Читать книгу A Maker of History - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 9

"Mademoiselle," the young man said, with an air of somewhat weary politeness, "I regret to say that there is nothing more to be done!"

He was grieved and polite because Mademoiselle was beautiful and in trouble. For the rest he was a little tired of her. Brothers of twenty-one, who have never been in Paris before, and cannot speak the language, must occasionally get lost, and the British Embassy is not exactly a transported Scotland Yard.

"Then," she declared, with a vigorous little stamp of her shapely foot, "I don't see what we keep an Ambassador here for at all—or any of you. It is scandalous!"

The Hon. Nigel Fergusson dropped his eyeglass and surveyed the young lady attentively.

"My dear Miss Poynton," he said, "I will not presume to argue with you. We are here, I suppose, for some purpose or other. Whether we fulfil it or not may well be a matter of opinion. But that purpose is certainly not to look after any young idiot—you must excuse my speaking plainly—who runs amuck in this most fascinating city. In your case the Chief has gone out of his way to help you. He has interviewed the chief of police himself, brought his influence to bear in various quarters, and I can tell you conscientiously that everything which possibly can be done is being done at the present moment. If you wish for my advice it is this: Send for some friend to keep you company here, and try to be patient. You are in all probability making yourself needlessly miserable."

She looked at him a little reproachfully. He noticed, however, with secret joy that she was drawing on her gloves.

"Patient! He was to meet me here ten days ago. He arrived at the hotel. His clothes are all there, and his bill unpaid. He went out the night of his arrival, and has never returned. Patient! Well, I am much obliged to you, Mr. Fergusson. I have no doubt that you have done all that your duty required. Good afternoon!"

"Good afternoon, Miss Poynton, and don't be too despondent. Remember that the French police are the cleverest in the world, and they are working for you."

She looked up at him scornfully.

"Police, indeed!" she answered. "Do you know that all they have done so far is to keep sending for me to go and look at dead bodies down at the Morgue? I think that I shall send over for an English detective."

"You might do worse," he answered; "but in any case, Miss Poynton, I do hope that you will send over for some friend or relation to keep you company. Paris is scarcely a fit place for you to be alone and in trouble."

"Thank you," she said. "I will remember what you have said."

The young man watched her depart with a curious mixture of relief and regret.

"The young fool's been the usual round, I suppose, and he's either too much ashamed of himself or too besotted to turn up. I wish she wasn't quite so devilish good-looking," he remarked to himself. "If she goes about alone she'll get badly scared before she's finished."

Phyllis Poynton drove straight back to her hotel and went to her room. A sympathetic chambermaid followed her in.

"Mademoiselle has news yet of her brother?" she inquired.

Mademoiselle shook her head. Indeed her face was sufficient answer.

"None at all, Marie."

The chambermaid closed the door.

"It would help Mademoiselle, perhaps, if she knew where the young gentleman spent the evening before he disappeared?" she inquired mysteriously.

"Of course! That is just what I want to find out."

Marie smiled.

"There is a young man here in the barber's shop, Mademoiselle," she announced. "He remembers Monsieur Poynton quite well. He went in there to be shaved, and he asked some questions. I think if Mademoiselle were to see him!"

The girl jumped up at once.

"Do you know his name?" she asked.

"Monsieur Alphonse, they call him. He is on duty now."

Phyllis Poynton descended at once to the ground floor of the hotel, and pushed open the glass door which led into the coiffeur's shop. Monsieur Alphonse was waiting upon a customer, and she was given a chair. In a few minutes he descended the spiral iron staircase and desired to know Mademoiselle's pleasure.

"You speak English?" she asked.

"But certainly, Mademoiselle."

She gave a little sigh of relief.

"I wonder," she said, "if you remember waiting upon my brother last Thursday week. He was tall and fair, and something like me. He had just arrived in Paris."

Monsieur Alphonse smiled. He rarely forgot a face, and the young Englishman's tip had been munificent.

"Perfectly, Mademoiselle," he answered. "They sent for me because Monsieur spoke no French."

"My chambermaid, Marie, told me that you might perhaps know how he proposed to spend the evening," she continued. "He was quite a stranger in Paris, and he may have asked for some information."

Monsieur Alphonse smiled, and extended his hands.

"It is quite true," he answered. "He asked me where to go, and I say to the Folies Bergères. Then he said he had heard a good deal of the supper cafés, and he asked me which was the most amusing. I tell him the Café Montmartre. He wrote it down."

"Do you think that he meant to go there?" she asked.

"But certainly. He promised to come and tell me the next day how he amused himself."

"The Café Montmartre. Where is it?" she asked.

"In the Place de Montmartre. But Mademoiselle pardons—she will understand that it is a place for men."

"Are women not admitted?" she asked.

Alphonse smiled.

"But—yes. Only Mademoiselle understands that if a lady should go there she would need to be very well escorted."

She rose and slipped a coin into his hand.

"I am very much obliged to you," she said. "By the bye, have any other people made inquiries of you concerning my brother?"

"No one at all, Mademoiselle!" the man answered.

She almost slammed the door behind when she went out.

"And they say that the French police are the cleverest in the world," she exclaimed indignantly.

Monsieur Alphonse watched her through the glass pane.

"Ciel! But she is pretty!" he murmured to himself.

She turned into the writing-room, and taking off her gloves she wrote a letter. Her pretty fingers were innocent of rings, and her handwriting was a little shaky. Nevertheless, it is certain that not a man passed through the room who did not find an excuse to steal a second glance at her. This is what she wrote:—