A dirty, frowsy room, with furniture old and rickety, a ceiling
blackened, and a faded carpet full of holes.
Its two occupants, dark, sallow-looking foreigners in shabby-genteel
attire, sat conversing seriously in French, between frequent whiffs of
_caporal_ cigarettes of the most rank description.
Bateman's Buildings, Soho--where, on the second floor of one of the
houses, this apartment was situated--is a thoroughfare but little known,
even to dwellers in the immediate vicinity. The wandering Londoner,
whose peregrinations take him into the foreign quarter, might pass a
dozen times between Frith and Greek Streets without discovering its
existence. Indeed, his search will not be rewarded until he pauses
halfway down Bateman Street and turns up a narrow and exceedingly
uninviting passage between a marine-store dealer's and the shop of a
small vendor of vegetables and coals. He will then find himself at
Bateman's Buildings, a short, paved court, lined on each side by grimy,
squalid-looking houses, the court itself forming the playground of a
hundred or so spirited juveniles of the unwashed class.
It is altogether a very undesirable place of abode. The houses, in
comparison with those of some neighbouring thoroughfares, certainly put
forward a sorry pretence towards respectability; for a century ago some
well-to-do people resided there; and the buildings, even in their
present state of dilapidation and decay, have still a solid, substantial
air about them. Now, however, they are let out in tenements, and the
inhabitants are almost wholly foreigners.
Soho has always been the abode of the French immigrant. But Time,
combined with a squabbling County Council, has affected even
cosmopolitan London; and Shaftesbury Avenue and Charing Cross Road have
now opened up the more inaccessible haunts, rendering them more
conventional, if less interesting. Notwithstanding this, it is still
the French quarter. French laundresses abound in great variety, with
cheap French cafes where one can obtain absinthe, groseille, or
grenadine, and where Jacques Bonhomme can dine with _potage_ and three
_plats_ for less than a shilling, while French bakers are a feature at
every turn.
Within a small radius of Bateman's Buildings several thousand strangers
struggle for the bare necessaries of life--deluded Germans, Belgians,
and Frenchmen, who thought the English Metropolis a second El Dorado,
and have found it nothing beyond a focus for squalid poverty, hunger,
and crime.
The two men who were seated together in this upper room were no
exception. Although not immigrants in search of employment, yet they
were disappointed that the business which brought them over had not
resulted profitably, and, moreover, they were considerably dejected by
reason of their funds being almost exhausted.
They sat opposite one another at the table, with an evil-smelling
paraffin lamp between them.
The silence was broken by the elder man.
"You must admit, Pierre," he exclaimed in French, contracting his dark
bushy eyebrows slightly, "it is no use sitting down and giving vent to
empty lamentations. We must act."
Pierre Rouillier, the young man addressed, was tall and lean, with jet
black hair, a well-trimmed moustache, and a thin face, the rather
melancholy expression of which did not detract from the elements of good
looks which his features possessed.
"Why can't we remain here quietly in hiding for a time?" he suggested.
"If we wait, something good may turn up."
"Remain and do nothing!" echoed Victor Berard. "Are you an imbecile?
While we rest, the chance may slip from us."
"There's no fear of that," Pierre replied confidently. "My opinion is
that we can remain here for a month or two longer with much advantage to
ourselves."
"Bah!" ejaculated his companion, a short and rather stout man, about ten
years his senior, whose brilliant dark eyes gleamed with anger and
disgust.
"Well, speaking candidly," continued Pierre, "do you really think it
advisable to do anything just now?"
"I see nothing to prevent it; but, of course, it would be impossible to
carry out our primary intention just at present. In fact, until the
business is more developed any attempt would be mere folly."
"Exactly. That's just my reason for remaining idle."
"The fact is, you're afraid," exclaimed Berard, regarding him
contemptuously.
"Afraid of what?"
"Of making a false move," he replied; and then he added: "Look here,
Pierre, leave everything to me. Hitherto we have transacted our various
affairs satisfactorily, and there's no reason why we should not be
successful in this. It only requires tact and caution--qualities with
which both of us are fortunately well endowed. When it is complete we
shall leave this wretched country."
"As for myself, I shouldn't be sorry if we were going to-morrow,"
remarked the younger man morosely. "I'm sick of the whole business."
