Dupré sat at one of the round tables in the Café Vernon, with a glass
of absinthe before him, which he sipped every now and again. He looked
through the open door, out to the Boulevard, and saw passing back and
forth with the regularity of a pendulum, a uniformed policeman. Dupré
laughed silently as he noticed this evidence of law and order. The Café
Vernon was under the protection of the Government. The class to which
Dupré belonged had sworn that it would blow the café into the next
world, therefore the military-looking policeman walked to and fro on
the pavement to prevent this being done, so that all honest citizens
might see that the Government protects its own. People were arrested
now and then for lingering around the café: they were innocent, of
course, and by-and-by the Government found that out and let them go.
The real criminal seldom acts suspiciously. Most of the arrested
persons were merely attracted by curiosity. "There," said one to
another, "the notorious Hertzog was arrested."
The real criminal goes quietly into the café, and orders his absinthe,
as Dupré had done. And the policeman marches up and down keeping an eye
on the guiltless. So runs the world.
There were few customers in the café, for people feared the vengeance
of Hertzog's friends. They expected some fine day that the café would
be blown to atoms, and they preferred to be taking their coffee and
cognac somewhere else when that time came. It was evident that M.
Sonne, the proprietor of the café, had done a poor stroke of business
for himself when he gave information to the police regarding the
whereabouts of Hertzog, notwithstanding the fact that his café became
suddenly the most noted one in the city, and that it now enjoyed the
protection of the Government.
Dupré seldom looked at the proprietor, who sat at the desk, nor at the
waiter, who had helped the week before to overpower Hertzog. He seemed
more intent on watching the minion of the law who paced back and forth
in front of the door, although he once glanced at the other minion who
sat almost out of sight at the back of the café, scrutinising all who
came in, especially those who had parcels of any kind. The café was
well guarded, and M. Sonne, at the desk, appeared to be satisfied with
the protection he was receiving.
When customers did come in they seldom sat at the round metal tables,
but went direct to the zinc-covered bar, ordered their fluid and drank
it standing, seeming in a hurry to get away. They nodded to M. Sonne
and were evidently old frequenters of the café who did not wish him to
think they had deserted him in this crisis, nevertheless they all had
engagements that made prompt departure necessary. Dupré smiled grimly
when he noticed this. He was the only man sitting at a table. He had no
fears of being blown up. He knew that his comrades were more given to
big talk than to action. He had not attended the last meeting, for he
more than suspected the police had agents among them; besides, his
friend and leader, Hertzog, had never attended meetings. That was why
the police had had such difficulty in finding him. Hertzog had been a
man of deeds not words. He had said to Dupré once, that a single
determined man who kept his mouth shut, could do more against society
than all the secret associations ever formed, and his own lurid career
had proved the truth of this. But now he was in prison, and it was the
treachery of M. Sonne that had sent him there. As he thought of this,
Dupré cast a glance at the proprietor and gritted his teeth.
The policeman at the back of the hall, feeling lonely perhaps, walked
to the door and nodded to his parading comrade. The other paused for a
moment on his beat, and they spoke to each other. As the policeman
returned to his place, Dupré said to him--
"Have a sip with me."
"Not while on duty," replied the officer with a wink.
"_Garçon_," said Dupré quietly, "bring me a caraffe of brandy.
_Fin champagne_."
The _garçon_ placed the little marked decanter on the table with
two glasses. Dupré filled them both. The policeman, with a rapid glance
over his shoulder, tossed one off, and smacked his lips. Dupré slowly
sipped the other while he asked--
"Do you anticipate any trouble here?"
"Not in the least," answered the officer confidently. "Talk, that's
all."
"I thought so," said Dupré.
"They had a meeting the other night--a secret meeting;" the policeman
smiled a little as he said this. "They talked a good deal. They are
going to do wonderful things. A man was detailed to carry out this
job."
"And have you arrested him?" questioned Dupré.
"Oh dear, no. We watch him merely. He is the most frightened man in the
city to-night. We expect him to come and tell us all about it, but we
hope he won't. We know more about it than he does."
"I dare say; still it must have hurt M. Sonne's business a good deal."
