A Maker of History by E. Phillips Oppenheim (the lemonade war series TXT) 📕

he chooses to make a present to these ladies in return—why, no doubt they will be charmed. Me, I presume, he has no intention to insult. Permit me, Monsieur."

He drew a card from a small gold case, and presented it to Duncombe, who accepted it with a little bow.

"If I can aid you in any way," Monsieur Louis continued, "I am entirely at your service, but I require first of all that in addressing us you recognize my position as a French nobleman, who amuses himself in this place as you, Monsieur, also do, and also that you unlock that door."

Duncombe smiled quietly.

"Monsieur le Baron," he said, "I think that we are very well as we are—secure from interruption. I have sent others here on this same mission, and they did not succeed. Both of these ladies, I believe, have been approached for the information I desire, and they have thought well to withhold it. I have set my heart upon success this time, and I wish to secure at least the opportunity of being heard."

Monsieur Louis shrugged his shoulders.

"There are secrets," he murmured; "affairs of honor——"

Duncombe interrupted him.

"Monsieur Louis," he said, "I am not so young as I look, and I have lived in Paris. I know that this café, for all its outward smartness, bears perhaps the worst reputation in Europe. I have heard of you three many times—the 'Trinity from Hell,' they call you sometimes, I think. You see I know where I am and the risk I run. Even this little room has its secrets—a murder or two, I believe, and other things—secrets which I don't suppose there is gold enough in France to buy. Well, I don't want to buy them. You can go your way so far as I am concerned. There is only one thing I want to know from you, and for that I offer you—the ladies, of course, I mean—five thousand francs each."

"Five thousand francs!" Madame murmured.

Mademoiselle Flossie said nothing, but her eyes shone.

"The question, Monsieur?"

"What has become of Mademoiselle Phyllis Poynton, the young English lady?"

The eyes of Madame seemed to narrow for a moment. Monsieur Louis lit a cigarette with fingers which shook a little, and the fair face of Mademoiselle Flossie was suddenly white. Then they all three looked at one another.

"Do you know whom Monsieur may mean?"

"Not I!"

"An English girl! There are none come here."

"Mademoiselle Poynton! It is a name unheard of."

The young Englishman smiled upon them grimly.

"Madame," he said, "you have in your satchel—don't move, if you please—a roll of French notes—indeed you must not move—very cleverly abstracted from my pocket by my charming young companion, Mademoiselle Flossie here. Now I have at least half a dozen friends in the café below whom I could summon here by touching that bell, and the identification of those notes would be a perfectly simple matter. Shall I do it? Or will you earn another roll by giving me the information I seek?"

Madame leaned forward and whispered in the man's ear. Monsieur Louis nodded.

"Tell him," Mademoiselle Flossie murmured tremulously. "Monsieur will not break faith with us. He will not let it be known from whence he gained the knowledge."

"Agreed!" the young Englishman declared. "Go on."

Madame held up her hand.

"I," she said, "will tell Monsieur what we know."

She rose to her feet and leaned over the table. The blue-black sequins on her dress glittered and shone in the dull light. Her figure was superb, her neck and bosom a flawless white. The Englishman, however, was unmoved. His keen gray eyes were fixed upon her, but the revolver remained in his right hand. From downstairs they could hear the music of violins, the rattle of glasses, the hum of voices and laughter. Madame frowned slightly as she marked the young Englishman's alertness. She was used to victims, and his imperturbability annoyed her.

"I trust," she said, "that you will remember, Monsieur, that I am breaking a pledged word. If Monsieur the Director here knew that I was telling you of Mademoiselle Poynton there would be much trouble for all of us."

Duncombe nodded.

"Go on," he said.

"Mademoiselle came here first about a month or perhaps six weeks ago," she said. "From that time on she was a regular visitor. She came alone. She spoke to no one. She was always a mystery. She was very handsomely dressed—for an English girl, quite chic! She spent money, and Monsieur Albert the director kept always a table for her. As time went on we began to feel the mystery. We asked ourselves for what purpose does she come here? For what, indeed!

"One night Monsieur Albert, who was always besieged with questions about her, took too much wine. I have seen that happen with him but once—since that time never. He told us about Mademoiselle. She made some inquiries about her brother, and Monsieur Albert was able to tell her his whereabouts. After that he scarcely expected to see her again, but the next night she was here also.

"Then Monsieur Albert learned more. Mademoiselle was in a small way an artist, and she had conceived the idea of painting a picture of the café—an early morning picture of effects, Monsieur understands. There was to be the morning sunlight streaming across the supper-tables, the faces of all of us aged and haggard. Monsieur Louis here, without doubt, a very child of the devil! Oh, a very moral picture, Monsieur. It was to convert us all. Monsieur Albert declared that he would arrange to have it here on exhibition, and we should all mend our ways. Monsieur knew perhaps that the young lady was an artist?"

