THE COMING OF ANTOINE DUBOSC
"This reminds me of the good old days of my boyhood," said Alec
Crosby with a chuckle, as he and his companion skimmed over the road
to Ardenmore in his car on the following evening.
But Richard Bessington had no smile in return and was grimly
irresponsive to his friend's good humour. The fact was that his
conscience troubled him, though he would not have admitted it either
to himself or to anyone else, and, furthermore, he was over-anxious
that things should go well and not miscarry, and anxiety of mind
invariably had the effect of putting him into a bad temper.
"It's no laughing matter," he said. "Not if anything goes wrong. I
am up against Inspector Mackay for fooling him and taking over his
job--if he gets to hear of it."
"How can he?" was the retort. "The only thing we have to fear is
that the Ardenmore people--some of 'em--may also be on the watch
to-night. Though I think that's not at all likely. I expect they
are sitting down waiting for that advert. to appear in the dailies,
and until it does they are not going to lose a night's rest in
fooling about watching for someone who is not likely to turn up. So
don't get scared, man. You'll see it'll all turn out all right."
"I'm not scared," was the reply, "only worried."
"Which is more or less the same thing, and gets you as far, anyway.
What puzzles me a bit is what exactly is going to come of your
interview--plus revolver--with the Frenchy."
"I'm satisfied to leave that on the knees of the gods. Once get him
in our hands and I've no doubt that he'll tell us all we want to
know."
"In return for his liberty?"
"Exactly."
"And then, I suppose, he's free to go back to his own country, give
his friend Arden the tip, and when you land up there, you'll find the
bird flown."
"Ye--es," replied the other in a slow drawl. "That's quite possible.
One has to risk something."
"If the fellow's a sport he'll never give his friend away," said
Crosby.
"There's no such thing as honour among thieves," was the dry reply.
"So don't worry about that. It's an exploded theory."
"I wouldn't bank too much on that, my lad," said his friend. "I'd
simply hate to have dealings with a feller who gave a pal away."
"One has to swallow one's better feelings in a case of this sort,"
observed Bessington, hoping that this squeamish fool was not in the
end going to give trouble. "After all, it is in a good cause."
The other did not answer, and after that silence reigned for some
time, while the worthy car ate up the miles and finally was brought
to a standstill at the edge of the pine forest, which stretched in an
unbroken line for a mile and a half past the house and up to the old
tower by the sea.
The moon was bright and showed the two adventurers the best place for
parking, namely, behind a huge boulder, and well out of sight of any
chance passerby--a not very likely one--on the road. When this was
done, both men, with waders over their arms, an electric torch apiece
in one pocket, and a serviceable weapon in another, struck into the
wood and made their difficult way to the entrance of the tunnel. It
was ten o'clock when they set off, and their watches pointed to a
quarter-to-eleven when, finally, they arrived, tired, anxious, and
one at least in not too good a temper.
At the brink of the river, whose waters looked black and far from
inviting in the dim light, they stopped.
"I'm going round to investigate," said Bessington, as he flung the
waders on the ground. "We don't want to be caught napping, but if
all's well I'll return at once and we'll go right into the
underground room."
"Why not both go round and through the clock door?" suggested his
companion, who did not like the look of the fast-running water.
"Because, though there may be no one here now, there may be later,
and a glance at the clock set to that date would give us and the show
away."
"Ah, I see. That's true. Well, so long. Come back as soon as you
can. It will be devilish dismal here by myself."
"It'll be worse in the underground room," replied Bessington, and
with that reassuring prophecy he went on his way.
Twice he paused, his heart beating uncomfortably, as he heard a twig
snap, and thought it was another prowler like himself. But, as no
further sound occurred, he guessed it must be a rabbit, or a
marauding cat in search of prey, and continued his way until the
tower door was reached. Here he placed an ear to the keyhole and
listened, but all was silent within. Away at sea there was no sign
of a boat or vessel of any kind, and he wondered if, after all, his
friend had been too sanguine in expecting the smugglers to turn up
that night.
In any case they could but wait and, if nothing happened, return
again on the following night. Then he pushed open the door and went
inside.
