The Milan Grill Room E-Book

E. Phillips Oppenheim

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

„The Milan Grill Room” is a series of ten connected short stories featuring the character of Louis, a crippled veteran of World War I and maître d’hôtel, who solves crimes from his table in the Grill Room of the hotel and who is able to provide invaluable assistance to the British police and Secret Service. Tracking spies, catching traitors, uncovering plots, often in the company of Major Charles Lyson of the Secret Service, Louis is never ruffled, and always resourceful. These ten connected episodes, centering around the activities of the good Louis are replete with adventure, intrigue and romance. Also these short story collection by Mr. Oppenheim including: „The Calais Gun”, „The Third Key”, „The Kidnapping of Mr. Peter Jardine” and so on.

Leseprobe

Contents

FOREWORD

I. “MARIE LOUISE WILL BE THERE”

II. THE KIDNAPPING OF MR. PETER JARDINE

III. THE CALAIS GUN

IV. THE THIRD KEY

V. THE SHADOW MAN

VI. £100,000 RISK

VII. THE KNAVES’ MESSENGER

VIII. A BROKEN SABBATH

IX. THE MAN IN THE GREY SUEDE GLOVES

X. MRS. MASTERS AND HER PLAYBOY

FOREWORD

IN VIEW of the many curious adventures for which his unique appointment was largely responsible, Louis has asked me once again to explain exactly how it came to pass that he was first placed in that very exceptional position.

In 1914, after seven years of service in the one and only Grill Room which London seems ever likely to possess, he threw up his very lucrative position and departed for France. In 1919 he limped back from the war with two crutches and many medals. He presented himself at the Milan.

“I have called because you asked me to, sir,” he said to Sir Edward Rastall, chairman of the directors. “There is nothing I can do for you, though. A maître d’hôtel on crutches could scarcely get through an hour’s work a week.”

Sir Edward took him by the arm and led him across the Court to the Grill Room entrance. It was five o’clock in the afternoon and the place was empty. Louis, who had turned his head away as he had driven up in his taxi to the front entrance of the hotel, looked sorrowfully at that fascinating wilderness of white linen and sparkling glass. Every one of those private corners, vantage places from which one could see and not be seen, and those other more flamboyant tables plumped down in full view of everybody, mostly in demand by the fair sex, brought its own peculiar memories. If he had been alone his eyes would soon have been dim.

“Louis,” his companion said, “do you know why we thought you worth two thousand a year to us before the war?”

“Because I was reasonably good at my job, I hope, sir,” the maître d’hôtel suggested.

“That, of course, but there are hundreds of others who are good at their jobs. You had what we thought a flair for placing your patrons. You see all those tables? It would take a diplomat to deal with the streams of people you had to deal with, to offend no one and please those who were worth pleasing. You did it, Louis. I have watched you sometimes–the plan in your hand, a speculative look in your eyes, a welcoming smile always there. You never made a mistake. Then, of course, just before the war the other thing came. You began “to. be a useful man for your adopted country, long before the first shot of the war was fired.”

“Strange things have happened here,” Louis reflected.

“And stranger things may come,” Sir Edward commented gravely. “If you will turn your head you will see that we have done away with that ridiculous little bar and made what seems to be a low pulpit just inside the revolving doors.”

“I was wondering what that was for, Sir Edward,” Louis acknowledged.

“It is for you, my lad.”

“What on earth could I do there?”

“Go on earning your two thousand a year, of course,” was the prompt reply. “Every day you will have a fresh plan of the room and all correspondence with regard to the ordering of tables will be handed to you. You know the weaknesses of every one of our habitués. You will study them and you will know exactly what clients to encourage and which we are better without. You will sit in your easy chair there, watch the people come in, and seat them at your discretion. They will be satisfied–that is if we want them to be satisfied–and you will continue to draw your two thousand a year. A few more details later on. You start on Monday.”

Sir Edward waved his hand and hurried away to avoid what he hated most in life–thanks. Monday morning found Louis ensconced in the easy chair that later on was to become historic.

I. “MARIE LOUISE WILL BE THERE”

IT WAS José, the maître d’hôtel and supervisor of the tables at my end of the Milan Grill Room, who brought me the little scribbled note from Louis, who was occupying his usual place upon the raised and enclosed dais generally called “The Pulpit.” I untwisted the scrap of paper and read:

Please come to me for a moment.

