A straightforward mystery tale of Paris and London.
indeed. I noticed it when I ventured to address monsieur on the steps of the Opera House."
I remained gloomily silent. It was one thing to avail myself of the society of a very popular little maitre d'hotel, holiday making in his own capital, and quite another to take him even a few steps into my confidence. So I said nothing, but my eyes, which travelled around the room, were weary.
"After all," Louis continued, helping himself to a cigarette, "what is there in a place like this to amuse? We are not Americans or tourists. The Montmartre is finished. The novelists and the story-tellers have killed it. The women come here because they love to show their jewelry, to flirt with the men. The men come because their womankind desire it, and because it is their habit. But for the rest there is nothing. The true Parisian may come here, perhaps, once or twice a year,--no more. For the man of the world--such as you and I, monsieur,--these places do not exist."
I glanced at my companion a l
The story sucks you in at the beginning with an intensely-described visit to an unusual Paris location, then proceeds to London. The author overall does better at creating interesting characters (who seem somewhat overly mysterious at times) and describing places than at constructing a strong plot. With that caveat, still worth the read.
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