Tales of Mystery & Suspense: 25+ Thrillers in One Edition. E. Phillips Oppenheim

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      CHAPTER XI

       A WORD OF WARNING

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      "In the most unlikely places!" Duncombe murmured to himself as he bowed to the Frenchman, whose name his friend had mentioned. "I am very glad to meet you again, Monsieur le Baron!" he said, aloud.

      They were in the covered garden at the Ritz. Duncombe had accepted the pressing invitation of an old college friend, whom he had met on the boulevards to drop in and be introduced to his wife. And the third at the tea-table was Monsieur Louis, known in society apparently as Monsieur le Baron de Seurs.

      Lady Hadley, his friend's wife, smiled languidly upon them both. She was a frail pink and white little woman, with the reputation of a beauty to sustain, wherein lay her life's work.

      "You two know one another, of course!" she remarked. "Paris is no larger than London, after all."

      "Sir George and I have met once at least," the Baron said, smiling. "I am glad that he does me the honor of remembering the occasion."

      Duncombe felt himself no match for his companion with the foils. He let the conversation drift, and waited for his opportunity. Presently some more guests arrived, and Duncombe drew his host on one side.

      "Hadley," he said, "how long have you known the Baron?"

      "Met him at Dorset House about two years ago, I think," Hadley answered. "He was doing a round of country-houses. I'm not sure that he didn't stay at Sandringham. One of the real old French families, you know, De Seurs."

      Duncombe nodded. There did not seem to be much that he could say. He mingled with the other guests, and observed his social duties. But he watched the Baron, and he took care that they left together.

      "Are you going my way, Baron?" he asked, as they stepped into the Place Vendôme.

      "I was going to the Cercle Anglais," the Baron answered. "Do you belong?"

      "I am up for a month's membership, but I am not elected yet," Duncombe answered.

      "Then you shall come in as my guest," the Baron declared.

      "You are exceedingly kind," Duncombe answered. "I wonder whether I might presume still further upon your good nature and ask you a question."

      "The asking," the Baron murmured, "involves nothing."

      "You bear, I am told, an honored name, and you are well received in society. Why do you associate with murderers and thieves in that hell of a café where I saw you first?"

      The Baron smiled.

      "My friend," he said, "I seek always the life amusing, and I find it there."

      "I was robbed before your eyes, Baron."

      The Frenchman sighed.

      "I am so sorry," he said, "that I did not see it. That indeed would have been amusing."

      "You know that the young lady who sat with us is dead?"

      "A most bizarre happening," the Baron assented with a little sigh. "I cannot imagine how it occurred. The newspaper reports are not convincing. One would like to reconstruct the story. Poor little Flossie! She was most amusing, but just a little, a very little, too fond of flourishing her jewellery. One will miss her, though."

      "Referring for one moment to our meeting at the café. You told me a story there—you and your friend Madame—of a young English lady—which the facts seem scarcely to sustain."

      The Baron sighed.

      "My friend," he said, "we did the best we could at a moment's notice. I rather fancied the story myself. As to facts—what have they to do with it? You demanded a story, and you got it. I rather flattered myself that under the circumstances it was not bad."

      "You admit now, then, that it was not the truth!"

      "The truth! My dear Sir George! Supposing that the whereabouts of your charming young friend had been known to me, do you suppose that I should have permitted myself to be bullied into disclosing it? Forgive me if I speak plainly, but if you really wished for information which you supposed that I had, your method of seeking it put you at once out of court. A French gentleman does not permit himself to be bullied."

      Duncombe was silent for several moments. There were many things which he could have said, but where was the use?

      "As a French gentleman, then," he said at last, "will you permit me to make a personal appeal to you? Miss Phyllis Poynton is a young lady in whom I am deeply interested. She was last seen at the Café Montmartre, from which place she disappeared. I am an Englishman of your own station. Tell me where I can find her, or what has become of her."

      "My dear Sir George," the Baron said, "you might have saved yourself a great deal of trouble if you had spoken like this to me at the first. Frankly, then, I have not the least idea. Young English ladies come and go every evening at the Café Montmartre, and such places. One remembers only those who happen to have amused one, and not always those. Forgive me if I speak plainly. A young lady who had visited the Café Montmartre alone—well, you might look for her anywhere, but most assuredly in that case if your anxiety СКАЧАТЬ