A quick glance round showed that the room was empty, and he turned
his eyes to the clock. He saw at once that the hands had been moved,
and that the four hands denoting the year, and which he had replaced
one on top of the other as he had found them, had been separated and
were now apart, one pointing to 100, another to 50, the third 25 and
the fourth 75, thus forming a cross. Someone, then, had evidently
been trying to discover the use of the clock and had failed to do so.
Instantly an idea occurred to him; he pulled out a note-book and
jotted down the day, month, and other figures which were now marked
by the hands. It would be easy to re-set the clock on the other side
according to the diagram and so avoid having to go round to set the
hands to the original date. Then he retraced his steps, took one
more look at the sea, and at length rejoined his companion.
"Deuce take you, Bessington," growled Crosby. "What a hell of a time
you've been."
"I have re-set the clock so that we can get through as soon as I copy
it on our side," was the reply. "Now for our waders."
"That's a brainy idea and will save me another swim," agreed Crosby,
his good humour instantly returning.
The two waded through the river, Bessington, who was tall, having to
bend his head in order to avoid contact with the roughly-hewn roof
overhead, the swift current bearing them along with it. Bessington,
in advance, had his torch going, and very soon found the opening into
the second tunnel. A moment later they had climbed the rather steep
incline and were standing high and dry in the dark passage and
divesting themselves of their waders.
"I never saw anything so blinkin' ingenious in all my born days,"
commented Crosby. "The feller who thought this out deserved to get
away with his job. Not one in a million would ever think of a
passage through a river. Crooks had brains a hundred years ago as
well as now."
"Let's get on to the cave," said Bessington, hurriedly. "I only hope
the fellow hasn't come and gone and that we are too late for him."
"If he has we shall know by his car, which will be comfortably parked
in the cave," was the reassuring reply.
But there was no car there and the two men proceeded to examine the
place carefully with the aid of their strong electric torches.
"Hold quite a lot of wine and spirits in the good old days, eh what?"
said Crosby with a laugh. "I expect they rolled the barrels to the
mouth of the cave, and then floated them in the river to where a
hay-cart or something equally innocent-looking was waiting. My!
What wouldn't they have given for cars in those days. However, I
expect they get better dibs out of the ladies' underwear now, and far
less bulky to negotiate. I say, Bessington, old pard, I'd give a
good deal for a smoke."
"Not on your life, man. The fellow would notice it directly he
entered the tunnel and turn tail. I'm afraid you will have to
abstain for a bit. Also, I think it's wise to turn out our lights,
the tunnel is fairly straight, and we may exhaust the batteries
uselessly. I wish there was any possibility of seeing through into
that upper room. If anyone came in there no sound would penetrate
down here."
"How do you know there isn't a spy-hole?" suggested the other.
"There's the picture of a moon, didn't you say? Well, it must be for
some purpose beside an ornament. Do you remember if it was at full
or half or what?"
"First quarter, I think, but I didn't take much notice."
"Well, why not have a try?" As he spoke he climbed the steep stone
steps roughly cut out of the rock, and, standing on the topmost one,
began to examine the reverse side of the clock. The moon was at the
full, and gently moving the disc he turned it to the first quarter.
Nothing resulted. Then he tried the last quarter and instantly a
shaft of air blew into his eyes.
"Got it," he said. "But it's so infernal dark in there that I can
see nothing. However, it's a spy-hole right enough, and at any rate
we can hear if anyone is there, even if we can't see." And with that
he closed the moon disc and descended once more to his companion.
For half an hour they waited, alternately pacing to and fro, and
sitting down on two old barrels, which appeared to be the relics of a
former generation of smuggling enterprise.
"Waiting is a damned tedious job," observed Crosby, who was getting
tired of his companion's persistent silence. "And waiting in the
blinkin' dark is depressing as well as tedious. I wish the feller'd
come, get it over quietly, and allow me to return to my downy and a
stiff nightcap."
"If he comes at all, it will be soon," was the reply. And hardly
were the words out of his mouth, than a shaft of bright white light
pierced the darkness and sent them both staggering back into a corner
of the cave out of its searching rays.
They had not calculated on this. Bessington had expected the
motorist to come in without lights, forgetting that he would feel so
secure in his hiding-place that he would see no necessity to turn
them off.
Soon the purr of the engine came to the waiting men's ears.
