mouth, I unclenched my fingers, and looked at the few words written very faintly, in long, delicate characters, across the torn sheet of paper:

  Monsieur is in bad company. It would be well for him to lunch to-morrow at the Café de Paris, and to ask for Leon.

  That was all. I tore it into small pieces and returned to my seat, altogether puzzled. It seemed to me that Louis watched me with an incomprehensible anxiety as I resumed my place by his side.

  “If monsieur is ready,” he suggested, “perhaps we had better go.”

  I rose to my feet reluctantly.

  “As you will, Louis,” I said.

  But the time for our departure had not yet come!

  V. SATISFACTION

  Table of Contents

  During the whole of the time people had been coming and going from the restaurant, not, perhaps, in a continual stream, but still at fairly regular intervals. It seemed to me, who had watched them all with interest, that scarcely a person had entered who was not worthy of observation. I saw faces, it is true, which I had seen before at the fashionable haunts of Paris, upon the polo ground, at Longchamps, or in the Bois, yet somehow it seemed to me that they came to this place as different beings. There was a tense look in their faces, a look almost of apprehension, as they entered and passed out,—as of people who have found their way a little further into life than their associates. Louis was right. There was something different about the place, something at which I could only dimly guess, which at that time I did not understand. Only I realized that I watched always with a little thrill of interest whenever the hurrying forward of Monsieur Carvin indicated the arrival of a new visitor.

  We had already risen to go, and the vestiaire was on his way towards us, bearing my hat and coat, when Monsieur Carvin, who had hurried out a moment before, reappeared, ushering in a new arrival. The events that followed have always seemed a little confused to me. My first thought was that this was indeed a nightmare into which I had wandered. The slight unreality which had hung like a cloud over the whole of the evening, the strangeness of my being there with such a companion, the curious atmosphere of the place, which so far had completely puzzled me,—these things may all have served to heighten the illusion. Yet it seemed to me then that, dreaming or waking, this thing with which I was confronted was the last impossibility. I suppose that I must have stared at him like some wild creature, for the conversation around us suddenly stopped. Standing upon the threshold, looking around him with the happy air of an habitue, I saw this man to whom I owed my presence in Paris, this man concerning whom I had sworn that if ever I should meet him face to face my hand should be upon his throat. I remember nothing of my progress, but I know that I stood before him before he was conscious even of my presence. I addressed him by name. I believe that even my voice was not upraised.

  “Tapilow!” I said.

  He turned sharply towards me. I saw him suddenly stiffen, and I saw his right hand dart as though by instinct to his trousers pocket. But I was too quick for him. The blood was surging into my ears. Nothing in the whole room was visible to me but that pale, handsome face with the thin lips and dark, full eyes. I saw those eyes contract as though my hand upon his throat were indeed the touch of Death. I shook him until his collar broke away and his shirt-front flew open, shook him until from his limp body there seemed no longer any shadow of resistance. Then I flung him a little away from me, watching all the time, though, to see that his hand did not move towards that pocket.

  “Tapilow,” I cried, “defend yourself, you coward! Do you want me to strangle you where you stand?”

  He came for me then with the frenzy of a man who is in a desperate strait. He was as strong as I, and he had the advantage in height. For a moment I was borne back. He struck me heavily upon the face, and I made no attempt to defend myself. I waited my time. When it came, I dealt him such a blow that he reeled away, and before he could recover I took him by the back of his neck and flung him from me across the table which our struggle had already half upset. He lay there, a shapeless mass, surrounded by broken glass, streaming wine, a little heap of flowers from the overturned vase. Then the hubbub of the room was suddenly stilled. A dozen hands were laid upon me.

  “For God’s sake, monsieur!” I heard Louis cry.

  Monsieur Carvin led me away. I looked back once more at the prostrate figure and then followed him.

  “This is not my fault,” I said calmly. “He knew quite well that it was bound to happen. I told him that wherever we next met, whether it was in a street or a drawing-room, or any place whatsoever upon the face of the earth, I would deal out his punishment with my own hands, even though it should spell death. Perhaps,” I continued, “you would like to send for the police. You can have my card, if you like.”

  “We do not send for the police here,” Monsieur Carvin said hoarsely. “Louis will take you away at once. Where do you stay?”

  “At the Ritz,” I answered.

