E. Phillips Oppenheim

Mr. Billingham, the Marquis and Madelon

Warsaw 2018

Contents

I. THE BAMBOOZLING OF MR. GASCOIGNE

II. THE NUMBERS OF DEATH

III. MRS. BLOCK CONTRIBUTES

IV. THE CAFÉ OF TERROR

V. THE ROYAL GAME

VI. BLOOD-MONEY

VII. THE SYMBOL IN THE BOOT

VIII. THE SALVATION OF MR. NORTON

IX. THE STINK WIZARD

X. CHRISTIAN, THE CONCIERGE

I. THE BAMBOOZLING OF MR. GASCOIGNE

Mr. Samuel T. Billingham of New York, recently landed from the great liner anchored a few miles out, walked along the Terrace at Monte Carlo, serene, light-hearted, beatifically content. His yellow shoes and his variegated socks might be described as a trifle vivid, but the rest of his attire–his well-pressed grey suit, his irreproachable linen, and his well- shaped grey Homburg hat– was beyond criticism. He was a man of medium height, thick-set, inclined a little, perhaps, to embonpoint. His complexion was pink, his flaxen hair only slightly streaked with grey, his eyes filled with the light of good-humour. He was possibly about forty-five years of age, but he walked with the spring of a young man. In his pocket was his carte de saison for the Cercle Prive and card of membership of the Sporting Club, taken out an hour or so before. In the same pocket was also a well-filled money case, and in his mind the consciousness of pleasant quarters in his favourite hotel, and the knowledge that he was in the spot which he loved more than any place on earth. Furthermore, he was pleasantly aware of the fact that he was in the immediate neighbourhood of various interesting little rendezvous where restrictions as to any refreshment he might deem advisable for his welfare were non-existent; where compatriots were always to be found and amusement plentiful. Mr. Samuel T. Billingham, brimming over with good-humour, was certainly an agreeable circumstance in a wonderful setting.

At half-past eleven o’clock–Mr. Billingham was a man of regular habits–he quitted the promenade, crossed the Place in front of the Casino, and selected a table outside the Café de Paris. He selected it simply because it happened to be the nearest empty one and without even a glance at his neighbours. It was nevertheless, without a doubt, by the direction of that mysterious influence called fate that he should have chosen that particular chair and ordered his champagne cocktail with that clear and pleasant directness of speech which caused the two people at the adjacent table to turn and focus their attention upon him.

“A champagne cocktail,” he enjoined confidently, frankly ignoring the fact that he was addressing a foreigner, “and some of them little salted nuts–and say, get a move on!”

The waiter hurried off. Mr. Samuel T. Billingham looked around him genially and met the faintly amused, gently enquiring gaze of his neighbours. Mr. Billingham smiled back again but at that moment no words were exchanged.

The man and the girl were of ingratiating, even distinguished appearance. The former seemed to be about fifty or perhaps fifty-five years of age. He was tall and thin, dressed in dark clothes from which the first freshness had gone, and though no fault could have been found with his linen or the less important appurtenances of his toilette, it was noticeable that his shirt cuffs were a little frayed, his patent boots a little cracked, his coat a little shiny at the seams. His face was gaunt, his eyes were deep-set, but his mouth had a most attractive and humorous outline. The girl with whom he was seated and at whom Mr. Billingham had permitted himself a single glance of admiration, was young enough to be his daughter, but bore him no resemblance. Her hair was of a most attractive shade of brown and her eyes were of the very darkest shade of blue. She seemed pale from the absence of all cosmetics, but her lack of colour was, as a matter of fact, healthy and natural. There was something a little insolent about her expression, as though she were one of those often at war with the world and circumstances, but amongst the cosmopolitan little crowd by which they were surrounded she preserved an air of distinction which a keen student of his fellow-creatures, such as Mr. Billingham, was not slow to recognise. He waited for his cocktail without impatience and with the air of one entirely satisfied with himself and his particular corner of the world. Meanwhile the man and the girl talked– the former in broken English–and, although they never seemed to raise their voices, every word they said was audible to their neighbour.

“It is incredible, Madelon,” her companion exclaimed irritably, “that you should have been so careless! Our day is spoilt.”

“I am very sorry,” she replied humbly. “It is not often I forget such things. As you told me, I put three mille notes in my little sacque early this morning. Then, alas! the sun came out, I wore a different dress, and I brought the other sacque. There it is upon my dressing-table!”

“And here are we,” the man grumbled, “without a penny to pay for our consommation, to say nothing of luncheon. Furthermore, there are the Rooms and perhaps a fortune waiting. Last night I dreamed of fourteen, three times following.”

