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40 pages

English

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This novella is a sequel of sorts to A. E. W. Mason's bestselling novel, At the Villa Rose. Famed Inspector Hanaud is attempting to take a brief holiday after cracking a big case, but as often happens, he soon finds himself enmeshed in a confounding mystery.

Informations

Publié par	The Floating Press
Date de parution	01 septembre 2014
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781776586790
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0134€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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THE AFFAIR AT THE SEMIRAMIS HOTEL
* * *
A. E. W. MASON

*
The Affair at the Semiramis Hotel First published in 1917 Epub ISBN 978-1-77658-679-0 Also available: PDF ISBN 978-1-77658-680-6 © 2013 The Floating Press and its licensors. All rights reserved. While every effort has been used to ensure the accuracy and reliability of the information contained in The Floating Press edition of this book, The Floating Press does not assume liability or responsibility for any errors or omissions in this book. The Floating Press does not accept responsibility for loss suffered as a result of reliance upon the accuracy or currency of information contained in this book. Do not use while operating a motor vehicle or heavy equipment. Many suitcases look alike. Visit www.thefloatingpress.com
Contents
*
Chapter I Chapter II Chapter III Chapter IV
Chapter I
*
Mr. Ricardo, when the excitements of the Villa Rose were done with,returned to Grosvenor Square and resumed the busy, unnecessary life ofan amateur. But the studios had lost their savour, artists theirattractiveness, and even the Russian opera seemed a trifle flat. Lifewas altogether a disappointment; Fate, like an actress at arestaurant, had taken the wooden pestle in her hand and stirred allthe sparkle out of the champagne; Mr. Ricardo languished—until oneunforgettable morning.
He was sitting disconsolately at his breakfast-table when the door wasburst open and a square, stout man, with the blue, shaven face of aFrench comedian, flung himself into the room. Ricardo sprang towardsthe new-comer with a cry of delight.
"My dear Hanaud!"
He seized his visitor by the arm, feeling it to make sure that here,in flesh and blood, stood the man who had introduced him to theacutest sensations of his life. He turned towards his butler, who wasstill bleating expostulations in the doorway at the unceremoniousirruption of the French detective.
"Another place, Burton, at once," he cried, and as soon as he andHanaud were alone: "What good wind blows you to London?"
"Business, my friend. The disappearance of bullion somewhere on theline between Paris and London. But it is finished. Yes, I take aholiday."
A light had suddenly flashed in Mr. Ricardo's eyes, and was now noless suddenly extinguished. Hanaud paid no attention whatever to hisfriend's disappointment. He pounced upon a piece of silver whichadorned the tablecloth and took it over to the window.
"Everything is as it should be, my friend," he exclaimed, with a grin."Grosvenor Square, the Times open at the money column, and a falseantique upon the table. Thus I have dreamed of you. All Mr. Ricardo isin that sentence."
Ricardo laughed nervously. Recollection made him wary of Hanaud'ssarcasms. He was shy even to protest the genuineness of his silver.But, indeed, he had not the time. For the door opened again and oncemore the butler appeared. On this occasion, however, he was alone.
"Mr. Calladine would like to speak to you, sir," he said.
"Calladine!" cried Ricardo in an extreme surprise. "That is the mostextraordinary thing." He looked at the clock upon his mantelpiece. Itwas barely half-past eight. "At this hour, too?"
"Mr. Calladine is still wearing evening dress," the butler remarked.
Ricardo started in his chair. He began to dream of possibilities; andhere was Hanaud miraculously at his side.
"Where is Mr. Calladine?" he asked.
"I have shown him into the library."
"Good," said Mr. Ricardo. "I will come to him."
But he was in no hurry. He sat and let his thoughts play with thisincident of Calladine's early visit.
"It is very odd," he said. "I have not seen Calladine for months—no,nor has anyone. Yet, a little while ago, no one was more often seen."
He fell apparently into a muse, but he was merely seeking to provokeHanaud's curiosity. In this attempt, however, he failed. Hanaudcontinued placidly to eat his breakfast, so that Mr. Ricardo wascompelled to volunteer the story which he was burning to tell.
"Drink your coffee, Hanaud, and you shall hear about Calladine."
Hanaud grunted with resignation, and Mr. Ricardo flowed on:
"Calladine was one of England's young men. Everybody said so. He wasgoing to do very wonderful things as soon as he had made up his mindexactly what sort of wonderful things he was going to do. Meanwhile,you met him in Scotland, at Newmarket, at Ascot, at Cowes, in the boxof some great lady at the Opera—not before half-past ten in theevening there —in any fine house where the candles that nighthappened to be lit. He went everywhere, and then a day came and hewent nowhere. There was no scandal, no trouble, not a whisper againsthis good name. He simply vanished. For a little while a few peopleasked: 'What has become of Calladine?' But there never was any answer,and London has no time for unanswered questions. Other promising youngmen dined in his place. Calladine had joined the huge legion of theCome-to-nothings. No one even seemed to pass him in the street. Nowunexpectedly, at half-past eight in the morning, and in evening dress,he calls upon me. 'Why?' I ask myself."