  “Keep quiet to-morrow!” he exclaimed. “Louis will come to you. This way.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. At that moment it mattered little to me whether I paid the penalty for what had happened or not. I even looked back for a last time into the restaurant. I saw the strained, eager faces of the people bent forward to watch me. Some of the men had left their seats and come out into the body of the hall to get a better view. The man Delora was among them. The girl was leaning forward in her place, with her fingers upon the table, and her dark eyes riveted with horrible intensity upon the fallen figure. I saw mademoiselle—the turquoise-covered friend of Bartot. She, too, was leaning forward, but her eyes ignored the man upon the floor, and were seeking to meet mine. There was something unreal about the whole scene, something which I was never able afterwards to focus absolutely in my mind as a whole, although disjointed parts of it were always present in my thoughts. But I know that as I looked back she rose a little to her feet and leaned over the table, and heedless of Bartot, who was now by her side, she waved her hand almost as though in approbation. I was within a few feet of her, upon the threshold of the door, and I heard her words, spoken, perhaps, to her companion,—

  “It is so that men should deal with their enemies!”

  A moment later, Louis and I were driving through the streets toward my hotel. It was already light, and we passed a great train of market wagons coming in from the country. Along the Boulevard, into which we turned, was sprinkled a curious medley of wastrels of the night, and men and women on their way to work. It had been raining a little time before, but as we turned to descend the hill a weak sunshine flickered out from behind the clouds.

  “It is later than I thought,” I remarked calmly.

  “It is half-past five o’clock,” answered Louis.

  He accompanied me all the way to the hotel. He asked for no explanation, nor did I volunteer any. As we drove into the Place Vendôme, however, he leaned towards me.

  “Monsieur is aware,”
he said, “that he has run a great risk to-night?”

  “Very likely,” I answered, “but, Louis, there are some things which one is forced to do, whatever the risk may be. This was one of them.”

  “You have courage,” Louis whispered. “Let me tell you this. There were men there to-night, men on every side of you, to whom courage is as the breath of life. They have seen a man whom nobody loved treated as he probably deserved. Let me tell you that there is no place in the world where you could have struck so safely as to-night. Remain in the hotel to-morrow until you hear from some of us. I may not promise too much, but I think—I believe—that we can save you.”

  At that moment Louis’ words meant little to me. I was still under the spell of those few wonderful moments, still mad with the joy of having taken the vengeance for which every nerve in my body had craved. It was not until afterwards that their practical import came home to me.

  VI. AN INFORMAL TRIBUNAL

  Table of Contents

  I was awakened about midday by the valet de chambre, who informed me that a gentleman was waiting below to see me—a gentleman who had given the name of Monsieur Louis. I ordered him to prepare my bath and bring my coffee. When Louis was shown upstairs I was seated on the edge of my bed in my dressing-gown, smoking my first cigarette.

  Louis had the appearance of a man who had not slept. As for myself, I had never opened my eyes from the moment when my head had touched the pillow. I had no nerves, and I had done nothing which I regretted. I fancy, therefore, that my general appearance and reception of him somewhat astonished my early visitor. He seemed, indeed, to take my nonchalance almost as an affront, and he proceeded at once to try and disturb it.

  “Monsieur was expecting, perhaps, another sort of visitor?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “I really hadn’t thought about it,” I said. “After what you told me last night I have been feeling quite comfortable.”

  “Do you know that it is doubtful whether Monsieur Tapilow will live?” Louis asked.

  “It was the just payment of a just debt,” I answered.

  “The law,” he objected, “does not permit such adjustments.”

  “The law,” I answered, “can do what it pleases with me.”

  Louis regarded me steadily for a moment or two, and I fancied that there was something of that admiration in his gaze which a cautious man sometimes feels for the foolhardy.

  “Monsieur has slept well?” he asked.

  “Excellently,” I answered.

  He glanced at the watch which he had taken from his waistcoat pocket.

  “In twenty minutes,” he announced, “we must be at the Café Normandy.”

  I raised my eyebrows.

  “Indeed!” I said dryly. “I don’t exactly follow you.”

  Louis shrugged his shoulders.

  “Monsieur,” he said, “it is no time, this, for the choice of words. There is a man who lies very near to death up there in the Café des Deux Epingles, and it must be decided within the next few hours what is to be done with him.”

  “I am not sure that I understand, Louis,” I said, lighting a cigarette.

  “You will understand at the Café Normandy in half an hour’s time,” Louis answered. “In the meanwhile, have you a servant? If not, summon the valet de chambre. You must dress quickly. It is important, this.”

  “I will dress in ten minutes,” I replied, “but I must shave before I go out. That will take me another ten. In the meantime, perhaps you will kindly tell me what it all means?”

  “What it all means!” Louis repeated, with upraised hands. “Is it not clear? Have you forgotten what happened only a few hours ago? It rests with one or two people as to whether you shall be given up to the police for what you did last night,—does monsieur understand that?—the police!”

  “To tell you the truth, Louis,” I answered, “I never dreamed of escaping from them. It did not seem possible.”

  “In which case?” Louis asked slowly.

  I pointed to the revolver upon my mantelpiece.

  “We all,” I remarked, “make the mistake of overestimating the actual importance of life.”

