The mystery of the Blue Train
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 Élysées, 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 apologize," 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.
3. Heart of Fire
Rufus Van Aldin passed through the revolving doors of the Savoy, and
walked to the reception desk. The desk clerk smiled a respectful
greeting.
"Pleased to see you back again, Mr. Van Aldin," he said.
The American millionaire nodded his head in a casual greeting.
"Everything all right?" he asked.
"Yes, sir. Major Knighton is upstairs in the suite now."
Van Aldin nodded again.
"Any mail?" he vouchsafed.
"They have all been sent up, Mr. Van Aldin. Oh! wait a minute."
He dived into a pigeon hole, and produced a letter.
"Just come this minute," he explained.
Rufus Van Aldin took the letter from him, and as he saw the
handwriting, a woman's flowing hand, his face was suddenly transformed.
The harsh contours of it softened, and the hard line of his mouth
relaxed. He looked a different man. He walked across to the lift with
the letter in his hand and the smile still on his lips.
In the drawing-room of his suite, a young man was sitting at a desk
nimbly sorting correspondence with the ease born of long practice. He
sprang up as Van Aldin entered.
"Hallo, Knighton!"
"Glad to see you back, sir. Had a good time?"
"So-so!" said the millionaire unemotionally. "Paris is rather a
one-horse city nowadays. Still--I got what I went over for."
He smiled to himself rather grimly.
"You usually do, I believe," said the secretary, laughing.
"That's so," agreed the other.
He spoke in a matter-of-fact manner, as one stating a well-known fact.
Throwing off his heavy overcoat, he advanced to the desk.
"Anything urgent?"
"I don't think so, sir. Mostly the usual stuff. I have not quite
finished sorting it out."
Van Aldin nodded briefly. He was a man who seldom expressed either
blame or praise. His methods with those he employed were simple;
he gave them a fair trial and dismissed promptly those who were
inefficient. His selections of people were unconventional. Knighton,
for instance, he had met casually at a Swiss resort two months
previously. He had approved of the fellow, looked up his war record,
and found in it the explanation of the limp with which he walked.
Knighton had made no secret of the fact that he was looking for a
job, and indeed diffidently asked the millionaire if he knew of any
available post. Van Aldin remembered, with a grim smile of amusement,
the young man's complete astonishment when he had been offered the post
of secretary to the great man himself.
"But--but I have no experience of business," he had stammered.
"That doesn't matter a cuss," Van Aldin had replied. "I have got three
secretaries already to attend to that kind of thing. But I am likely
to be in England for the next six months, and I want an Englishman
who--well, knows the ropes--and can attend to the social side of things
for me."
So far, Van Aldin had found his judgment confirmed. Knighton had proved
quick, intelligent, and resourceful, and he had a distinct charm of
manner.
The secretary indicated three or four letters placed by themselves on
the top of the desk.
"It might perhaps be as well, sir, if you glanced at these," he
suggested. "The top one is about the Colton agreement--"
But Rufus Van Aldin held up a protesting hand.
"I am not going to look at a durned thing to-night," he declared. "They
can all wait till the morning. Except this one," he added, looking down
at the letter he held in his hand. And again that strange transforming
smile stole over his face.
Richard Knighton smiled sympathetically.
"Mrs. Kettering?" he murmured. "She rang up yesterday and to-day. She
seems very anxious to see you at once, sir."
"Does she, now!"
The smile faded from the millionaire's face. He ripped open the
envelope which he held in his hand and took out the enclosed sheet. As
he read it his face darkened, his mouth set grimly in the line which
Wall Street knew so well, and his brows knit themselves ominously.
Knighton turned tactfully away, and went on opening letters and sorting
them. A muttered oath escaped the millionaire, and his clenched fist
hit the table sharply.
"I'll not stand for this," he muttered to himself. "Poor little girl,
it's a good thing she has her old father behind her."
He walked up and down the room for some minutes, his brows drawn
together in a scowl. Knighton still bent assiduously over the desk.
Suddenly Van Aldin came to an abrupt halt. He took up his overcoat from
the chair where he had thrown it.
"Are you going out again, sir?"
"Yes; I'm going round to see my daughter."
"If Colton's people ring up--"
"Tell them to go to the devil," said Van Aldin.
"Very well," said the secretary unemotionally.
Van Aldin had his overcoat on by now. Cramming his hat upon his head,
he went towards the door. He paused with his hand upon the handle.
"You are a good fellow, Knighton," he said. "You don't worry me when I
am rattled."
Knighton smiled a little, but made no reply.
"Ruth is my only child," said Van Aldin, "and there is no one on this
earth who knows quite what she means to me."
A faint smile irradiated his face. He slipped his hand into his pocket.
"Care to see something, Knighton?"
He came back towards the secretary.
From his pocket he drew out a parcel carelessly wrapped in brown paper.