Little did he suspect what the next few weeks held in store for him. Had he known I doubt if even the prospect of an old pre-war spring in Paris would have taken him away; for his insatiable mind liked nothing better than a complicated problem; and even as he spoke to me that morning the gods that presided over his destiny were preparing for him a strange and fascinating enigma—one which was to stir the nation deeply and add a new and terrible chapter to the annals of crime.
Vance had scarcely poured his second cup of coffee when Currie, his old English butler and general factotum, appeared at the French doors bearing a portable telephone.
“It’s Mr. Markham, sir,” the old man said apologetically. “As he seemed rather urgent, I took the liberty of informing him you were in.” He plugged the telephone into a baseboard switch, and set the instrument on the breakfast table.
“Quite right, Currie,” Vance murmured, taking off the receiver. “Anything to break this deuced monotony.” Then he spoke to Markham. “I say, old man, don’t you ever sleep? I’m in the midst of an omelette aux fines herbes. Will you join me? Or do you merely crave the music of my voice——?”
He broke off abruptly, and the bantering look on his lean features disappeared. Vance was a marked Nordic type, with a long, sharply chiselled face; gray, wide-set eyes; a narrow aquiline nose; and a straight oval chin. His mouth, too, was firm and clean-cut, but it held a look of cynical cruelty which was more Mediterranean than Nordic. His face was strong and attractive, though not exactly handsome. It was the face of a thinker and recluse; and its very severity—at once studious and introspective—acted as a barrier between him and his fellows.
Though he was immobile by nature and sedulously schooled in the repression of his emotions, I noticed that, as he listened to Markham on the phone that morning, he could not entirely disguise his eager interest in what was being told him. A slight frown ruffled his brow; and his eyes reflected his inner amazement. From time to time he gave vent to a murmured “Amazin’!” or “My word!” or “Most extr’ordin’ry!”—his favorite expletives—and when at the end of several minutes he spoke to Markham, a curious excitement marked his manner.
“Oh, by all means!” he said. “I shouldn’t miss it for all the lost comedies of Menander. . . . It sounds mad. . . . I’ll don fitting raiment immediately. . . . Au revoir.”
Replacing the receiver, he rang for Currie.
“My gray tweeds,” he ordered. “A sombre tie, and my black Homburg hat.” Then he returned to his omelet with a preoccupied air.
After a few moments he looked at me quizzically.