I had only just sat down–I had not as yet even ordered my luncheon–so I rose at once and went to Louis’s desk. He held out his left hand with a little gesture for me to wait whilst he continued his conversation with two young people immediately in front of him. To my surprise he summoned José and calmly directed them to my table.

“Here, what are you up to, Louis?” I protested.

“Isn’t José making a mistake?”

“Major Lyson,” he replied, “I beg you to remain where you are for a moment. You see, I purposely keep my head turned away but I wish you to look carefully at the third table down the main aisle.”

“It is occupied,” I observed, “by a young man who sits alone.”

“Quite true,” Louis assented, his pencil making idle marks upon the paper. “Do you notice anything unusual about him?”

I glanced down the room again. The prospective luncher was harmless enough in appearance but in a sense I understood Louis’s suggestion. He seemed to belong to an ordinary type of well-born young Englishman, very freckled, fair and good-looking, but just at this moment he appeared to be suffering from the jitters. I passed on my impressions to my companion.

“Jitters,” he murmured, “is not a word with which I am familiar but I will tell you, Major, how he looks to me. You see that his eyes never leave the door. He is watching for someone to come in. Give him your whole attention for one moment. I shall he occupied with this menu.”

I did as was suggested. I visualized that young man in a few seconds quite differently. He was no longer the harmless, good-looking Englishman awaiting the service of his luncheon. He was like a man who was either in fear of his life or who had designs upon someone else’s. His eyes were hard and glacial. He watched the door with an attention that was altogether unnatural. The fingers that held the menu card were shaking. His lips moved–perhaps he was giving an order. It might have been so, for the waiter presently withdrew. The young man’s eyes, however, were still fixed upon the door.

“You are quite right,” I admitted. “There is something wrong with that fellow.”

“I shall ask you of your kindness,” Louis said, “to oblige me. That is why I have given your table away. I want you to make your approach and ask to be allowed to share his.”

I hesitated. Louis himself knew how unusual such a request would be from a perfect stranger.

“Supposing he refuses?”

Louis stroked his chin thoughtfully.

“In that case,” he decided, “take the small table on the other side. It is the nearest from which you can observe him. It is promised to Mr. Thomson of the Star Film Company but I will arrange that.”

It was a barren overture to one of those little incidents in the famous Milan Grill Room which had developed now and then into full-blown adventures. Nevertheless, I had learned to recognize Louis as the leading spirit in these enterprises and also to understand the wisdom of asking no more questions than necessary. I strolled down the room as though looking for a table and paused at the one occupied by the freckled young man. He started violently when he saw me standing there, shrunk a little away and his hand went into the pocket of his jacket; His eyes were full of dumb terror as he looked up at me.

“I’m very sorry to intrude,” I said, smiling at him as though I recognized nothing unusual in his manner. “The fact is that Louis has unintentionally given away my table. The place is very full, as you can see. I wondered if you would allow me the vacant seat at yours?”

The young man’s voice might under ordinary conditions have been a pleasant one, but all its natural qualities seemed drawn from it by the fear which was consuming him. I was not particularly enamoured, either, of the shaking hand, the fingers of which were grasping some article in his pocket.

“The place is already taken,” was the hoarsely spoken reply. “I am expecting a guest. Sorry. Please go away.”

I tried my best to behave as though my request were a usual one and my persistence perfectly natural.

“Couldn’t I sit here for a few minutes?” I suggested. “My own table will probably be free then.”

He was looking past me towards the door and there were beads of perspiration upon his forehead. The freckles which would have been becoming enough upon a sunburnt skin were ghastly blotches by reason of his unnatural pallor.

“Go away at once, please,” he insisted. “My–my friend is coming.”

I accepted my defeat, left him with a good-humoured nod and made my way to the small table on the other side of the gangway. There I sat and watched with curiosity the approach of my neighbour’s prospective guest. She was coming down the carpeted way–a very small, very young girl, walking with the insolent grace and wearing the clothes of a gamine from the boulevards who had suddenly inherited a fortune. Everything about her was of the latest and the most extreme fashion and she presented without a doubt a striking picture. The young man staggered rather than rose to his feet and grasped the back of his chair with his left hand. She sank into the place opposite him and her black eyes flashed with mingled contempt and amusement. She crossed her legs, leaned back in her chair and summoned a waiter.