The question was flashed suddenly upon him as though the intention was to take him by surprise. Duncombe, however, remained unmoved.

"I am here, Madame, to ask, not to answer, questions," he said. "Will you kindly proceed? I am greatly interested."

Madame put her hand to her throat for a moment as though to loosen her necklace. She had not the appearance of being greatly in love with her questioner.

"There came a night," she continued, "when Mademoiselle broke through her rule. A man came in and sat at her table. His name was the Vicomte D'Aubarde, and he was known to most of us, though to the young lady he appeared to be a stranger. They talked earnestly for an hour or more. When she left—he accompanied her!"

The Englishman had grown paler. Madame saw it and smiled. Her lover perhaps! It was good to make him suffer.

"Flossie here," she continued, "was outside, and saw them depart. They drove off together in the Vicomte's coupé. They were apparently on the best of terms. Since then we have not seen her again—nor the Vicomte. Monsieur knows now as much as we know."

"And how long ago is that?" Duncombe asked quietly.

"A week to-night," Madame replied.

Duncombe laid down a roll of notes upon the table.

"I wish," he said, "to prove to you that I am in earnest. I am therefore going to pay you the amount I promised, although I am perfectly well aware that the story of Madame is—false!"

"Monsieur!"

"As I remarked," he repeated, "false. Now listen to me. I want to tempt one of you, I don't care which, to break through this thieves' compact of yours. I have paid a thousand francs for lies—I will pay ten thousand francs for truth! Ten thousand francs for the present whereabouts of Mademoiselle Phyllis Poynton!"

Mademoiselle Flossie looked up at him quickly. Then she glanced furtively at Madame, and the flash of Madame's eyes was like lightning upon blue steel. Duncombe moved towards the door.

"I will pay the bill downstairs," he said. "Good night! Think over what I have said. Ten thousand francs!"

Monsieur Louis stood up and bowed stiffly. Mademoiselle Flossie ventured to throw him a kiss. Madame smiled inscrutably.

The door closed. They heard him go downstairs. Madame picked up his card and read aloud.

Sir George Duncombe,
Risley Hall,
Norfolk.

Grand Hotel, Paris.

"If one could only," Madame murmured, "tell him the truth, collect the money—and——"

"And," Flossie murmured, half fearfully.

Monsieur le Baron smiled!

CHAPTER IX THE STORY OF A CALL

Mademoiselle Mermillon was not warmly welcomed at the Grand Hotel. The porter believed that Sir George Duncombe was out. He would inquire, if Mademoiselle would wait, but he did not usher her into the drawing-room, as would have been his duty in an ordinary case, or even ask her to take a seat.

Mademoiselle Mermillon was of the order of young person who resents, but this afternoon she was far too nervous. During the porter's temporary absence she started at every footstep, and scrutinized anxiously every passer-by. Often she looked behind her through the glass doors into the street. When at last he reappeared alone her disappointment was obvious.

"Sir George Duncombe is out, Mademoiselle," he announced. "Will you be pleased to leave a message, or your name?"

"You do not know how long he will be?" she inquired.

"Sir George left no word," the man answered. "He has been out since before déjeuner."

Mademoiselle decided to leave a note. The porter supplied her with notepaper and envelopes. She sat down at a small round table, and once more glanced furtively around. Convinced that she was not being watched, she hastily wrote a few lines, sealed and addressed the envelope, and handed it to the porter.

"You will give this to Sir George immediately he returns," she begged. "It is important."

"Monsieur shall have it without doubt, Mademoiselle," the man answered.

She pulled down her veil and left the place hurriedly. When she reached the boulevard she slackened her pace, and drew a little breath of relief.

"Ten thousand francs!" she murmured to herself. "If I took that with me they would receive me at home. I might start all over again. It is worth a little risk. Heavens, how nervous I am!"

She entered a café and drank à petit verre. As she set her glass down a man looked at her over the top of his newspaper. She tried to smile, but her heart was beating, and she was sick with fear.

"What a fool I am!" she muttered. "It is a stranger, too. If he were one of Gustav's lot I should know him."

She returned his smile, and he came and sat down beside her. They had another liqueur. Later they left the place together.

Duncombe returned to his hotel tired out after a disappointing day spent in making fruitless inquiries in various parts of Paris. He had learnt nothing. He seemed as far off the truth as ever. He opened the note which the porter handed him listlessly enough. Afterwards, however, it was different. This is what he read:—