"Quick! Behind the barrels!" whispered Bessington, and they both
sprang for shelter behind their former makeshift chairs.
Then into the chamber there loomed a long low shape whose two bright
headlights looked like the glaring eyes of some hideous monster, and
the driver of which was in shadow.
Presently the car stopped and there was a movement from inside, and
at that moment Bessington touched his companion's arm.
"Now!" he whispered.
Instantly two flashlights were turned on to the figure getting out of
the car, and two automatics levelled.
"Hands up!" called Bessington, sharply.
"_'Cre Nom!_" exclaimed a startled voice, and the man in the car
flung up his hands and stared at his two assailants.
"Turn out those headlights, Crosby," rapped out Bessington. "And
don't move, you, or you'll drop."
There came a sudden laugh from the man in the car, as Crosby crossed
to the switches and fumbled.
"Ah, I see! You prefer to work in the dark, is it not. It is that
one on your left, monsieur. _Voila_. That is better?" he added as
the lights went out.
And now the two men--no longer blinded by them--saw a tall, slim
young man arrayed in a leather coat and helmet, with a good-looking,
pleasant face and bright twinkling humorous eyes. He spoke with a
slight accent and at the moment, he was smiling broadly.
"_Alors, messieurs_. It seems that you are here first," he said.
"Which is greatly to your credit, for I thought my stronghold was
impossible of detection. It shows how one may be mistaken. So,
then, what is our next move?"
"Get out of the car first," ordered Bessington, and with careless
ease the young man obeyed.
"And just remember, Mr. Frenchy," here put in Crosby, "that my pal
there is the finest revolver shot in Europe, so no tricks, mark you."
"Ah! Is that so indeed? Permit that I felicitate your pal,
monsieur. And for me, it is an honour to be held up by so great an
expert, almost as great an honour as to be shot by him, _parbleu_!"
Here he laughed. "An honour which, for the moment, I forgo. And in
the meantime I suggest, messieurs, that you--in your own
vernacular--get on with it, whatever it is for, already my arms
proceed to ache."
"Here, stow the chatter and let's get to business," struck in Crosby,
who did not like the tone nor the manner of their prisoner. "You're
in a very nasty predicament, young feller me lad, and don't you
forget it."
"All right, Crosby, I'm bossing this show," said Bessington, sharply.
"Are you armed?" he asked of the young man.
"_Ma foi_, but yes, M'sieur le Boss," was the reply. "Like you, I
carry an automatic, and to save you some trouble and myself the
annoyance of being searched, which to a gentleman is an abomination,
I will tell you that it rests in the right-hand pocket of this coat."
Bessington strode over to the Frenchman and took the weapon from the
pocket indicated. "Have you any other arms about you?" he asked.
"Monsieur, I am not an arsenal, I have no more."
"Take that coat off and let me search you," commanded Bessington
abruptly, as he dropped the small automatic into his own pocket. The
young man scowled for a moment and then shrugged his shoulders.
"It is an insult to my honour, monsieur," he said. "But seeing that
you are English and possibly do not know the meaning of that word, I
will obey."
The jibe was well flung. Bessington flushed crimson.
"All right," he said: "I'll take your word for it that you have no
other weapon."
"I thank you, monsieur. I have no other, only a pocket-knife which I
surrender," and so saying he thrust his hand inside his coat and drew
out a small knife, which he handed with a smile to Bessington.
"And now, messieurs, will you have the goodness to inform me as to
whom I have the honour of speaking. Is it to the police, the Secret
Service, the Customs officials, or merely two enterprising gentlemen
out for, what you call, a lark?"
"It doesn't matter who we are," replied Bessington, curtly. "We
happen to know that you are engaged in smuggling contraband over to
this country, and having got wise as to when you were likely to be
here again, we waited for you."
"I see. Then I must deduce for myself." He smiled at them in a
friendly manner which Bessington found extremely exasperating in one
who should have been grovelling with fright. "You have not, _enfin_,
the brazen effrontery of the police, nor yet the finesse of the
Secret Service, and neither have you the vulgar brutality of the
Customs. Therefore I suppose that you are gentlemen of independent
means and actions, and as such, I presume there is some hope for me.