“It is not so wonderful,” she declared a little pettishly. “You always dream of fourteen, but it never arrives.”

The champagne cocktail, well frosted and with a thin line of sugar around the rim of the glass, was brought to Mr. Billingham, who accepted it with an air of content. The eyes of the man and the girl rested for a moment upon the glass with a veiled expression of envy. Mr. Billingham lifted his hat and leaned forward.

“Sir,” he said, addressing the man, “I am blessed, or should I say cursed, with acute hearing. From what you were saying to the young lady I gather that you have left your money at home.”

His neighbour, also with his hat slightly uplifted, listened with an air of grave embarrassment.

“Sir,” he rejoined, “I regret that, in some temporary excitement, owing to the discovery of my niece’s carelessness, my voice was a little raised. May I venture to suggest, however, that my conversation was not intended to reach the ear of a stranger, nor can I–pardon me–understand what significance it can have for him.”

“That’s very well put,” Mr. Billingham commented approvingly. “I’m rather a plain-spoken man myself, but what I figured out in my own mind was that this being my first morning in Monte Carlo after an absence of a good many years, and this being my favourite spot upon the earth, and the sun shining and my cocktail looking pretty good, I thought perhaps I might take the liberty of inviting you and the young lady to join me.”

The elderly gentleman rose to his feet, hat in hand, and bowed.

“Sir,” he said, “we shall accept your courtesy in–may I say–a spirit of reciprocity. Permit me to present my niece, Mademoiselle Madelon de Felan. I myself am known as the Marquis de Felan.”

Mr. Billingham rose also to his feet, lifted his hat, fumbled in his pocket and produced a card. “Samuel T. Billingham is my name, sir,” he announced. “I come from New York and I’m interested in linoleum–that is to say, I was, only I’ve recently sold out. Pleased to meet you both… . Garçon!”

Their prospective host accepted an invitation to bring his chair to the table of his new acquaintances, and the succeeding half-an-hour passed agreeably enough. Certain orders concerning champagne cocktails were given and repeated whilst the usual amenities of general conversation were exchanged.

“I was thinking of moving on to Ciro’s presently,” Mr. Billingham announced, glancing at his watch. “We might try one there and, say, why shouldn’t you and the young lady join me in a bite of luncheon.”

The girl laughed at him pleasantly–and it was • a very pleasant laugh indeed.

“I’m so hungry,” she murmured.

The Marquis was touched.

“Really, sir,” he said, “your kindness is astounding. We will join you on the distinct understanding that we are allowed within the course of the next few days to reciprocate your hospitality.”

“Good enough!” Mr. Billingham assented. “That goes, then! We’ll move on as soon as the garfon has brought me my change. Now promise you won’t go back on our luncheon engagement, whatever happens.”

“Not a chance,” the girl assured him, with that twinkle in her eyes which Mr. Billingham was already beginning to love. “I’m far too hungry, and Ciro’s is my favourite restaurant.”

“Very well, then,” Mr. Billingham concluded, drawing his chair up a little closer. “So long as it’s understood that you don’t take offence, I just want to ask you one thing. Do I look such an almighty hayseed that you should pick me out to try that old wheeze on?”

There was a moment’s silence. The orchestra rattled on, corks still popped, a pleasant murmur of conversation swelled and flowed around. The man and the girl,’ however, remained speechless. The latter had lost that smile of pleasant anticipation; her face was suddenly a little drawn and troubled. The man seemed older. His manner, however, preserved its dignity.

“Sir,” he began

“Cut it out,” Mr. Billingham begged. “I know pretty well what I look like, but you see it’s my job to look like it. Any one would think I was what I want them to think me–an American traveller, over here, probably for the first time in his life, with plenty of the stuff. Well, I ain’t! I’m from the United States all right, but I’m looking after a little bit of that stuff myself. Perhaps that’s why I sized you two up so easily.”

The Marquis half rose to his feet. Mr. Billingham pulled him back into his chair.

“Look here,” he insisted genially, “cut out the starch. I’m a bit of a crook–I’ll admit that–but I’m not a bad sort and I’ve taken a fancy to you two. We’re going on to Ciro’s and we’re going to have that little lunch together. I can pay for it all right, and dinner afterwards most likely. No reason why we shouldn’t have a pleasant day together. We might even get to talking business.” The Marquis coughed. He was beginning to recover himself.

“We will certainly accompany you to Ciro’s– er–Mr. Billingham,” he assented. “In the meantime tell me, I beg of you, why you arrived at the conclusion that my niece and I were–er?”

