THE ALLIES AT WORK
It was nearly four o'clock when Crochard, Lepine and Pigot took their
leave of M. Delcasse and made their way through the dark and silent
streets in the direction of the Hotel du Nord. The people who had leaped
from their beds at sunrise, wearied at last by the emotions of the day
and dampened by the fine rain which had begun to fall, had gone to bed
again. Only about the harbour were there any signs of life. There the
searchlights of the battleships still played about the wreck, where
squads of marines were searching for the bodies of their comrades.
The three men, their coats buttoned about them, their hats pulled down,
hurried on in silence, each busy with his own thoughts. Crochard and
Lepine were planning the campaign; Pigot had not yet recovered from his
confusion at the sight of these two working hand in hand.
Five minutes brought them to the door of the Hotel du Nord, and Lepine
applied to it a vigorous fist. There was no response, and he pounded
again. At last there came the sound of a window being raised, and a
night-capped head was thrust out from the upper story.
"Who is there?" asked a voice.
"Are you the proprietor?" demanded Lepine.
"Yes, sir."
"Then come down at once."
"But what is wrong, sir?" stammered Brisson, to whose frightened eyes
those three dark figures huddled in his doorway appeared most sinister.
"What is it you require?"
"No matter," said Lepine, sternly. "Come down at once and open the
door."
The window was lowered and some minutes passed. Had the three men at the
door been able to see inside the house, they would have been amused at
what occurred there, could anything have amused them at that moment. As
it was, they merely stamped with impatience and crowded closer to the
door, for the rain was falling more heavily.
Brisson retreated from the window, his fat countenance fallen into
creases of dismay, and plunged back into his bedroom, where his wife,
who had also been awakened by the knocking, was sitting up in bed.
"What is it, Brisson?" she asked.
"There are three men below," gasped Aristide, fumbling for his trousers.
"They command that I descend at once and admit them. There is something
which tells me it is the police--the police at this hour!"
"The police?" and Madame Gabrielle cast a rapid mental glance over their
affairs. "Well, admit them; we have no reason to fear the police."
"There is that little matter of the wine from your nephew which did not
pay the octroi," Brisson reminded her.
"Bah!" retorted Madame, who was by far the stronger spirit; "it cannot
be that! No one could suspect that; besides, even if they did, they
would not come hammering here in the middle of the night. Descend at
once and admit them. Assume a bold front, Brisson! Do not let them
suspect that you have fear! Go at once! Hasten! I will come as soon as I
have found a petticoat."
Thus encouraged, Brisson descended and opened the door, holding a
lighted candle above his head and presenting as bold a front as his
not-too-courageous spirit could muster. The three men crowded past him,
without waiting for an invitation or saying a word, and one of them took
the door from his hand and closed and bolted it. The horrible thought
flashed through Brisson's head that they were robbers, bandits, and he
had opened his mouth to cry for help, when one of them, the little,
lean, grey-bearded one, with the fierce eyes, spoke.
"We belong to the police," he said. "We desire a few moments'
conversation with you."
"Certainly, sir," stammered Brisson, thinking, as he met those eyes,
that perhaps he would have preferred the bandits. "Come this way, if you
please, sirs," and he led the way into his bureau.
He placed the candle on the table and dropped into a chair. His visitors
remained standing, facing him. Brisson realised that for him to sit
while they stood was anything but courteous, and he struggled to arise,
but the strength seemed departed from his legs, and he sank helplessly
back again.
"What is your name?" asked the little man, looking at him with those
gimlet eyes.
"Aristide Brisson, sir."
"You have been long in this house?"
"For twenty years, sir. My record is of the best."
"We will investigate it," said Lepine curtly.
"Do so!" cried a voice behind them. "Nothing would please us better!"
They turned to find Madame Brisson on the threshold, her eyes flashing,
her bosom heaving, one plump hand holding together at the throat the
garment which threatened every moment to disclose her still plumper
shoulders. "We are honest people--our neighbours will speak a good word
for us--all of them!"
"I do not doubt it, Madame," said Lepine, courteously, realising that
here he had to do with the head of the house. "Meanwhile we wish to make
certain inquiries of you, which you need not hesitate to answer. But I
wish first to warn you that of these inquiries you must not breathe so
much as a word to any one. Do you understand?"
"We understand, sir; you may rely upon us," said Madame Brisson, and sat
down beside her husband.
"Our inquiry," pursued Lepine, "concerns the two gentlemen who departed
so early yesterday morning."