"It has killed it for the present. People are such cowards. But the
Government will make it all right with him out of the secret fund. He
won't lose anything."
"Does he own the whole house, or only the café?"
"The whole house. He lets the upper rooms, but nearly all the tenants
have left. Yet I call it the safest place in the city. They are all
poltroons, the dynamiters, and they are certain to strike at some place
not so well guarded. They are all well known to us, and the moment one
is caught prowling about here he will be arrested. They are too
cowardly to risk their liberty by coming near this place. It's a
different thing from leaving a tin can and fuse in some dark corner
when nobody is looking. Any fool can do that."
"Then you think this would be a good time to take a room here? I am
looking for one in this neighbourhood," said Dupré.
"You couldn't do better than arrange with M. Sonne. You could make a
good bargain with him now, and you would be perfectly safe."
"I am glad that you mentioned it; I will speak to M. Sonne to-night,
and see the rooms to-morrow. Have another sip of brandy?"
"No, thank you, I must be getting back to my place. Just tell M. Sonne,
if you take a room, that I spoke to you about it."
"I will. Good-night."
Dupré paid his bill and tipped the _garçon_ liberally. The
proprietor was glad to hear of any one wanting rooms. It showed the
tide was turning, and an appointment was made for next day.
Dupré kept his appointment, and the _concierge_ showed him over
the house. The back rooms were too dark, the windows being but a few
feet from the opposite wall. The lower front rooms were too noisy.
Dupré said that he liked quiet, being a student. A front room on the
third floor, however, pleased him, and he took it. He well knew the
necessity of being on good terms with the _concierge_, who would
spy on him anyhow, so he paid just a trifle more than requisite to that
functionary, but not enough to arouse suspicion. Too much is as bad as
too little, a fact that Dupré was well aware of.
He had taken pains to see that his window was directly over the front
door of the café, but now that he was alone and the door locked, he
scrutinised the position more closely. There was an awning over the
front of the café that shut off his view of the pavement and the
policeman marching below. That complicated matters. Still he remembered
that when the sun went down the awning was rolled up. His first idea
when he took the room was to drop the dynamite from the third story
window to the pavement below, but the more he thought of that plan the
less he liked it. It was the sort of thing any fool could do, as the
policeman had said. It would take some thinking over. Besides, dynamite
dropped on the pavement would, at most, but blow in the front of the
shop, kill the perambulating policeman perhaps, or some innocent
passer-by, but it would not hurt old Sonne nor yet the _garçon_
who had made himself so active in arresting Hertzog.
Dupré was a methodical man. He spoke quite truly when he said he was a
student. He now turned his student training on the case as if it were a
problem in mathematics.
First, the dynamite must be exploded inside the café. Second, the thing
must be done so deftly that no suspicion could fall on the perpetrator.
Third, revenge was no revenge when it (A) killed the man who fired the
mine, or (B) left a trail that would lead to his arrest.
Dupré sat down at his table, thrust his hands in his pockets, stretched
out his legs, knit his brows, and set himself to solve the conundrum.
He could easily take a handbag filled with explosive material into the
café. He was known there, but not as a friend of Hertzog's. He was a
customer and a tenant, therefore doubly safe. But he could not leave
the bag there, and if he stayed with it his revenge would rebound on
himself. He could hand the bag to the waiter saying he would call for
it again, but the waiter would naturally wonder why he did not give it
to the _concierge_, and have it sent to his rooms; besides, the
_garçon_ was wildly suspicious. The waiter felt his unfortunate
position. He dare not leave the Café Vernon, for he now knew that he
was a marked man. At the Vernon he had police protection, while if he
went anywhere else he would have no more safeguard than any other
citizen; so he stayed on at the Vernon, such a course being, he
thought, the least of two evils. But he watched every incomer much more
sharply than did the policeman.
