The Penguin Book of Gaslight Crime - Michael Sims [61]
I spoke in English. On the Continent just now it is considered rather smart to talk English. One often hears two German or Italian women speaking atrocious English together, in order to air their superior knowledge before strangers. Therefore that I spoke English was not remarked by the manager, who explained that our courier had given him all instructions, and had brought the baggage in advance. The courier was, I could only suppose, the audacious Bindo himself.
That day passed quite merrily. We lunched together, took a drive in the pretty Bois de la Cambre, and after dining, went to the Monnaie to see Madame Butterfly. On our return to the hotel I found a note from Bindo, and saying good-night to Valentine I went forth again to keep the appointment he had made in a café in the quiet Chausée de Charleroi, on the opposite side of the city.
When I entered the little place I found the Count seated at a table with Blythe and Henderson. The two latter were dressed shabbily, while the Count himself was in dark grey, with a soft felt hat—the perfect counterfeit of the foreign courier.
With enthusiasm I was welcomed into the corner.
“Well?” asked Bindo with a laugh, “And how do you like your new wife, Ewart?” and the others smiled.
“Charming,” I replied. “But I don’t see exactly where the joke comes in.”
“I don’t suppose you do, just yet.”
“It’s a risky proceeding, isn’t it?” I queried.
“Risky! What risk is there in gulling hotel people?” he asked. “If you don’t intend to pay the bill it would be quite another matter.”
“But why is the lady to pass as my wife? Why am I the Count de Bourbriac? Why, indeed, are we here at all?”
“That’s our business, my dear Ewart. Leave matters to us. All you’ve got to do is to just play your part well. Appear to be very devoted to La Comtesse, and it’ll be several hundreds into your pocket—perhaps a level thou’—who knows?”
“A thou’ each—quite,” declared Blythe, a cool, audacious international swindler of the most refined and cunning type.
“But what risk is there?” I inquired, for my companions seemed to be angling after big fish this time, whoever they were.
“None—as far as you are concerned. Be advised by Valentine. She’s as clever a girl as there is in all Europe. She has her eyes and ears open all the time. A lover will come on the scene before long, and you must be jealous—devilish jealous—you understand?”
“A lover? Who? I don’t understand.”
“You’ll see, soon enough. Go back to the hotel—or stay with us to-night, if you prefer it. Only don’t worry yourself over risks. We never take any. Only fools do that. Whatever we do is always a dead certainty before we embark upon the job.”
“Then I’m to understand that some fellow is making love to Valentine—eh?”
“Exactly. To-morrow night you are both invited to a ball at the Belle Vue, in aid of the Hospital St. Jean. You will go, and there the lover will appear. You will withdraw, and allow the little flirtation to proceed. Valentine herself will give you further instructions as the occasion warrants.”
“I confess I don’t half like it. I’m working too much in the dark,” I protested.
“That’s just what we intend. If you knew too much you might betray yourself, for the people we’ve got to deal with have eyes in the backs of their heads,” declared Bindo.
It was five o’clock next morning before I returned to the Grand, but during the hours we smoked together, at various obscure cafés, the trio told me nothing further, though they chaffed me regarding the beauty of the girl who had consented to act the part of my wife, and who, I could only suppose, “stood in” with us.
At noon, surely enough, came a special invitation to the “Comte et Comtesse de Bourbriac” for the great ball that evening at the Hotel Belle Vue, and at ten o’clock that night Valentine entered our private