At the words, Brisson bounded in his chair, and the colour swept back
into his cheeks. He was himself again.
"So!" he cried, and suddenly found that he could stand erect, and did
so. "So! It is about those swine! I knew that all was not right; I knew
that they were not as they pretended!"
"What was it they pretended?"
"That they were of America. But it did not deceive me--no, not for one
instant. They had not the air of Americans. Besides, do Americans go
tramping about the country with knapsacks on their backs? No; only
Germans do that! To Gabrielle, as they departed, I said, 'Americans, no;
Germans perhaps, or Austrians--but not Americans!'"
"Yes, gentlemen, those were his very words!" said Madame Brisson, with
an emphatic nod.
"And there is a final proof," went on Brisson, excitedly; "a proof
conclusive. When I present my bill, the one who takes it grows quite
red with anger. It was a most reasonable bill--ninety-six francs for
three days, with many extras--a most reasonable bill, for Americans. It
was then that I knew there was something wrong--that they were imposters
who feared the police. It was only that which prevented a scene.
'Gabrielle,' I said, as they went away down the street, 'those men have
something to conceal.'"
"Yes, gentlemen," put in Gabrielle, "he said just that."
"There is even worse to come, sirs," and Brisson dropped his voice as
one does in speaking of great horrors. "You will scarcely credit it,
but, after having had us at their heels for three days, upstairs,
downstairs; after compelling us to arise in the dark of night to prepare
their breakfasts--this person handed me a note for a hundred francs and
said with a lordly air, 'You may keep the change.' The change--four
francs! And yet from his manner you would have thought he was giving me
a fortune!"
"Have you still that hundred-franc note?" Lepine inquired.
"But certainly, sir," answered Madame Gabrielle, and, turning her back
to the company, she stooped quickly and arose with the bill in her hand.
Lepine took it and examined it carefully by the light of the candle. It
was a new note, apparently fresh from the bank, and the Prefect's eyes
were shining with satisfaction when he raised his head.
"I shall have to retain this," he said. "One moment," he added, as
Madame Brisson opened her lips to protest; "I shall, of course, give you
another for it," and he drew out his purse, placed the new note
carefully in a flapped compartment, selected another and handed it to
the anxious lady, who received it with a sigh of relief. "And now!" went
on Lepine, "please tell us all that you can remember about these
men--every small detail."
Both Monsieur and Madame Brisson grew voluble at once, for rarely had it
been their fortune to address so attentive an audience. But there were
few grains of wheat among the chaff. The two strangers had arrived, it
appeared, on the evening of the twenty-second, Friday. They were
Americans, they said, on a walking tour. Their names? Brisson did not
remember; but they would be found on the police registration slip which
he had caused them to fill out at once and had sent to the Prefecture
that very evening. He had noticed on the slip that they had come from
Marseilles and were on their way to Nice. Their bags had already arrived
from Marseilles, and, at their direction, he had had them brought up
from the station.
"Where are the bags now?" asked Lepine.
"They directed that they be sent to Nice," explained Brisson. "I
despatched them yesterday morning, as I agreed."
"You have the receipt?"
"But certainly, sir," and Brisson, while his wife held the light,
rummaged in his desk and finally produced the paper in question.
Lepine placed it in his purse beside the hundred-franc note.
"Proceed," he said. "In what way did these strangers occupy themselves
during their stay?"
They were absent from morning till night, it appeared, walking about the
streets, about the docks, visiting the ships in the harbour, climbing
the hills back of the town, and even going as far as Cape Cepet, where
the great fort is--penetrating, in a word, to every nook and corner
which it is possible for visitors to enter. In fact, in the two days of
their stay, they had seen more of Toulon than had Brisson in the twenty
years of his residence.
The details of these expeditions Brisson had learned with the greatest
difficulty, for his guests had talked but little, had kept to
themselves, had discouraged his advances, resented his questions, and
often pretended that they did not understand--all of which was in itself
suspicious. When talking together, they used a language which Brisson
supposed to be English; but he was not familiar with English; knew only
a few words of it, indeed--"money," "damn,"--such words as every one
knows. Their French, also, was very bad,--much worse at some times than
at others....
Lepine finally stopped this flow of language, when it became apparent
that nothing but chaff remained.
"Do any further questions suggest themselves?" he asked, looking first
at Crochard and then at Pigot. "No? You understand, my friends," he
added, turning back to the innkeeper and his wife, "that of all this you
will say nothing--not even to each other. An incautious word, and you
may find yourselves in a most difficult position. On the other hand, if
you are careful, if you are reticent, you will not be forgotten."