“I figured it out this way,” Mr. Billingham interrupted. “You are both French. What did you want to talk in English for except that you wanted me to understand? That was enough for me to be going on with!”

“Our story is a sad one,” the Marquis commenced.

“Say, we’ll have that after luncheon,” Mr. Billingham suggested, rising to his feet… . The cocktails at Ciro’s were equal to Mr. Billingham’s anticipations, and the luncheon which he presently ordered was entirely satisfactory. Conversation, so far as his two guests were concerned, was a little stilted and diffident. Their host, however, was absolutely at his ease.

“I guess you wouldn’t believe it, you two,” he recounted, as they attacked a wonderful selection of hors d’ouevres, “but I was once a rich man, and I never got such fun out of life in those days as I am helping myself to now. I figure it out like this. When you’ve got your money in the Bank, and the bits coming in, you’re kind of tied up with respectability. Now, since I was a lad I’ve always been for adventures, and there’s only one sort of adventure that counts, and that is the adventure which sets your brain against another man’s and brings you in the stuff if you come out on top. It don’t seem to me that a rich man has got any fighting outlook on life… . Do you get me, Miss de Felan?”

“I understand what you mean,” she replied, a little dubiously, “but I am afraid I do not agree with you. You see, I have always been poor, and I hate poverty.”

“Might be kind of different for a young woman,” Mr. Billingham conceded thoughtfully, “but for a man, to go about the world doing no one any particular harm but living by his wits and what he can make by being a trifle smarter than other people, that’s my idea of a happy time! I don’t mind telling you that my present job over here is to swindle a man out of half a million dollars.”

“Half a million dollars!” the Marquis gasped. “It is incredible!”

“What an imagination!” the girl sighed. “What courage!”

“I guess I’m not out for pinching old ladies’ reticules,” their host confided. “I like a big deal. And,” he went on, leaning a little across the table, “if I can make up my mind that you two are to be trusted–I’m not saying I mightn’t let you in on this little affair. I need just the sort of help you might be able to give, and that’s a fact!”

The Marquis concealed his impatience with all the restraint which was doubtless an inheritance of his breeding. He polished a worn and scratched horn- rimmed eyeglass with a clean but frayed handkerchief and prepared to listen with tolerant partiality. The girl, however, was frankly eager. She leaned across towards her host, her elbows upon the table, her chin supported by her two hands. There was a light in her very beautiful eyes which was almost adoring.

“Tell us about it, Mr. Billingham,” she begged. “We are so very poor and I am tired of being poor.”

“My niece has the natural desire of the young for luxuries,” the Marquis observed. “Frankly, 1 have outlived the necessity for wealth. My modest dejeuner here or at the Hotel de Paris, my dinner, my bottle of Burgundy, my choice of brandies, carte blanche at my tailors, a mille or two to play with when the fancy seizes me, are all I wish for.”

“You don’t aim at putting together a pile for later on in life?” Mr. Billingham queried.

The Marquis sighed.

“That is beyond my hopes,” he admitted.

“And you, Mademoiselle?”

The girl was terribly in earnest.

“If I had the chance,” she said, “I would save. I love all the things which go to making life here so delightful, but more than anything else on earth I should love my independence. I should love to feel that it was no longer necessary for me to worry to-morrow as to how I was going to pay the next day’s bills.”

“Good spirit!” Mr. Billingham approved. “Good spirit, that!”

“Madelon is more practical than I,” the Marquis sighed. “And now concerning that little affair of business, Mr. Billingham, you were about to place before us.”

Mr. Billingham’s attention, however, had wandered. He was watching the approach of an obvious compatriot–a man the very antithesis of himself, but with equally distinct transatlantic attributes; a small man with a sallow face and little hair, teeth stopped plentifully with gold, a wizened expression about the mouth, a short-sighted squint, neat clothes and square-toed shoes. Mr. Billingham welcomed him as a long-lost brother.

“Say, if this isn’t Joe Gascoigne!” he exclaimed. “Well, well, when did you come along?”

Mr. Gascoigne’s reciprocating smile was frosty. His manner showed him to be a man of reserves.

“Paris, last night,” he answered. “How’s oil?”

Mr. Billingham shook his head gloomily.

“Can’t say those new lands are panning out quite as we expected,” he admitted.

“No gushers?” Mr. Gascoigne enquired.

“Nothing of that sort reported up to the present,” was the cautious but somewhat depressed reply. “Still, one never knows. Where there’s oil there’s hope! Where are you staying?”

“Hotel de Paris.”

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