LOUIS, MAITRE D'HOTEL
I measured out that quarter of an hour into minutes, and almost into
seconds. Then I knocked at the door of the sitting-room, and was
bidden enter by Felicia Delora herself. She was alone, but she was
dressed for the street, and was apparently just leaving the hotel
again. Her clothes were of fashionable make, and cut with the most
delightful simplicity. Her toilette was that of the ideal Frenchwoman
who goes out for a morning's shopping, and may possibly lunch in the
Bois. She was still very pale, however, and the dark lines under her
eyes seemed to speak of a sleepless night. I fancied that she welcomed
me a little shyly. She dropped her veil almost at once, and she did
not ask me to sit down.
"I hope that you have some news this morning of your uncle, Miss
Delora?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"I have not heard--anything of importance," she answered.
"I am sorry," I said. "I am afraid that you must be getting very
anxious."
She bent over the button of her glove.
"Yes," she admitted. "I am very anxious! I am very anxious indeed. I
scarcely know what to do."
"Tell me, then," I said, "why do you not let me go with you to the
police and have some inquiries made? If you prefer it, we could go to
a private detective. I really think that something ought to be done."
She shook her head.
"I dare not," she said simply.
"Dare not?" I repeated.
"Because when he returns," she explained, "he would be so very, very
angry with me. He is a very eccentric man--my uncle. He does strange
things, and he allows no one to question his actions."
"But he has no right," I declared hotly, "to leave you like this in a
strange hotel, without even a maid, without a word of farewell or
explanation. The thing is preposterous!"
She had finished buttoning her gloves, and looked up at me with a
queer little smile at the corner of her lips and her hands behind her.
"Capitaine Rotherby," she said, "there are so many things which it
seems hard to understand. I myself am very unhappy and perplexed, but
I do know what my uncle would wish me to do. He would wish me to
remain quite quiet, and to wait."
I was silent for a few moments. It was difficult to reason with her.
"You have been out this morning," I said, a little abruptly.
"I have been out," she admitted. "I do not think, Capitaine Rotherby,
that I must tell you where I have been, but I went to the one place
where I thought that I might have news of him."
"You brought back with you a companion."
"No, not a companion," she interposed gently. "You must not think
that, Capitaine Rotherby. He was just a person who--who had to come.
You are not cross with me," she asked, lifting her eyes a little
timidly to mine, "that there are some things which I do not tell you?"
"No, I am not cross!" I answered slowly. "Only, if you felt it
possible," I added, "to give me your entire confidence, it seems to me
that it would be better. I will ask you to believe," I continued,
"that I am not merely a curious person. I am--well, more than a little
interested."
She held out both her hands and raised her eyes to mine. Through the
filmy lace of her veil I could see that they were very soft, almost as
though tears were gathering there.
"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.