It is true that I smuggle, it is equally true that I am caught. But
since you knew of my activities, pardon me if I ask why you have not
given word to your police?"
"That's our blinkin' business," struck in Crosby, who did not like
the debonair manner of this young man any more than did his
companion. A fellow in his precarious position, to his mind, should
have been subservient and meek. He should have realized that he was
at their mercy, a thing of no account, and his conversation should
have been in keeping with his position. Not this light-hearted
jocular tone, this air of being top-dog in a situation where in
reality he was under-dog. And usually Alexander Crosby had sympathy
for the under-dog, only they should realize their position as such,
and then the sympathy would be deserved.
"Ah! Pardon!" said the cheery captive. "I forget that, of course,
it is your blinkin' business. But, all the same, I have the honour
to be intrigued. It is not usual for the English gentleman--you call
him so, _n'est ce pas_? He still exist? _Ma foi_, but of course he
does, for one finds him occasionally while raking among the debris of
the modern world--a specimen here, and again there. Not yet extinct
like the prehistoric monsters, but soon, no doubt soon, to become so.
_Eh bien_, where was I? _Ah la_! I wonder, _enfin_, it is not usual
for the English gentleman to do the dirty work of their police, eh?
You have a reason, is it not so?"
"Certainly, it is so," replied Bessington, who was liking his
prisoner's tone less and less. It put him in a false position, made
him feel that--as was the fact--he had no right to be there and had
usurped the place of the lawful authorities. He would have,
therefore, to make the position clear, and this was not at all to his
taste.
"It is quite true that we are here for a definite reason," he said.
"Had the police been here instead of us, you would simply have been
marched off and charged with the offence, there would have been no
two ways about it. As it is--"
"As it is, we are to effect a compromise, M'sieur le Boss, _he_?"
The captive grinned most engagingly, but Colonel Bessington was not
one to be influenced by any grin, engaging or otherwise.
"Compromise is hardly the right term," he said. "At least, not for
one in your position to make use of."
"Ah-h, I get you, I arrive!" exclaimed the young man. "The poor
prisoner who is at the mercy of one who has the distinction of being
the best shot with the automatic in Europe, or, in effect, as the
Americans say, the expert gunman, is hardly in a position to
compromise. It is then, shall we say, on condition that he agrees to
a proposal of monsieur, eh?"
"That's more like it, my lad," said Crosby.
"I understand." The young Frenchman bowed. "It is then that you
have a reason other than a serving your country that you are here to
meet me. In the plain English, for example, of the plain John Bull,
you want something of me. I, in return, also want something of you.
My liberty, _bien entendu_, of which at the moment I am deprived.
Perhaps then, we can arrive at something between us, and no bones
broken, is it not?" He beamed upon them. Undoubtedly he was the
happiest of the three of them, the most at his ease.
Bessington scowled, conscious of being in that false position.
"Something of that sort," he admitted.
"I take it then, messieurs," went on the amiable young man, "that you
two gentlemen, in arriving at a satisfactory arrangement between us,
will undoubtedly--in the language of your law--be accessories after
the fact. _Bien_. Therefore we shall all be in the--what you call
same boat, together. We are, in fact, comrades, is it not? Let us
then commence on friendly terms, I to do the honours, Messieurs, my
comrades, permit me to offer you the cigarette, for there can surely
be no fire without the smoke. _La, la_! That is a good joke, and I
make you a present of it." He held out a gold cigarette-case as he
spoke. "You have also the word of a gentleman smuggler that they are
not drugged. Permit me."
Crosby grinned uncertainly and hesitated. "French make?" he asked.
"_Ah mon Dieu_! _Mais non_! Your cooking may be execrable,
monsieur, but your tobacco is not to be surpassed. Sullivan and
Powell, messieurs, Hanover Square, and made specially for a sensitive
palate."
"Thankee," said Crosby. "I don't mind if I do." And he helped
himself. Bessington refused, uncompromisingly.
"You permit all the same, M'sieur le Boss, that I smoke myself?"
asked the amiable prisoner. "I realize, as you see, my position," he
added with a grin, and at a curt nod from the other he lit his
cigarette from Crosby's match. "A thousand thanks, monsieur, and
now, in all humility, and with due respect to one who holds the gun,
I suggest that we get down to bed-rock."