“I starve,” she announced in a voice which was perfectly audible from where I sat. “Bring the hors d’oeuvres and an apéritif–Pernod or Dubonnet glacé.”

The waiter looked at her in surprise but bowed and hurried away. She leaned forward and patted her companion’s hand. It was impossible to hear what she said but I gathered that she was endeavouring to infuse a little courage into his tortured apprehensions, He interrupted her with a fiercely asked question. He spoke in bad but easily comprehended French in a voice which must have carried it good deal farther than my table a few yards off.

“He will come here, you believe, this loathsome fellow whom I detest?” he demanded. “Smile no longer, Marie Louise. You make me furious. He will follow you here? You believe that?”

She became a little graver and nodded a good many times. The young man was speechless. She leaned over the table, continued to pat his hand and dropped her voice so that I heard none of their conversation. All the time, though, I could see that right hand moving restlessly in his pocket. Whatever she was saying to him produced no soothing effect. Others besides myself were noticing his abject state. I rose to my feet and strolled back to Louis’s desk.

“Mon ami,” I warned him, “there will arrive a tragedy at that table.”

Louis nodded and waited for me to continue.

“The young man refused me a place. He was evidently awaiting the arrival of this French flapper from the streets. She seems to be trying to give him courage, but alas I cannot hear their conversation.”

“Difficult!” Louis murmured.

“Yes, but one thing is certain to happen,” I declared. “He has one of those small revolvers in his right-hand pocket and he is twiddling it about with fingers that are shaking all the time. He will either shoot himself or someone else in a few minutes.”

Louis sighed.

“Alas,” he regretted, “I place you this morning, my dear fellow-confederate–if I may call you so–in an unpleasant situation. I beg you once more to interfere. Explain yourself as one associated with the place. Explain that you have seen the shape of the weapon in his pocket. Insist that he hand it over.”

“I will do this,” I agreed, “but I shouldn’t be at all surprised if I got a knife in my side from that young woman. I have seen some of her type in Marseilles. “

“I watched her come in and I, too, am acquainted with the type,” Louis confessed. “I do not think that she will attack you. Her companion is not her sort. At any rate, you know my weakness. It is to keep all scandal from my restaurant. No more shall that young English aristocrat be permitted to enter, but I wish to get rid of him before tragedy arrives. That it will arrive before long I do not doubt, but I pray that it be not here.”

“You know who he is?”

“Yes, I know. His name is Cumberley–the Honourable Charles Cumberley.” .

“Any connection with our man in Paris?”

Louis held up his hand.

“That will do,” he begged. “You see how more than necessary it is for us to escape scandal. I myself have the idea that tragedy is very close at hand. Listen, Major. I ask a great deal, I know, but a murder in my Grill Room would break my heart. Wait for a few moments, if you will, but if again you see that right hand find its way into his pocket make your intervention. Afterwards you may divest yourself of your official position, resume your scat and behave as you would if you were a normal guest of the restaurant. It is understood?”

I turned away. It was useless to argue with Louis.

“It is understood,” I assured him.

I resumed my seat and gave an order to the waiter. Then I glanced across the aisle as carelessly as I could. The argument between the two was still in progress. The condition of the young man was if anything still more abject. The girl showed signs of losing her temper. Every now and then her companion broke off to watch some newcomer enter through the revolving door, watch always with that strained look of fear in his eyes. Again the time came when his hand sought his pocket and I dared wait no longer. I rose to my feet, crossed the aisle and stood by the side of their table. The girl looked up at me with a half-impudent, half-friendly smile. The man, with difficulty, found courage to be rude.

“What the devil are you doing here again?” he demanded. “I told you this table was engaged.”

“And if I am permitted to leave out the expletive,” I rejoined, “what are you doing sitting there in a partial state of collapse with your right hand in your coat pocket playing with a weapon of some sort? Be so good as to take your hand out and show me what you have there.”

I had spoken to him without any pretence at courtesy as I might have spoken to an insubordinate youngster in the drill hall. He stared at me and weakened.

