Читать книгу The Ostrekoff Jewels - E. Phillips Oppenheim - Страница 10

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The carefully attired hotel clerk, with his glossy hair and generally spick-and-span appearance—he had almost the air of a Rivièra "gigolo"—gazed at the strange figure confronting him and gasped. He had presence of mind enough, however, to declare emphatically that there were no rooms available.

"Don't stare at my clothes," Haven protested irritably. "I've just got out of Russia. Had adventures by the way. I was in the American Embassy there; you can see the Embassy stamp on this despatch case locked to my arm."

Once more the hotel clerk looked his prospective client up and down. Three times on that long and terrible drive they had met with accidents of various sorts. There was a fresh scar upon Haven's face, mud upon his soiled clothes, and he badly needed a shave.

"Those things might easily be stolen," his inquisitor rejoined. "The hotel management would dismiss me," he added, with a little burst of frankness, "if I were to give a room to any one in your present condition. I would suggest—"

He broke off in his speech. He was suddenly faced with a terrible vision. Towering above him was the tallest and broadest man he had ever seen, a man of huge limbs, a man who looked as though he could have torn him into pieces as easily as a child might pull the legs off a fly.

"You will give a room at once, a suite, to the noble gentleman," Alexis commanded. "He is, as he has declared, of the American Embassy in Petrograd. He is also the bosom friend of my late revered master, Prince Michael Vladimir Ostrekoff. His Highness placed him in my charge. I am his servant until he has reached his destination. As for money—I carry with me all that is needed."

The young man, who had thought nothing at all of Wilfred Haven, was very much impressed by his sponsor. He turned to a ledger, consulted a plan, lifted a flap of the counter and emerged.

"We will see what can be done," he conceded.

For the third time he looked Haven up and down. The sight of the despatch case obviously chained to his wrist and a certain fineness of feature and physique helped him to ignore for a moment the mud-stained condition of his suggested guest. At Alexis he scarcely ventured to glance. There was surely no one in the world who would refuse to do the bidding of such a giant.

"The gentleman will follow me," he invited.

Then, for some minutes, Wilfred Haven walked once more the paths of luxury, breathed the warmed airs of the almost overheated hotel, trod on soft carpets, met without shrinking the curious glances of a whole crowd of civilised people. He stepped into a smoothly running lift and was led into a suite of rooms which reminded him very much of the Ritz. The hotel clerk, with one eye upon Alexis, lingered near the door.

"This suite," he announced, "will cost the gentleman—"

He paused to figure it out.

"American or English money, if you please," Haven begged. "Not that it matters a damn."

"Fifty dollars a day."

"I take it," Haven decided. "Send your valet to turn on the bath. Send soap, bath salts, a coiffeur."

The hotel clerk became almost human. After all, these were stirring times. Perhaps the plight of this strange young man was to be accounted for.

"Everything that is possible for your comfort, sir," he promised, bowing.

Haven was already in the bathroom, which seemed to him a palace of marble-tiled luxury. The taps responded to his touch. The warmth, after that awful ride, was like a soporific. He began to tear off his clothes.

"Alexis," he apologised to the huge figure still towering over him, "forgive me. I must know the feel of warm water. Wait only a quarter of an hour and we will talk seriously. In a quarter of an hour I will face the world. Look at the steam!"

Alexis retreated and held the door ajar.

"The Little Master will see that there are towels there," he pointed out. "There is soap—there are many things. I shall wait in the bedroom."

Then he closed the door, and a few minutes later there was nothing to be seen in that huge bath but the head of Wilfred Haven, with an ecstatic smile upon his face, dabbing at himself with a rough bath towel instead of a sponge.

The hotel clerk, half an hour later, realised that he had taken a right decision. Six feet of splendid young manhood, wrapped in a bathcloth dressing gown received him when he returned a little doubtfully to the suite. Wilfred Haven, with a clean body, was a man again. He spoke with a tone of authority.

"Is that the waiter?" he asked, glancing towards a bowing figure upon the threshold. "Whisky and soda—quickly.... The coiffeur? Good. Get to work as soon as possible on me, please. I must consider what I am going to do about clothes."

"The valet is here at your service, sir," the hotel clerk announced, pointing to a scarlet-coated young man, who was also hovering in the background.

"The costume of Monsieur is prepared," the latter confided, in stumbling French.

Haven, whose face was already covered on one side with lather, turned his head.

"What do you mean?" he demanded. "I haven't any clothes."

