A BARGAIN WITH JEAN COULOIS
Selingman drew out his watch and held it underneath the electric light
set in the back of the automobile.
"Good!" he declared. "It is not yet half-past eleven."
"Too early for the Austria," Draconmeyer murmured, a little absently.
Selingman returned the watch to his pocket.
"By no means," he objected. "Mademoiselle is doubtless amusing herself
well enough, but if I go now and leave in an hour, she will be peevish.
She might want to accompany us. To-night it would not be convenient.
Tell your chauffeur, Draconmeyer, to take us direct to the rendezvous.
We can at least watch the people there. One is always amused. We will
forget our nervous friend. These little touches, Draconmeyer, my man,
they mark the man of genius, mind you. Did you notice how his eyes lit
up when I whispered that one word 'Egypt'? It is a great game when you
bait your hook with men and fish for empires!"
Draconmeyer gave an instruction to his chauffeur and leaned back.
"If we succeed,--" he began.
"Succeed?" Selingman interrupted. "Why, man alive, he is on our hooks
already! Be at rest, my friend. The affair is half arranged. It remains
only with us to deal with one man."
Draconmeyer's eyes sparkled beneath his spectacles. A slow smile crept
over his white face.
"You are right," he agreed. "That man is best out of the way. If he and
Douaille should meet--"
"They shall not meet," Selingman thundered. "I, Selingman, declare it.
We are here already. Good! The aspect of the place pleases me."
The two men, arriving so early, received the distinguished consideration
of a bowing maître d'hôtel as they entered the Austria. They were
ushered at once to a round table in a favourable position. Selingman
surrendered his hat and coat to the obsequious vestiaire, pulled down
his waistcoat with a familiar gesture, spread his pudgy hands upon the
table and looked around him with a smile of benevolent approval.
"I shall amuse myself here," he declared confidently. "Pass the menu to
me, Draconmeyer. You have no more idea how to eat than a rabbit. That is
why you suffer from indigestion. At this hour--why, it is not midnight
yet--one needs sustenance--sustenance, mark you, intelligently selected,
something nourishing yet not heavy. A sheet of paper, waiter. You see, I
like to write out my dishes. It saves trouble and there are no
disappointments, nothing is forgotten. As to the wine, show me the
vintage champagnes.... So! You need not hurry with the meal. We shall
spend some time here."
Draconmeyer arrested the much impressed maître d'hôtel as he was
hurrying away.
"Is there dancing here to-night?" he enquired.
"But certainly, monsieur," the man replied. "A Spanish lady, altogether
ravishing, the equal of Otéro at her best--Signorina Melita."
"She dances alone?"
"By no means. There is the young Frenchman, Jean Coulois, who is engaged
for the season. A wonderful pair, indeed! When May comes, they go to the
music-halls in Paris and London."
Draconmeyer nodded approval.
"Coulois was the name," he whispered to Selingman, as the man moved
away.
The place filled up slowly. Presently the supper was served. Selingman
ate with appetite, Draconmeyer only sparingly. The latter, however,
drank more freely than usual. The wine had, nevertheless, curiously
little effect upon him, save for a slight additional brightness of the
eyes. His cheeks remained pale, his manner distrait. He watched the
people enter and pass to their places, without any apparent interest.
Selingman, on the other hand, easily absorbed the spirit of his
surroundings. As the night wore on he drank healths with his neighbours,
beamed upon the pretty little Frenchwoman who was selling flowers, ate
and drank what was set before him with obvious enjoyment. Both men,
however, showed at least an equal interest when Mademoiselle Melita, in
Spanish costume, accompanied by a slim, dark-visaged man, began to
dance. Draconmeyer was no longer restless. He sat with folded arms,
watching the performance with a strangely absorbed air. One thing,
however, was singular. Although Selingman was confessedly a ladies' man,
his eyes, after her first few movements, scarcely rested for a moment
upon the girl. Both Draconmeyer and he watched her companion
steadfastly. When the dance was over they applauded with spirit.
Selingman sat up in his place, a champagne bottle in his hand. He
beckoned to the man, who, with a little deprecating shrug of the
shoulders, swaggered up to their table with some show of condescension.
"A chair for Monsieur Jean Coulois, the great dancer," Selingman
ordered, "a glass, and another bottle of wine. Monsieur Jean, my
congratulations! But a word in your ear. Her steps do not match yours.
It is you who make the dance. She has no initiative. She can do nothing
but imitate," he added.
The dancer looked at his host a little curiously. He was slightly built
and without an atom of colour. His black hair was closely cropped, his
eyes of sombre darkness, his demeanour almost sullen. At Selingman's
words, however, he nodded rapidly and seated himself more firmly upon
his chair. It was apparent that although his face remained
expressionless, he was gratified.