“What business is it of yours?” he retorted irritably. “Get back–”

“Don’t try that on me,” I interrupted. “I have an official position here and no one is allowed in this country to carry loaded firearms. Give me what you have in that pocket.”

He withdrew his hand slowly, raised his napkin to cover it and laid a very small revolver of the latest type upon the table. I lifted the edge of the napkin and slipped the safety catch into its place.

“You have no right to come in here,” I told him severely, “with a loaded revolver in your pocket.”

The weapon was safely in my possession by this time. The young man leaned back in his chair, folded his arms and looked at me fixedly. For the first time he showed some gleam of spirit in his rescntment.

“Now that you have taken my only means of protection away,” he said, “you had better get back to your table and watch me murdered.”

I did my best to impart a reasonable amount of sympathy into my tone.

“I don’t think I have done you any harm,” I assured him. “If you tried to make use of this weapon with your hand shaking as it was you wouldn’t have hit a haystack. Very delicately tempered things, these small revolvers. You might even have injured Mademoiselle.”

“I was telling him,” she said, smiling up at me, “how foolish he was. There is a man who would kill him if he could. That is nothing. It happens always in my country. But a crowded restaurant like this is the safest hiding-place one could choose. He has given me nothing to eat and I starve. Help me to convince him, Monsieur,” she begged, “that here at least he is in no danger.”

“I don’t know anything about the facts of the case, of course,” I pointed out, “but the young lady shows common sense. I should think there is no place in London where you would be safer than here at the present moment.”

“That is all very well,” the man, who was really beginning to present a more reasonable appearance, declared, “but the fact remains that there is a rav- ing lunatic on his way to London who will certainly try to kill me on sight– probably Marie Louise also,” he added, looking across the table at her.

She threw herself back in her chair and laughed mockingly.

“Oh, la la!” she exclaimed. “If he comes Von Hutt might pick me up from my chair and carry me away but he would not kill me. Never believe that, my dear Charles! He has the same passion for me as you have.”

“Well, if you both place yourselves in my hands,” I intervened, “I will promise you safety from this ferocious gentleman.”

Cumberley shook his head helplessly,

“If he doesn’t force his way in here he will be lurking just outside,” he declared. “If he is not there he will be hiding in my rooms. There is no safety from a man who hates as this man hates.”

“Tu es fou!” the girl cried, opening her vanity case and taking out her lipstick. “Why should he hate like that? He has lost me–for a time–but you have paid a great price, dear Charles. He has brains, that one. He will wait his time.”

“You don’t understand everything,” Cumberley muttered.

Her eyes flashed as she leaned towards him, the lipstick still held between her fingers. There was doubt in her eyes as well as anger.

“What is it that I do not understand?” she demanded.

He hesitated. Afterwards I felt that if he had spoken at that moment the tragedy might never have happened. He lacked the courage, however.

“You don’t understand how men feel when she-devils like you stir their blood,” he groaned.

The doubt passed from the girl’s eyes. She leaned back in her chair and laughed. There was music in her laughter, music but also sorcery. She finished with her lipstick and looked towards me.

“Monsieur has perhaps a proposition?” she asked. “Well, here’s one for a start. Give this poor starving young lady her luncheon,” I suggested, touching his shoulder lightly. “Eat something yourself and drink a glass or two of wine. You can see everyone who enters, can’t you?”

“Everyone,” he admitted’. “That’s why I chose this table.”

“And if anyone comes in by the hotel entrance?” I asked.

“Mademoiselle will see him,” he pointed out. “She knows whom to look for better than I do.”

“Very well, then,” I continued. “Eat your lunch and I promise that you have only to make a sign to me and I will stop anyone coming anywhere near your table. When you have finished I will take you to Louis, the famous maître d’hôtel here, who has a small apartment on this floor, and if you care to tell your story we both have influence enough to offer you adequate police protection, or if it is something in which the police cannot interfere we can help you to get into a safer neighbourhood.”

The young man was impressed. At her request I repeated what I had said in French to the girl. She clutched my hand with feverish delight.

“You are a friend!” she exclaimed. “You are a wonderful man. Please beckon to that waiter. We will eat. If Charles is in danger of being murdered I am in danger of being starved! You hear, Charles? We eat.”

