Читать книгу The Mystery of the Blue Train - Agatha Christie, Georgette Heyer, Mary Westmacott - Страница 7

The man with the white hair continued on his course, unhurried, and seemingly indifferent to his surroundings. He took a side turning to the right and another one to the left. Now and then he hummed a little air to himself.

Suddenly he stopped dead and listened intently. He had heard a certain sound. It might have been the bursting of a tyre or it might have been—a shot. A curious smile played round his lips for a minute. Then he resumed his leisurely walk.

On turning a corner he came upon a scene of some activity. A representative of the law was making notes in a pocket-book, and one or two late passers-by had collected on the spot. To one of these the man with the white hair made a polite request for information.

‘Something has been happening, yes?’

‘Mais oui, Monsieur. Two apaches set upon an elderly American gentleman.’

‘They did him no injury?’

‘No, indeed.’ The man laughed. ‘The American, he had a revolver in his pocket, and before they could attack him, he fired shots so closely round them that they took alarm and fled. The police, as usual, arrived too late.’

‘Ah!’ said the inquirer.

He displayed no emotion of any kind.

Placidly and unconcernedly he resumed his nocturnal strolling. Presently he crossed the Seine and came into the richer areas of the city. It was some twenty minutes later that he came to a stop before a certain house in a quiet but aristocratic thoroughfare.

The shop, for shop it was, was a restrained and unpretentious one. D. Papopolous, dealer in antiques, was so known to fame that he needed no advertisement, and indeed most of his business was not done over a counter. M. Papopolous had a very handsome apartment of his own overlooking the Champs Elysées, and it might reasonably be supposed that he would have been found there and not at his place of business at such an hour, but the man with the white hair seemed confident of success as he pressed the obscurely placed bell, having first given a quick glance up and down the deserted street.

His confidence was not misplaced. The door opened and a man stood in the aperture. He wore gold rings in his ears and was of a swarthy cast of countenance.

‘Good evening,’ said the stranger. ‘Your master is within?’

‘The master is here, but he does not see chance visitors at this time of night,’ growled the other.

‘I think he will see me. Tell him that his friend M. le Marquis is here.’

The man opened the door a little wider and allowed the visitor to enter.

The man who gave his name as M. le Marquis had shielded his face with his hand as he spoke. When the man-servant returned with the information that M. Papopolous would be pleased to receive the visitor a further change had taken place in the stranger’s appearance. The man-servant must have been very unobservant or very well trained, for he betrayed no surprise at the small black satin mask which hid the other’s features. Leading the way to a door at the end of the hall, he opened it and announced in a respectful murmur: ‘M. le Marquis.’

The figure which rose to receive this strange guest was an imposing one. There was something venerable and patriarchal about M. Papopolous. He had a high domed forehead and a beautiful white beard. His manner had in it something ecclesiastical and benign.

‘My dear friend,’ said M. Papopolous.

He spoke in French and his tones were rich and unctuous.

‘I must apologise,’ said the visitor, ‘for the lateness of the hour.’

‘Not at all. Not at all,’ said M. Papopolous—‘an interesting time of night. You have had, perhaps, an interesting evening?’

‘Not personally,’ said M. le Marquis.

‘Not personally,’ repeated M. Papopolous, ‘no, no, of course not. And there is news, eh?’

He cast a sharp glance sideways at the other, a glance that was not ecclesiastical or benign in the least.

‘There is no news. The attempt failed. I hardly expected anything else.’

‘Quite so,’ said M. Papopolous: ‘anything crude—’

He waved his hand to express his intense distaste for crudity in any form. There was indeed nothing crude about M. Papopolous nor about the goods he handled. He was well known in most European courts, and kings called him Demetrius in a friendly manner. He had the reputation for the most exquisite discretion. That, together with the nobility of his aspect, had carried him through several very questionable transactions.

‘The direct attack—’ said M. Papopolous. He shook his head. ‘It answers sometimes—but very seldom.’

The other shrugged his shoulders.

‘It saves time,’ he remarked, ‘and to fail costs nothing—or next to nothing. The other plan—will not fail.’

‘Ah,’ said M. Papopolous, looking at him keenly.

The other nodded slowly.

‘I have great confidence in your—er—reputation,’ said the antique dealer.

M. le Marquis smiled gently.

‘I think I may say,’ he murmured, ‘that your confidence will not be misplaced.’

‘You have unique opportunities,’ said the other, with a note of envy in his voice.

‘I make them,’ said M. le Marquis.

He rose and took up the cloak which he had thrown carelessly on the back of a chair.

‘I will keep you informed, M. Papopolous, through the usual channels, but there must be no hitch in your arrangements.’

M. Papopolous was pained.

‘There is never a hitch in my arrangements,’ he complained.

The other smiled, and without any further word of adieu he left the room, closing the door behind him.

M. Papopolous remained in thought for a moment, stroking his venerable white beard, and then moved across to a second door which opened inwards. As he turned the handle, a young woman, who only too clearly had been leaning against it with her ear to the keyhole, stumbled headlong into the room. M. Papopolous displayed neither surprise nor concern. It was evidently all quite natural to him.

‘Well, Zia?’ he asked.

‘I did not hear him go,’ explained Zia.

She was a handsome young woman, built on Junoesque lines, with dark flashing eyes and such a general air of resemblance to M. Papopolous that it was easy to see they were father and daughter.

‘It is annoying,’ she continued vexedly, ‘that one cannot see through a keyhole and hear through it at the same time.’

‘It has often annoyed me,’ said M. Papopolous, with great simplicity.

‘So that is M. le Marquis,’ said Zia slowly. ‘Does he always wear a mask, Father?’

‘Always.’

There was a pause.

‘It is the rubies, I suppose?’ asked Zia.

Her father nodded.

‘What do you think, my little one?’ he inquired, with a hint of amusement in his beady black eyes.

‘Of M. le Marquis?’

‘Yes.’

‘I think,’ said Zia slowly, ‘that it is a very rare thing to find a well-bred Englishman who speaks French as well as that.’

‘Ah!’ said M. Papopolous, ‘so that is what you think.’

As usual, he did not commit himself, but he regarded Zia with benign approval.

‘I thought, too,’ said Zia, ‘that his head was an odd shape.’

‘Massive,’ said her father—‘a trifle massive. But then that effect is always created by a wig.’

They both looked at each other and smiled.