"They notice nothing, these others," he remarked, with a little wave of
the hand. "It is always the woman who counts. You are right, monsieur.
She dances like a stick. She has good calves and she rolls her eyes. The
_canaille_ applaud. It is always like that. Your health, monsieur!"
He drank his wine without apparent enjoyment, but he drank it like
water. Selingman leaned across the table.
"Coulois," he whispered, "the wolves bay loudest at night, is it not
so?"
The man sat quite still. If such a thing had been possible, he might
have grown a shade paler. His eyes glittered. He looked steadfastly at
Selingman.
"Who are you?" he muttered.
"The wolves sleep in the daytime," Selingman replied.
The dancer shrugged his shoulders. He held out his glass to be
replenished. The double password had reassured him.
"Pardon, monsieur," he said, "these have been anxious hours."
"The little affair at La Turbie?" Selingman suggested.
Coulois set down his glass for the first time half finished. His mouth
had taken an evil turn. He leaned across the table.
"See you," he exclaimed in a hoarse whisper, "what happened, happened
justly! Martin is responsible. The whole thing was conducted in the
spirit of a pantomime, a great joke. Who are we, the Wolves, to brandish
empty firearms, to shrink from letting a little blood! Bah!"
He finished his wine. Selingman nodded approvingly as he refilled his
glass.
"My friend and I," he confided, "were amongst those who were held up.
Imagine it! We stood against the wall like a row of dummies. Such
treasure as I have never before seen was poured into that sack. Jewels,
my friend, such as only the women of Monte Carlo wear! Packet after
packet of mille notes! Wealth immeasurable! Oh, Coulois, Coulois, it was
an opportunity lost!"
"Lost!" the dancer echoed fiercely. "It was thrown into the gutter! It
was madness! It was hellish, such ill-fortune! Yet what could I do? If I
had been absent from here--I, Coulois, whom men know of--even the police
would have had no excuse. So it was Martin who must lead. Our armoury
had never been fuller. There were revolvers for every one, ammunition
for a thousand.... Pardon, monsieur, but I cannot talk of this affair.
The anger rises so hot in my heart that I fear to betray myself to those
who may be listening. And besides, you have not come here to talk with
me of it."
"It is true," Selingman confessed.
There was a brief silence. The dancer was studying them both. There was
uneasiness in his expression.
"I do not understand," he enquired hoarsely, "how you came by the
passwords?"
"Make yourself wholly at ease, my young friend," Selingman begged him
reassuringly. "We are men of the world, my friend and I. We seek our own
ends in life and we have often to make use of the nearest and the best
means for the purpose of securing them. Martin has served me before. A
week ago I should have gone to him. To-night, as you know, he lies in
prison."
"Martin, indeed!" the dancer jeered. "You would have gone, then, to a
man of sawdust, a chicken-livered bungler! What is it that you want
done? Speak to me. I am a man."
The leader of the orchestra was essaying upon his violin the tentative
strains of a popular air. The girl had reappeared and was poising
herself upon her toes. The leader of the orchestra summoned Coulois.
"I must dance," he announced. "Afterwards I will return."
He leapt lightly to his feet and swung into the room with extended arms.
Draconmeyer looked down at his plate.
"It is a risk, this, we are running," he muttered. "I do not see,
Selingman, why you could not have hired this fellow through Allen or one
of the others."
Selingman shook his head.
"See here, Draconmeyer," he explained, "this is one of the cases where
agents are dangerous. For Allen to have been seen with Jean Coulois here
would have been the same as though I had been seen with him myself. I
cannot, alas! in this place, with my personality, keep my identity
concealed. They know that I am Selingman. They know well that wherever I
move, I have with me men of my Secret Service. I cannot use them against
Hunterleys. Too many are in the know. Here we are simply two visitors
who talk to a dancer. We depart. We do not see him again until
afterwards. Besides, this is where fate is with us. What more natural
than that the Wolves should revenge themselves upon the man who captured
one of their leaders? It was the young American, Richard Lane, who
really started the debacle, but it was Hunterleys who seized Martin.
What more natural than revenge? These fellows hang by one another
always."
Draconmeyer nodded with grim approval.
"It was devilish work he did in Sofia," he said softly. "But for him,
much of this would have been unnecessary."
The dance was over. Both men joined enthusiastically in the applause.
Coulois, with an insolent nod to his admirers, returned to his seat. He
threw himself back in his chair, crossed his legs and held out his empty
glass. Though he had been dancing furiously, there was not a single bead
of perspiration upon his forehead.