The valet, who spoke no English, failed to understand. Haven was staring at the bed with a blank expression upon his face. The hotel clerk smiled.

"Your things arrived this afternoon, sir."

Haven sprang to his feet. He stood at the foot of the great wooden bedstead and gazed incredulously at the coverlet. Upon it were neatly arranged a dinner suit, linen, black tie and underclothes. He picked up a collar. It was his own, marked with his initials. He lifted the dinner coat—also his own. He glanced at Alexis, whose expression was very grave indeed. He looked at the hotel clerk, who was smiling and seemed to consider the whole affair a capital joke, and finally he clasped his hands to his head.

"Those are my clothes!" he exclaimed. "No one knew I was coming here—I didn't know myself—I don't even now know the name of the hotel. They were tumbled into a van on a refugee train which I left at the frontier. How did they get here?"

The hotel clerk continued to smile. He also shrugged his shoulders.

"Monsieur has, perhaps, friends whom he has forgotten," he suggested. "The luggage was delivered this afternoon. The porter compared the name upon the label with your entry in the hotel register and brought them here while you were in your bath."

Haven turned to Alexis.

"Do you understand anything about this?" he demanded.

"I do not understand it at all," the man admitted uneasily. "It is not good," he added, "for too many people to know of the master's arrival here."

Haven resumed his seat in the chair and the barber his ministrations. The hotel clerk took courteous leave and the valet disappeared into the bathroom. Haven looked up at his coiffeur.

"Do you speak English?" he enquired.

The man shook his head. Haven glanced at Alexis—a silent, thoughtful figure, standing in the background.

"What do you make of this?" he asked.

"It does not please me, Master," was the serious reply. "I arranged for the Colonel Patinsky to be released this evening. After that, there may be trouble. It was necessary to give your name because of the passports and the privileges you may claim, but every person who knows of the master's presence here means one more danger."

"It isn't only that," Haven pointed out, when he was again in a position to speak. "Who recognised the bags and got them off that train? Who brought them to Warsaw? Who knew that I would be at this hotel?"

"Those are things one does not understand," Alexis confessed. "And just now the things that one does not understand are dangerous. It is permitted by American Master that I go below? I shall make enquiries amongst the couriers."

Haven nodded his assent and was left alone with his barber. Despite the uncanny appearance of his clothes, he felt his spirits rising all the time. The bath and the whisky and soda which he had just drunk had refreshed him, the odour of the shaving soap was aromatic, the comfort and warmth of his surroundings inspiring. Chained once more to his wrist was his treasured despatch satchel. After all, it seemed to him that the most serious part of his charge was safely accomplished. He was in Warsaw, amongst civilised people; there was an American Consul and an American Minister. He paid the coiffeur with a handful of loose Russian coins and stretched himself luxuriously as he made his way to the bedside.

It was about eight o'clock when Wilfred Haven, happily attired in the garments of civilisation, stepped out of the lift and gazed around with interest at the little groups of men and women seated in the lounge of the hotel. There were a great many officers in uniform and a great many exceedingly good-looking women. The place was beautifully warm, and in the distance a band was playing a mazurka-like tune, with strange harmonies and an intriguing rhythm. His friend, the hotel clerk, came smilingly forward.

"What can I do for you now, Mr. Haven?" he enquired.

"You can tell the head waiter to keep a table for me in a corner of the restaurant," was the prompt reply, "and show me the way to the Bar."

"Bar Américain, is it not so, sir?" the man suggested, with a smile. "Exactly en face. I will go to the restaurant. Marcos is the name of the head waiter. He will prepare your table. You will find an American bartender and very good cocktails."

The young man hurried away. He was evidently anxious to do all that he could to efface the memory of his unfortunate reception. Haven crossed the thickly carpeted floor and entered the very commodious Bar, behind the counter of which was a white-coated and obvious compatriot. There were easy-chairs everywhere but only one occupant of the place—a young woman in an attractive black evening dress—chic from her temperately manicured nails to her beautifully coiffured hair. She looked up at his entrance and an exclamation broke from his lips. He stared at her as though she had been a ghost. Her queer little smile broke into a laugh at his consternation, her eyes flashed a welcome, she stretched out her hand.

"I am flesh and blood," she assured him. "Come and try."

He was scarcely conscious of his progress across the room. He held her fingers, soft and tense, in his. She laughed into his eyes.

"Others, too, can have adventures," she murmured. "Speak to me or I shall think some terrible Russians have made you dumb."

"Have a cocktail," he gasped.