"We understand, sir," said they both in a breath, and Brisson added,
with venom in his voice, "They were swine! I rejoice that they did not
get their telegram!"
Lepine jumped as though a pin had been driven into him.
"Their telegram? What do you mean?" he cried.
"About an hour after they were gone," Brisson hastened to explain, "or
perhaps two hours--I do not know--a messenger appeared with a telegram
addressed to a grotesque name--Zhones, Smeet--I do not remember--in
care of the Hotel du Nord. I concluded it was for one of them, and told
the messenger it was too late, that the man had departed--to Frejus, to
Nice--I did not know whither. So he took the telegram back again."
Lepine's eyes were gleaming as he glanced at Crochard.
"I am glad that you have mentioned this detail, M. Brisson," he said. "I
thank you--and you also, Madame!" and with that, he and his companions
bade the worthy couple adieu.
Once in the street, Crochard paused.
"I will leave you now, M. Lepine," he said. "You have your work to
do--but you do not need me. Should I have anything further to
communicate, you will hear from me."
"And if we wish to find you?"
"For the present, I am staying with my friend on the Quai de Cronstadt."
"Very good," said Lepine. "Good night," and in a moment he and Pigot
were lost in the darkness.
The rain had ceased and a chill wind had arisen, but Crochard did not
seem to feel it, as he walked slowly toward the quays, his head bent in
thought. An ironical smile curved his lips, as he pictured Lepine off
upon the scent first to the Prefecture, then to the post-office. He
would follow it well, of course; he would run it to the end. He would
discover, no doubt, the identity of the two travellers; that would not
be difficult. Crochard himself had pointed out the way.
But what then? Even if they were found to be men high in the German
service, that was of small importance. It _proved_ nothing. They were at
liberty to visit Toulon, if they wished to do so; and, after all, their
arrival at the quay five minutes before dawn might have been an
accident; they _might_ have lingered for a last look at _La Liberte_
without any suspicion of what was about to occur. Such a coincidence, if
not probable, was, at least, conceivable; and such, of course, would be
their explanation, if an explanation was ever asked for. There was no
way to disprove it.
As to the yacht on which they had embarked--well, that, too, may have
been an accident--a boat belonging to a friend whom they had come upon
unexpectedly and upon which they had been persuaded to take a cruise.
Suspicious circumstances--yes, many of them; but no proof, no absolute
proof. And nothing, absolutely nothing, to show that the explosion had
been caused by any outside agency.
Arrived at the water-front, Crochard walked on until he was opposite the
wreck. There he sat down, with his legs overhanging the quay. Two or
three searchlights were still focussed on the ruin, but the rescue
parties had been withdrawn, and only a few sentries remained. He could
see how that formidable monster of a ship had been torn and twisted into
an inextricable and hideous mass of iron and steel. One turret remained
above the water, blown over on its side, its great guns pointing
straight at the zenith; but the rest was a mere tangle of metal.
Such destruction could have been wrought only by the explosion of the
magazines; no mine or torpedo could have done it. And as he gazed at the
mass of wreckage visible above the water, he perceived a certain
resemblance to photographs he had seen of the wreck of the _Maine_. The
_Maine's_ forward magazine had exploded; but Crochard knew, as well as
M. Delcasse himself, what had caused that explosion.
Perhaps history was repeating itself, as, proverbially, it is supposed
to have a way of doing. But Crochard shook his head. If the catastrophe
was not an accident, then it was the result of some agency far more
subtle than mine or torpedo. And, also, if it was not an accident, those
two men who had waited in the shadow of the doorway back of him for the
deed to be accomplished, must have had an accomplice. They could not
destroy the ship merely by staring at her! Somewhere, somewhere,
concealed but not far distant, that accomplice must have awaited the
first beam of the rising sun as the signal to hurl his thunderbolt, to
loose his mysterious power!
What was that power? How had the thing been done? Those, Crochard felt,
were the questions to be answered. As to who had done it, or why it had
been done--that could wait. But if there existed in the world a force
which, directed from a distance, noiseless, invisible, impalpable, could
destroy a battleship asleep at her anchorage, then indeed did it behoove
France to discover and guard against it!
At last, his head still bent, Crochard arose, crossed the quay, opened
the door of Number Ten, and entered.
No doubt it would have interested both him and M. Delcasse to know how
nearly parallel the channels of their thoughts had run!