"Oh, are you?" exclaimed Berard fiercely. "What in the name of the
devil is the matter with you, you impudent coward? We entered upon this
affair together; our course is quite plain, and now, just when we are
within an ace of success, you want to back out of it. You're mad!"
"Perhaps I am," replied Pierre warmly. "But you are too enthusiastic,
and I have a presentiment that the whole affair will end in disaster."
"Disaster! You talk like a woman," Berard exclaimed. "How is it that
other delicate matters you and I have negotiated have not ended in a
_contretemps_, eh?"
"_Nom d'un chien_! And what have we gained by them? Why, simply
nothing. You have been clever, it's true; but in this, if we don't wait
until a more favourable opportunity occurs, we shall bungle. And if we
do, you know the consequences."
"But while we are waiting we must have money from somewhere."
"We must wait," declared Pierre. "We ought to out of this wretched
rabbit-warren, and dress a bit more respectably. Do you think we're
likely to [unreadable]. _Je n'ai pas un rond_," he added in the argot
of the criminal circles of Montmartre.
Berard shrugged his shoulders, and pulled a wry face.
"We can but try," he observed, selecting a fresh cigarette and lighting
it.
At that moment the stairs outside creaked, and a light footstep was
heard upon them.
"Hark!" exclaimed the younger man. "She has arrived! She promised she
would come to-night."
The words were scarcely uttered before the door was flung open
unceremoniously, and Valerie Dedieu entered.
Her most intimate friends would scarcely have recognised her had they
met her in the street in broad daylight. A common and shabby tweed
ulster enveloped her figure, and upon her head was a wide-brimmed,
dark-blue hat, battered and faded.
Her disguise was complete.
"Well, you see I'm here as requested," she exclaimed, as she burst into
the room, and, taking off her hat, flung it carelessly upon the ragged
old leather sofa.
"Ah, _ma petite lapin_, we're glad you've come," Berard replied, with a
smile. "If Mahomet can't go to the mountain because he has no decent
clothes, then the mountain must come to Mahomet."
"That's so," she observed, with a light laugh, seating herself on a
chair at the table. "I look nice in this get-up, don't I? Pierre, give
me a cigarette. You've apparently forgotten your manners towards a
lady," she added reproachfully.
The trio laughed. The younger man did as he was commanded, and
gallantly struck the match, igniting the cigarette for her.
"Now, how have you been getting on?" she inquired.
"Deuced badly," Berard replied. "We're hard up and must have money."
"Money! _C'est du rechauffe_! Valerie cried in dismay. _Mon Dieu_!
I've none. I'm almost penniless, and must have some from you."
"What?" cried Rouillier. "You can't give us any?"
"No, not a sou," she replied. "An appearance such as I'm bound to keep
up requires a small fortune, and I tell you just now my expenses are
something enormous."
"Then how do you expect we can live?" asked Berard, with an injured
expression and violent gesticulation.
"I'm sure I cannot tell you, my dear Victor. You know better how to
obtain funds than I. Live as you've lived for the past five years. You
both have enjoyed luxury during that time, and I suppose you will
continue to do so somehow or other."
"This handsome _salon_ looks like luxury, doesn't it?" remarked Pierre,
smiling contemptuously, as he cast his eyes around.
"Well, certainly there's nothing gorgeous about it," she admitted,
laughing, although she shuddered as she realised its discomforts.
Berard shook his head impatiently. He did not care to be reminded of
days of past splendour, and he hardly knew whether to be pleased or not
at her visit.
"Look here," he said, gazing up at her suddenly. "It's no use
chattering like an insane magpie. What's to be done?"
"I don't know, and I care very little," she replied candidly. "I want
money, and if I don't get it the whole affair will collapse."
And she blew a cloud of smoke from between her dainty lips with apparent
unconcern.
"But how are we to get it? No one will lend it to us."
"Don't talk absurdly. I have no desire to be acquainted with the means
by which you obtain it. I want a thousand pounds. And," she added
coolly, "I tell you I _must_ have it."
The two men were silent. They knew Valerie of old, and were fully
convinced that argument was useless.
Leaning her elbows upon the table, she puffed at her rank cigarette with
all the gusto of an inveterate smoker, and watched their puzzled,
thoughtful faces.
"Would that sum suffice until--?" Berard asked mysteriously, giving her
a keen glance, and not completing the sentence.