"You are in good condition, my friend," Selingman observed admiringly.
"I need to be for my work," Coulois replied. "Let us get to business.
There is no need to mince words. What do you want with me? Who is the
quarry?"
"The man who ruined your little affair at La Turbie and captured your
comrade Martin," Selingman whispered. "You see, you have every
provocation to start with."
Coulois' eyes glittered.
"He was an Englishman," he muttered.
"Quite true," Selingman assented. "His name is Hunterleys--Sir Henry
Hunterleys. He lives at the Hotel de Paris. His room is number 189. He
spends his time upon the Terrace, at the Café de Paris, and in the
Sporting Club. Every morning he goes to the English Bank for his
letters, deals with them in his room, calls at the post-office and takes
a walk, often up into the hills."
"Come, come, this is not so bad!" Coulois exclaimed. "They laugh at us
in the cafés and down in the wine shops of Monaco, those who know," he
went on, frowning. "They say that the Wolves have become sheep. We shall
see! It is an affair, this, worth considering. What do you pay, Monsieur
le Gros, and for how long do you wish him out of the way?"
"The pay," Selingman announced, "is two hundred louis, and the man must
be in hospital for at least a fortnight."
Draconmeyer leaned suddenly forward. His eyes were bright, his hands
gripped the table.
"Listen!" he whispered in Coulois' ear. "Are the Wolves sheep, indeed,
that they can do no more than twist ankles and break heads? That two
hundred shall be five hundred, Jean Coulois, but it must be a cemetery
to which they take him, and not a hospital!"
[Illustration: "That two hundred shall be five hundred, but it must be a
cemetery to which they take him!"]
There was a moment's silence. Selingman sat back in his place. He was
staring at his companion with wide-open eyes. Jean Coulois was
moistening his lips with his tongue, his eyes were brilliant.
"Five hundred louis!" he repeated under his breath.
"Is it not enough?" Draconmeyer asked coldly. "I do not believe in half
measures. The man who is wounded may be well before he is welcome. If
five hundred louis is not enough, name your price, but let there be no
doubt. Let me see what the Wolves can do when it is their leader who
handles the knife!"
The face of the dancer was curiously impassive. He lifted his glass and
drained it.
"An affair of death!" he exclaimed softly. "We Wolves--we bite, we
wound, we rob. But death--ugh! There are ugly things to be thought of."
"And pleasant ones," Draconmeyer reminded him. "Five hundred louis is
not enough. It shall be six hundred. A man may do much with six hundred
golden louis."
Selingman sat forward once more in his place.
"Look here," he intervened, "you go too far, my friend. You never spoke
to me of this. What have you against Hunterleys?"
"His nationality," Draconmeyer answered coolly. "I hate all Englishmen!"
The gaiety had left Selingman's face. He gazed at his companion with a
curious expression.
"My friend," he murmured, "I fear that you are vindictive."
"Perhaps," Draconmeyer replied quietly. "In these matters I like to be
on the safe side."
Jean Coulois struck the table lightly with his small, feminine hand. He
showed all his teeth as though he had been listening to an excellent
joke.
"It is to be done," he decided. "There is no more to be said."
Some visitors had taken the next table. Coulois drew his chair a little
closer to Draconmeyer.
"I accept the engagement," he continued. "We will talk no more. Monsieur
desires my address? It is here,"--scribbling on a piece of paper. "But
monsieur may be warned," he added, with a lightning-like flash in his
eyes as he became conscious of the observation of some passers-by. "I
will not dance in England. I will not leave Monte Carlo before May. Half
that sum--three hundred louis, mind--must come to me on trust; the other
three hundred afterwards. Never fear but that I will give satisfaction.
Keep your part of the bargain," he added, under his breath, "and the
Wolves' fangs are already in this man's throat."
He danced again. The two men watched him. Draconmeyer's face was as
still and colourless as ever. In Selingman's there was a shade of
something almost like repulsion. He poured himself out a glass of
champagne.
"Draconmeyer," he exclaimed, "you are a cold-blooded fish, indeed! You
can sit there without blinking and think of this thing which we have
done. Now as for me, I have a heart. I can never see the passing out of
the game of even a bitter opponent, without a shiver. Talk philosophy to
me, Draconmeyer. My nerves are shaken."
Draconmeyer turned his head. He, too, raised his wine to his lips and
drank deliberately.
"My friend," he said, "there is no philosophy save one. A child cries
for the star he may not have; the weak man comforts himself in privation
by repeating to himself the dry-as-dust axioms conceived in an alien
brain, and weaving from them the miserable comfort of empty words. The
man who knows life and has found wisdom, pays the price for the thing he
desires, and obtains it!"