  Louis shivered a little. I noticed both then and afterwards that he was never comfortable in the presence of firearms.

  “A last resource, of course,” I said, “but one should always be prepared!”

  “In this city,” Louis said, “it is not as in London. In London there are no corners which are not swept bare by your police. In London, by this time you would have been sitting in a prison cell.”

  “That,” I remarked, “is doubtless true. So much the more fortunate for me that I should have met Monsieur Tapilow in Paris and not in London. But will you tell me, Louis, why you want me to go with you to the Café Normandy, and how you think it will help me?”

  “It would take too long,” Louis answered. “We will talk in the carriage, perhaps. You must not delay now—not one moment.”

  I humored him by hastening my preparations, and we left the place together a few minutes later. There were many things which I desired to ask him with regard to the events of last night and the place to which he had taken me, but as though by mutual consent neither of us spoke of these things. When we were already, however, about half way towards the famous restaurant which was our destination I could not keep silence any longer.

  “Louis,” I said, “tell me about this little excursion of ours. Who are these men whom we are going to meet?”

  He turned towards me. The last few hours seemed to have brought us into a greater intimacy. He addressed me by name, and his manner, although it was still respectful enough, was somehow altered.

  “Captain Rotherby,” he said, “you do not seem to appreciate the position in which you stand. You are young, and life is hot in your veins, and yet to-day, as you sit there, your liberty is forfeit,—perhaps even, if Tapilow should die, your life! Have you ever heard any stories, I wonder,” he added, leaning a little toward me, “about French prisons?”

  “Are you trying to frighten me, Louis?” I asked.

  “No!” he answered, “but I want you to realize that you are in a very serious position.”

  “I know that,” I answered. “Don’t think, Louis,” I continued, “that what I did last night was the result of a rash impulse. I had sworn since a certain day in the autumn of last year that the first time I came face to face with that man, whether it was in the daytime or the nighttime, in a friend’s house or on the street, I would punish him. Well, I have kept my word. I had to. I have had my fill of vengeance. He can go through the rest of his life, so far as I am concerned, unharmed. But what I did, I was bound to do, and I am ready to face the consequences, if necessary.”

  Louis nodded sympathetically.

  “Monsieur,” said he, “you have but to talk like that to convince the men whom you will meet in a few moments that you had a real grievance against Tapilow, and all may yet be well.”

  “Who are these men?” I asked. “Is it a police court to which you are taking me?”

  “Monsieur,” Louis answered, “there are things which I cannot any longer conceal from you. I myself, believe me, am merely an outsider. I am, as you know, a hardworking man with a responsible position and a family to support. But here in Paris I come on to the fringe of a circle of life with which I have no direct connection, and yet whose happenings sometimes touch upon the lives of my friends and intimates. It is a circle of life into which is drawn much that is splendid, much that is brilliant; but, monsieur, it is life outside the law, life which does as it thinks fit, which lives its own way, and recognizes no laws save its own interests.”

  I nodded.

  “Go on, Louis, please,” I said, “Tell me, for example, who these men are whom I am going to meet.”

  “They are men,” Louis answered, “who have great influence in that world of which I spoke. The law cannot touch them, or if it could it would not. They wield a power greater than the power which d
rives the wheels of government in this country. If they hear your story, and they think well, you will go free, even though the man Tapilow should die.”

  “You believe this, Louis?” I asked curiously.

  “I am sure of it,” he answered.

  It was not for me to dispute what he said. I merely shrugged my shoulders. Yet, as a matter of fact, I was expecting every moment to find the hand of a gendarme upon my shoulder. I expected it as the carriage stopped before the restaurant and we crossed the pavement. I expected it even when two men who were sitting in the anteroom of the restaurant rose up to meet us. Louis, standing between, performed an introduction.

  “Monsieur Decresson and Monsieur Grisson,” he said, stretching out his hand, “permit me to make you acquainted with Monsieur le Capitaine Rotherby, a retired officer in the English army, and brother of the Earl of Welmington.”

  The two men bowed politely and held out their hands. They were both typical well-dressed, good-looking Frenchmen, apparently of the upper class. Monsieur Decresson had a narrow black beard, a military moustache, a high forehead, pale complexion, and thoughtful eyes. Monsieur Grisson was shorter, with lighter-colored hair, something of a fop in his attire, and certainly more genial in his manner.

  “It is a pleasure,” they both declared, “to have the honor of meeting Monsieur le Capitaine.”

  The usual inanities followed. Then Monsieur Decresson pointed with his hand into the restaurant.

  “If monsieur will do us the honor to join us,” he said, “we will take luncheon. Afterwards,” he continued, “we can talk over our coffee and liqueurs. It would be well for us to become better acquainted.”