Mr. Ricardo sank once more into a reverie. Hanaud watched him with abroadening smile of pure enjoyment.
"And in time, I suppose," he remarked casually, "you will perhaps askhim?"
Mr. Ricardo sprang out of his pose to his feet.
"Before I discuss serious things with an acquaintance," he said with ascathing dignity, "I make it a rule to revive my impressions of hispersonality. The cigarettes are in the crystal box."
"They would be," said Hanaud, unabashed, as Ricardo stalked from theroom. But in five minutes Mr. Ricardo came running back, all hiscomposure gone.
"It is the greatest good fortune that you, my friend, should havechosen this morning to visit me," he cried, and Hanaud nodded with alittle grimace of resignation.
"There goes my holiday. You shall command me now and always. I willmake the acquaintance of your young friend."
He rose up and followed Ricardo into his study, where a young man wasnervously pacing the floor.
"Mr. Calladine," said Ricardo. "This is Mr. Hanaud."
The young man turned eagerly. He was tall, with a noticeable eleganceand distinction, and the face which he showed to Hanaud was, in spiteof its agitation, remarkably handsome.
"I am very glad," he said. "You are not an official of this country.You can advise—without yourself taking action, if you'll be so good."
Hanaud frowned. He bent his eyes uncompromisingly upon Calladine.
"What does that mean?" he asked, with a note of sternness in hisvoice.
"It means that I must tell someone," Calladine burst out in quiveringtones. "That I don't know what to do. I am in a difficulty too big forme. That's the truth."
Hanaud looked at the young man keenly. It seemed to Ricardo that hetook in every excited gesture, every twitching feature, in onecomprehensive glance. Then he said in a friendlier voice:
"Sit down and tell me"—and he himself drew up a chair to the table.
"I was at the Semiramis last night," said Calladine, naming one of thegreat hotels upon the Embankment. "There was a fancy-dress ball."
All this happened, by the way, in those far-off days before thewar—nearly, in fact, three years ago today—when London, flingingaside its reticence, its shy self-consciousness, had become a city ofcarnivals and masquerades, rivalling its neighbours on the Continentin the spirit of its gaiety, and exceeding them by its stupendousluxury. "I went by the merest chance. My rooms are in the AdelphiTerrace."
"There!" cried Mr. Ricardo in surprise, and Hanaud lifted a hand tocheck his interruptions.
"Yes," continued Calladine. "The night was warm, the music floatedthrough my open windows and stirred old memories. I happened to have aticket. I went."
Calladine drew up a chair opposite to Hanaud and, seating himself,told, with many nervous starts and in troubled tones, a story which,to Mr. Ricardo's thinking, was as fabulous as any out of the "ArabianNights."
"I had a ticket," he began, "but no domino. I was consequently stoppedby an attendant in the lounge at the top of the staircase leading downto the ballroom.
"'You can hire a domino in the cloakroom, Mr. Calladine,' he said tome. I had already begun to regret the impulse which had brought me,and I welcomed the excuse with which the absence of a costume providedme. I was, indeed, turning back to the door, when a girl who had atthat moment run down from the stairs of the hotel into the lounge,cried gaily: 'That's not necessary'; and at the same moment she flungto me a long scarlet cloak which she had been wearing over her owndress. She was young, fair, rather tall, slim, and very pretty; herhair was drawn back from her face with a ribbon, and rippled down hershoulders in heavy curls; and she was dressed in a satin coat andknee-breeches of pale green and gold, with a white waistcoat andsilk stockings and scarlet heels to her satin shoes. She was asstraight-limbed as a boy, and exquisite like a figure in Dresdenchina. I caught the cloak and turned to thank her. But she did notwait. With a laugh she ran down the stairs a supple and shiningfigure, and was lost in the throng at the doorway of the ballroom. Iwas stirred by the prospect of an adventure. I ran down after her. Shewas standing just inside the room alone, and she was gazing at thescene with parted lips and dancing eyes. She laughed again as she sawthe cloak about my shoulders, a delicious gurgle of amusement, and Isaid to her:
"'May I dance with you?'
"'Oh, do!' she cried, with a little jump, and clasping her hands. Shewas of a high and joyous spirit and not difficult in the matter of anintroduction. 'This gentleman will do very well to present us,' shesaid, leading me in front of a bust of the God Pan which stood in aniche of the wall. 'I am, as you see, straight out of an opera. Myname is Celymène or anything with an eighteenth century sound to it.You are—what you will. For this evening we are friends.'
"'And for to-morrow?' I asked.
"'I