Part 35 (1/2)

”Well, my dear boy! I have to thank you for an excellent dinner and a most interesting evening. Pity to break it up so early. Still, les affaires--you know! Sorry you're not going my way--but that's a handsome taxi you've drawn. What's its number--eh?”

”Haven't the faintest notion,” a British voice drawled in response.

”Never fret about a taxi's number until it has run over me.”

”Great mistake,” Bannon rejoined cheerfully. ”Always take the number before entering. Then, if anything happens ... However, that's a good-looking chap at the wheel--doesn't look as if he'd run you into any trouble.”

”Oh, I fancy not,” said the Englishman, bored.

”Well, you never can tell. The number's on the lamp. Make a note of it and be on the safe side. Or trust me--I never forget numbers.”

With this speech Bannon ranged alongside Lanyard and looked him over, keenly malicious enjoyment gleaming in his evil old eyes.

”You are an honest-looking chap,” he observed with a mocking smile but in a tone of the most inoffensive admiration--”honest and--ah--what shall I say?--what's the word we're all using now-a-days?--efficient!

Honest and efficient-looking, capable of better things, or I'm no judge! Forgive an old man's candour, my friend--and take good care of our British cousin here. He doesn't know his way around Paris very well. Still, I feel confident he'll come to no harm in _your_ company.

Here's a franc for you.” With matchless effrontery, he produced a coin from the pocket of his fur-lined coat.

Unhesitatingly, permitting no expression to colour his features, Lanyard extended his palm, received the money, dropped it into his own pocket, and carried two fingers to the visor of his cap.

”Merci, monsieur,” he said evenly.

”Ah, that's the right spirit!” the deep voice jeered. ”Never be above your station, my man--never hesitate to take a tip! Here, I'll give you another, gratis: get out of this business: you're too good for it.

Don't ask me how I know; I can tell by your face--h.e.l.lo! Why do you turn down the flag? You haven't started yet!”

”Conversation goes up on the clock,” Lanyard replied stolidly in French. He turned and faced Bannon squarely, loosing a glance of venomous hatred into the other's eyes. ”The longer I have to stop here listening to your senile monologue, the more you'll have to pay. What address, please?” he added, turning back to get a glimpse of his pa.s.senger.

”Hotel Astoria,” the porter supplied.

”Very good.”

The porter closed the door.

”But remember my advice,” Bannon counselled coolly, stepping back and waving his hand to the man in the cab. ”Good night.”

Lanyard took his car smartly away from the curb, wheeled round the corner into the boulevard des Capucines, and toward the rue Royale.

He had gone but a block when the window at his back was lowered and his fare observed pleasantly:

”That you, Lanyard?”

The adventurer hesitated an instant; then, without looking round, responded:

”Wertheimer, eh?”

”Right-O! The old man had me puzzled for a minute with his silly chaffing. Stupid of me, too, because we'd just been talking about you.”

”Had you, though!”

”Rather. Hadn't you better take me where we can have a quiet little talk?”

”I'm not conscious of the necessity--”