It was the girl who ordered the meal, which she did fluently and adequately. I returned to my table only a yard or two away and proceeded with my own interrupted luncheon.

Whether it was because I was seated at a strange table or because my mind was already fully occupied with watching my two neighbours, I was never quite sure, but it is a fact that not until I lit my cigarette and commenced to sip my coffee did I become aware of a peculiar change in the little company of lunchers by whom I was surrounded. Two men whom I knew well, although we never recognized each other in public, from a certain department of the War Office, were lunching at an adjoining table and at the very next one were three plainclothes officials from Scotland Yard. Then on the other side, within a few yards of young Cumberley and his companion, was a man from the Foreign Office, one of our own ex-King’s Messengers, who I knew was in the habit of still taking secret journeys in foreign countries, and a third younger man about whose doings there was also a certain amount of mystery. I realized at once that Louis had probably been justified in forcing me into a somewhat difficult position. There was something in the background concerning these two of infinitely greater importance than I had as yet comprehended. I glanced at my watch. A reasonable time for lunch had elapsed and Louis had already left his desk. I signed my bill and crossed the aisle.

“If you are ready,” I said, addressing Cumberley, “I think I can promise to escort you to a place of safety.”

The young man rose slowly to his feet. The girl lit another cigarette and followed his example. The bottle of Burgundy in its cradle was empty, as were also their brandy glasses. The two had evidently lunched well notwithstanding the agitation of which there were still traces in Cumberley’s bearing. He looked restlessly up and down the room.

“Queer lot of people here,” he muttered.

“A barrage,” I assured him lightly.

The girl glanced up at me and laughed. Her lips were a flaming scarlet but her cheeks remained deathly pale. Her eyes, with their beautiful lashes and extraordinary brilliance, were untouched. She was abnormal in every possible way and I was not altogether at my ease when she clutched my arm and we passed down towards the door. The young man walked so close to me that more than once he trod on my toes. He walked, too, with an unsteadiness for which the Burgundy was not altogether to blame. When we reached the door he made us precede him. From the foyer I led them both into Louis’s private room and closed the door. Louis was seated at his desk waiting for us. He swung round and pointed to chairs. He offered no further courtesies to anyone and it was very clear to me, who knew him so well, that he was disturbed.

“Y ou will forgive my asking a question or two?” he begged. “You, young lady, I think are known in Paris by the name of Marie Louise Négrine?”

The girl blew out a little volume of smoke from between her lips. She was evidently surprised.

“Is this a police station?” she enquired.

Louis replied in her own language.

“This is my private office,” he explained, “and I am only the manager of the Grill Room, but I possess certain privileges. You, sir, I believe are Charles Cumberley, the second son of Lord Cumberley?”

“Does it matter who I am?” the young man asked.

“To tell you the truth, it does,” was the dry rejoinder. ” A certain person will be arriving in a few minutes who desires to cross-question you. I offer you a word of advice. Tell the truth.”

Cumberley scowled.

“Is that meant to be an insult?” he demanded.

“It is exceedingly good advice,” Louis assured him. “You will do well, sir, to follow it.”

Mademoiselle, who had been gazing into the mirror which she had drawn from her vanity case, added a further splash of colour to her lips and closed the bag with a snap. Of the little company she was without a doubt the only one who was entirely at her ease.

“For me,” she declared, “I tell the truth always. It is a foolish habit but I do it –except to my lovers, of course,” she added. “To tell the truth always to them would make life impossible.”

The young man looked at her fiercely. She remained indifferent. There was a knock at the door.

A well-known figure entered. I rose to my feet respectfully. The newcomer, my direct Chief, General Fitzhaven, who was head of the little liaison staff between two great institutions, took a seat.

Obeying a gesture from Louis I locked the door.

“So this is the young couple you and I have been discussing, Louis,” the General remarked. “Mademoiselle seems pretty well true to type. You appear to have crumbled away a bit, Cumberley, since you made your last century at Lords.”

The young man was a little shamefaced.

“I had fever out East, sir,” he explained. “That is why, when my father went to Paris, I was transferred there.”

Fitzhaven sat for a moment in thoughtful silence.

“So you had an uncomfortable luncheon, I hear,” he observed abruptly.

“How did you hear that, sir?” was the startled reply.