Although her face was naturally pallid, it was easy to discern that the
agitation of the last few moments had rendered it even more pale than
usual, and her hand was twitching impatiently.
"Yes," she answered abruptly.
"Couldn't you make shift with five hundred?" he suggested hesitatingly.
"No," she said decisively; "it would be absolutely useless. I must have
a thousand to settle my present debts; then I can go on for six, perhaps
twelve months, longer."
"And after that?" inquired Pierre.
She arched her eyebrows, and, giving her shoulders a tiny shrug,
replied--
"Well--I suppose I shall have the misfortune to marry some day or
another."
All three smiled grimly.
"How are matters progressing in that direction?" Victor asked, with a
curious expression.
"As favourably as can be expected," replied Valerie in an indifferent
tone. "If a woman is _chic_ and decorous at the same time, and manages
to get in with a good set, she need not go far for suitors."
"Have you seen the Sky Pilot?" inquired Victor, with a thoughtful frown.
"Yes, I met Hubert Holt a few days ago at Eastbourne. He asked after
you."
"Shall I find him at the usual place?"
"Yes; but it would not be safe to go there."
"Then I'll write. I must see him to-morrow."
"Why?"
"You want _le pognon_?" he asked snappishly.
"I do."
"Then, if we are to get it, he must give us his aid," he said ominously.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, evidently comprehending his meaning. "But you are
not very hospitable," she added. "Have you got anything to drink?"
"Not a drop."
"_Malheureux_! you've fallen on evil times, my dears," she said,
laughing uneasily.
Taking out her small, silver-mounted purse, she emptied its contents
upon the table. This consisted of two sovereigns and some silver. The
former she handed to Victor, saying,--
"That's all I can give you just now."
He put them into his pocket without a word of thanks, while she sat back
in her chair whistling a few bars of a popular _chansonette
eccentrique_.
"Pierre," Berard said sullenly, at the same time vigorously
apostrophising the "_diable_," "we're in a difficulty, and the only way
we can obtain the money is by another--er--disappearance."
"What, again?" cried Valerie. "Why, poor Pierre is vanishing fast
enough already. He's almost a skeleton now," and she pointed at his
lean figure derisively.
"I don't get enough to eat nowadays," declared he, pulling a wry face.
"Do stop your chatter, Valerie," Victor said angrily, "I'm talking
business."
"Oh, pardon, m'sieur?" and she pouted like a spoiled child.
"It's generally a safe trick. How much would it bring in?" asked the
younger man of his companion.
"Two thousand sterling."
"Just the sum," interrupted mademoiselle, striking the table in her
enthusiasm. "We'll divide it. When can I have my half?"
"As soon as possible, but don't be impatient, as hurried action means
certain failure."
"All right," she replied boldly, removing the cigarette from her lips,
and contemplating it. "You can keep your fatherly advice for somebody
else," she added, grinning across the table at Rouillier.
Tossing the cigarette into the grate, she rose.
"What, are you going so soon?" asked the younger _homme de faciende_.
"Yes, it's late; and, besides, I can't go straight home in such a get-up
as this."
Cramming on her battered hat, she pulled it over her forehead, and then
struck an attitude so comic that neither of the men could refrain from
laughing. When they grew serious again, she said--
"Now, one word; shall I have the money? I think we understand one
another sufficiently to agree that it is imperative, don't we?"
Victor Berard nodded an affirmative. He had decided. "You will promise
me?"
"Yes, you shall have it, notwithstanding the risks," he replied. "Of
course, the latter are very great, but I think if we carry out our plans
boldly, it will be all right."
"_Bien_," she said in a satisfied tone. "And now you can both come out
with me, and have the pleasure of regaling me with a glass of wine;
for," she added, with a little mock curtsey, "I feel faint after all
this exertion."
"Very well," said Pierre, as both men rose and put on their hats.
"We'll drink to another successful disappearance," Valerie said, patting
him playfully on the cheek. "The dear boy will prove our salvation from
misery, provided he doesn't blunder."
"Not much fear of that," answered the young man she caressed. "It isn't
the first time, so trust me to bring it off properly. I know my work
too well to take an incautious step," he remarked in a low whisper, as
the strange trio descended the creaking stairs.
"That's all very well," muttered Berard, "but we can't afford to act
rashly, for it'll be a complicated and extremely ugly bit of business at
best."