The Penguin Book of Gaslight Crime - Michael Sims [59]
One bright morning, when the car came to Paris, I called for her, at Bindo’s orders, at her flat in the Avenue Kléber, where she lived, it appeared, with a prim, sharp-nosed old aunt, of angular appearance, peculiarly French. She soon appeared, dressed in the very latest motor clothes, with her veil properly fixed, in a manner which showed me instantly that she was a motorist. Besides, she would not enter the car, but got up beside me, wrapped a rug about her skirts in a business-like manner, and gave me the order to move.
“Where to, Mademoiselle?” I asked.
“Did not the Count give you instructions?” she asked in her pretty broken English, turning her great dark eyes upon me in surprise. “Why, to Brussels, of course.”
“To Brussels!” I ejaculated, for I thought the run was to be only about Paris—to meet Bindo, perhaps.
“Yes. Are you surprised?” she laughed. “It is not far—two hundred kilometres, or so. Surely that is nothing for you?”
“Not at all. Only the Count is at the Ritz. Shall we not call there first?”
“The Count left for Belgium by the seven-fifty train this morning,” was her reply. “He has taken our baggage with his, and you will take me by road alone.”
I was, of course, nothing loth to spend a few hours with such a charming companion as La Valentine; therefore in the Avenue des Champs Elysées I pulled up, and consulting my road-book, decided to go by way of Arras, Douai, St. Amand, and Ath. Quickly we ran out beyond the fortifications; while, driving in silence, I wondered what this latest manœuvre was to be. This sudden flight from Paris was more than mysterious. It caused me considerable apprehension, for when I had seen the Count in his room at midnight he had made no mention of his intention to leave so early.
At last, out upon the straight high road that ran between lines of high bare poplars, I put on speed, and quickly the cloud of white dust rose behind us. The northerly wind that grey day was biting, and threatened snow; therefore my pretty companion very soon began to feel the cold. I saw her turning up the collar of her cloth motor-coat, and guessed that she had no leather beneath. To do a day’s journey in comfort in such weather one must be wind-proof.
“You are cold, Mademoiselle,” I remarked. “Will you not put on my leather jacket? You’ll feel the benefit of it, even though it may not appear very smart.” And I pulled up.
With a light merry laugh she consented, and I got out the garment in question, helped her into it over her coat, and though a trifle tight across the chest, she at once declared that it was a most excellent idea. She was, indeed, a merry child of Paris, and allowed me to button the coat, smiling the while at my masculine clumsiness.
Then we continued on our way, and a few moments later were going for all we were worth over the dry, well-kept, level road eastward, towards the Belgian frontier. She laughed and chatted as the hours went by. She had been in London last spring, she told me, and had stayed at the Savoy. The English were so droll, and lacked cachet, though the hotel was smart—especially at supper.
“We pass Douai,” she remarked presently, after we had run rapidly through many villages and small towns. “I must call for a telegram.” And then, somehow, she settled down into a thoughtful silence.
At Arras I pulled up, and got her a glass of hot milk. Then on again, for she declared that she was not hungry, and preferred to get to Brussels than to linger on the road. On the broad highway to Douai we went at the greatest speed that I could get out of the fine six-cylinder, the engines beating beautiful time,