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!"
I whistled softly to myself. I began to see Louis' idea. I was to
enter, somehow or other, the room in which Mr. Delora was supposed to
be, to remain there concealed, and to await this attack which, for
some reason or other, they were expecting. And then, as the
possibilities connected with such an event spread themselves out
before me, my sense of humor suddenly asserted itself, and, to Louis'
amazement, I laughed in his face. I came back from this world of
fanciful figures, of mysterious robberies, of attempted
assassinations, to the world of every-day things. It was Louis--the
_maitre d'hotel,_ the man who had ordered my _Plat du Jour_
and selected my Moselle--who spoke of these things so calmly in my own
sitting-room, with a menu card in his hand, and a morocco-bound wine
list sticking out of his breast pocket. I was not in any imaginary
city but in London,--city of tragedies, indeed, but tragedies of a
homelier sort. It was not possible that such things could be happening
here, in an atmosphere which, through familiarity, had become almost
commonplace. Was I to believe that Louis, my favorite _maitre
d'hotel_, my fellow schemer in many luncheon and dinner parties, my
authority upon vintages, my gastronomic good angel, was one of a band
of conspirators, who played with life and death as though they had
been the balls of a juggler? Was I to believe that there existed even
in this very hotel, which for years had been my home, the seeds of
these real tragical happenings which sometimes, though only half
disclosed, blaze out upon the world as a revelation of the great
underground world of crime? I found it almost impossible to take Louis
seriously. I could not focus my thoughts.
"Louis," I said, "is this a great joke, or are you talking to me in
sober, serious earnest?"
"I am talking in earnest, monsieur," Louis said slowly. "I have not
exaggerated or spoken a word to you which is not the truth."
"Let me understand this thing a little more clearly," I said. "What
has Ferdinand Delora done that he need fear a murderous assault? What
has he done to make enemies? Is he a criminal, or are those who seek
him criminals?"
"He carries with him," Louis said slowly, "a secret which will produce
a great fortune. There are others who think that they have a right to
share in it. It is those others who are his enemies. It is those
others who hope to attain by force what they could gain by no other
means."
A sudden inspiration prompted my next question.
"Was Tapilow one of those?" I demanded.
Louis nodded gravely.
"Monsieur Tapilow was one of those who claimed a share, but he was not
willing to run the smallest risk," he assented.
"And for that reason," I remarked, "he is well out of the way! I
understand. There is one more question, Louis, and it is one which you
must answer me truthfully. You can imagine what it is when I tell you
that it concerns mademoiselle!"
"Mademoiselle is innocent of the knowledge of any of these things,"
Louis declared earnestly. "She is a very charming and a very beautiful
young lady, but if ever a young lady needed friends, she does!"
"Why is she here at all?" I demanded. "Why was she not left behind in
Paris? If there is no part for her to play in this little comedy, it
seems to me that she would have been much better out of the way."
"Captain Rotherby," Louis said, "there was a reason, and some day you
will understand it--why it was necessary that she should come to
London with her uncle. I can tell you no more. You must not ask me any
more."
I looked into Louis' impenetrable face. I could learn nothing
there. His words had left me partly unconvinced. Somehow I felt that
the only time he had spoken the entire truth was when he had spoken of
Felicia. Yet it was certainly true that I owed these people something,
and I had no wish to shrink from paying my debt.
"Tell me," I said, "if I take Delora's place to-night, and if your
scheme is successful, does that free him? Will he be able to come
back? Will it be for the benefit of mademoiselle?"
"But most certainly!" Louis answered earnestly. "It is not an
organization against which we fight. It is one or two desperate men
who believe themselves robbed. Once they are out of the way, Delora
can walk the streets a free man. There would be nothing," he added,
"to prevent your seeking his friendship or the friendship of his
niece."
"Very well," I agreed. "I will spend the night in Mr. Delora's
rooms. I shall leave it to you to make all the arrangements."
Louis looked at me with a curious expression in his face.
"You understand, monsieur," he said slowly, "that there may be
danger?"
"Naturally I understand," I said. "If it comes to a fight, I shall be
prepared, and I have had a little experience."
"However well armed you may be," Louis said, "there will be a risk.
Our enemies are swift and silent. One of them, at any rate, is an
accomplished criminal. They are too clever for us unaided. I could
take Mademoiselle Delora to Scotland Yard to-day, and I could tell
them what we fear. They might patrol the hotel with the police, and
even then you would wake in the night and find some one by your
bedside."
"By the bye, Louis," I said, "why all this mystery? According to you,
Delora is an honest man. Why don't you go to the police?"
Louis shook his head.
"We are not free to do that," he said. "Delora is honest, but it is a
great secret which he controls, and the only chance of using it
successfully is to keep it a secret from the whole world!"
"How am I to be introduced into the room, Louis?" I asked.
"That," he answered, "will be easy. There are two lifts, as you
know,--one from the smoking-room and one from the entrance hall. The
number of Mr. Delora's apartment is 157. Here, by the bye, monsieur,
is a key."
I took it and put it in my waistcoat pocket.
"You will ascend by the lift from the smoking-room to the top floor,"
Louis continued. "You can then descend by the other lift to the fifth
floor, and walk boldly into the sitting-room. The door on the right
will be Mr. Delora's bedroom, and of that there will be, after
midnight, a key upon the mantelpiece in the sitting-room."
"But Miss Delora?" I asked. "What of her? The sitting-room connects,
also, with her apartments."
"Mademoiselle will be told something of this during the evening,"
Louis answered. "It will be better. She will have retired and be
locked in her room long before it will be necessary for you to
ascend."
"Very well," I said. "But now for the practical side of it. If
anything really happens, what is to be my excuse for occupying those
apartments to-night?"
"I will provide you with a sufficient one later on," Louis
promised. "You will dine downstairs?"
"Possibly," I answered.
"In which case we can have a little conversation," Louis remarked.
"Louis," I said, "what sort of an affair is this, really, in which I
am mixing myself up? Am I one of a gang of magnificent criminals, a
political conspirator, or a fool?"
Louis smiled.
"Monsieur," he said, "I found you very weary of life. I will put you
in the way of finding excitement. Monsieur should ask no more than
that. There are many men of his temperament who would give years of
their life for the chance."
He left me with his usual polite bow. I strolled after him down the
corridor a moment or so later, but I just missed the lift in which he
descended. Looking down, I saw that it had stopped at the fifth
floor. It seemed as though Louis had gone to visit number 157!