Dupré also realised that there was another difficulty about the handbag
scheme. The dynamite must be set off either by a fuse or by clockwork
machinery. A fuse caused smoke, and the moment a man touched a bag
containing clockwork his hand felt the thrill of moving machinery. A
man who hears for the first time the buzz of the rattlesnake's signal,
like the shaking of dry peas in a pod, springs instinctively aside,
even though he knows nothing of snakes. How much more, therefore, would
a suspicious waiter, whose nerves were all alert for the soft, deadly
purr of dynamite mechanism, spoil everything the moment his hand
touched the bag? Yes, Dupré reluctantly admitted to himself, the
handbag theory was not practical. It led to either self-destruction or
prison.
What then was the next thing, as fuse or mechanism were unavailable?
There was the bomb that exploded when it struck, and Dupré had himself
made several. A man might stand in the middle of the street and shy it
in through the open door. But then he might miss the doorway. Also
until the hour the café closed the street was as light as day. Then the
policeman was all alert for people in the middle of the street. His own
safety depended upon it too. How was the man in the street to be
dispensed with, yet the result attained? If the Boulevard was not so
wide, a person on the opposite side in a front room might fire a
dynamite bomb across, as they do from dynamite guns, but then there
was--
"By God!" cried Dupré, "I have it!"
He drew in his outstretched legs, went to the window and threw it open,
gazing down for a moment at the pavement below. He must measure the
distance at night--and late at night too--he said to himself. He bought
a ball of cord, as nearly the colour of the front of the building as
possible. He left his window open, and after midnight ran the cord out
till he estimated that it about reached the top of the café door. He
stole quietly down and let himself out, leaving the door unlatched. The
door to the apartments was at the extreme edge of the building, while
the café doors were in the middle, with large windows on each side. As
he came round to the front, his heart almost ceased to beat when a
voice from the café door said--
"What do you want? What are you doing here at this hour?"
The policeman had become so much a part of the pavement in Dupré's mind
that he had actually forgotten the officer was there night and day.
Dupré allowed himself the luxury of one silent gasp, then his heart
took up its work again.
"I was looking for you," he said quietly. By straining his eyes he
noticed at the same moment that the cord dangled about a foot above the
policeman's head, as he stood in the dark doorway.
[Illustration: THE CORD DANGLED ABOUT A FOOT ABOVE THE POLICEMAN'S
HEAD]
"I was looking for you. I suppose you don't know of any--any chemist's
shop open so late as this? I have a raging toothache and can't sleep,
and I want to get something for it."
"Oh, the chemist's at the corner is open all night. Ring the bell at
the right hand."
"I hate to disturb them for such a trifle."
"That's what they're there for," said the officer philosophically.
"Would you mind standing at the other door till I get back? I'll be as
quick as I can. I don't wish to leave it open unprotected, and I don't
want to close it, for the _concierge_ knows I'm in and he is
afraid to open it when any one rings late. You know me, of course; I'm
in No. 16."
"Yes, I recognise you now, though I didn't at first. I will stand by
the door until you return."
Dupré went to the corner shop and bought a bottle of toothache drops
from the sleepy youth behind the counter. He roused him up however, and
made him explain how the remedy was to be applied. He thanked the
policeman, closed the door, and went up to his room. A second later the
cord was cut at the window and quietly pulled in.
Dupré sat down and breathed hard for a few moments.
"You fool!" he said to himself; "a mistake or two like that and you are
doomed. That's what comes of thinking too much on one branch of your
subject. Another two feet and the string would have been down on his
nose. I am certain he did not see it; I could hardly see it myself,
looking for it. The guarding of the side door was an inspiration. But
I must think well over every phase of the subject before acting again.
This is a lesson."
As he went on with his preparations it astonished him to find how many
various things had to be thought of in connexion with an apparently
simple scheme, the neglect of any one of which would endanger the whole
enterprise. His plan was a most uncomplicated one. All he had to do was
to tie a canister of dynamite at the end of a string of suitable
length, and at night, before the café doors were closed, fling it from
his window so that the package would sweep in by the open door, strike
against the ceiling of the café, and explode. First he thought of
holding the end of the cord in his hand at the open window, but
reflection showed him that if, in the natural excitement of the moment,
he drew back or leant too far forward the package might strike the
front of the house above the door, or perhaps hit the pavement. He
therefore drove a stout nail in the window-sill and attached the end of
the cord to that. Again, he had to render his canister of explosive so
sensitive to any shock that he realised if he tied the cord around it
and flung it out into the night the can might go off when the string
was jerked tight and the explosion take place in mid-air above the
street. So he arranged a spiral spring between can and cord to take up
harmlessly the shock caused by the momentum of the package when the
string became suddenly taut. He saw that the weak part of his project
was the fact that everything would depend on his own nerve and accuracy
of aim at the critical moment, and that a slight miscalculation to the
right or to the left would cause the bomb, when falling down and in, to
miss the door altogether. He would have but one chance, and there was
no opportunity of practising. However, Dupré, who was a philosophical
man, said to himself that if people allowed small technical
difficulties to trouble them too much, nothing really worth doing would
be accomplished in this world. He felt sure he was going to make some
little mistake that would ruin all his plans, but he resolved to do
the best he could and accept the consequences with all the composure at
his command.
As he stood by the window on the fatal night with the canister in his
hand he tried to recollect if there was anything left undone or any
tracks remaining uncovered. There was no light in his room, but a fire
burned in the grate, throwing flickering reflections on the opposite
wall.
"There are four things I must do," he murmured: "first, pull up the
string; second, throw it in the fire; third, draw out the nail; fourth,
close the window."
He was pleased to notice that his heart was not beating faster than
usual. "I think I have myself well in hand, yet I must not be too cool
when I get downstairs. There are so many things to think of all at one
time," he said to himself with a sigh. He looked up and down the
street. The pavement was clear. He waited until the policeman had
passed the door. He would take ten steps before he turned on his beat.
When his back was towards the café door Dupré launched his bomb out
into the night.
[Illustration: DUPRÉ LAUNCHED HIS BOMB OUT INTO THE NIGHT]
He drew back instantly and watched the nail. It held when the jerk
came. A moment later the whole building lurched like a drunken man,
heaving its shoulders as it were. Dupré was startled by a great square
of plaster coming down on his table with a crash. Below, there was a
roar of muffled thunder. The floor trembled under him after the heave.
The glass in the window clattered down, and he felt the air smite him
on the breast as if some one had struck him a blow.
He looked out for a moment. The concussion had extinguished the street
lamps opposite. All was dark in front of the café where a moment before
the Boulevard was flooded with light. A cloud of smoke was rolling out
from the lower part of the house.
"Four things," said Dupré, as he rapidly pulled in the cord. It was
shrivelled at the end. Dupré did the other three things quickly.
Everything was strangely silent, although the deadened roar of the
explosion still sounded dully in his ears. His boots crunched on the
plaster as he walked across the room and groped for the door. He had
some trouble in pulling it open. It stuck so fast that he thought it
was locked; then he remembered with a cold shiver of fear that the door
had been unlocked all the time he had stood at the window with the
canister in his hand.
"I have certainly done some careless thing like that which will
betray me yet; I wonder what it is?"
He wrenched the door open at last. The lights in the hall were out; he
struck a match, and made his way down. He thought he heard groans. As
he went down, he found it was the _concierge_ huddled in a corner.
"What is the matter?" he asked.
"Oh, my God, my God!" cried the _concierge_, "I knew they would do
it. We are all blown to atoms!"
"Get up," said Dupré, "you're not hurt; come with me and see if we can
be of any use."
"I'm afraid of another explosion," groaned the _concierge_.
"Nonsense! There's never a second. Come along."
They found some difficulty in getting outside, and then it was through
a hole in the wall and not through the door. The lower hall was
wrecked.
Dupré expected to find a crowd, but there was no one there. He did not
realise how short a time had elapsed since the disaster. The policeman
was on his hands and knees in the street, slowly getting up, like a man
in a dream. Dupré ran to him, and helped him on his feet.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
"I don't know," said the policeman, rubbing his head in his
bewilderment.
"How was it done?"
"Oh, don't ask me. All at once there was a clap of thunder, and the
next thing I was on my face in the street."
"Is your comrade inside?"
"Yes; he and M. Sonne and two customers."
"And the _garçon_, wasn't he there?" cried Dupré, with a note of
disappointment in his voice.