"'Cause ev'body in this comp'ny ain't yo' friend, Cæsar. An' was
Sicily to find out where you was at----"
Both men whistled expressively. Eddie wished them luck and went his
way. Once out of the room Florian and Cæsar looked apprehensively at
each other.
"What you reckon he meant, Florian?"
"Talkin' 'bout Opus Randall, mos' prob'ly. He's hatin' you plenty in
the las' few days."
"He don't know nothin' 'bout this trip tonight, does he?"
"Showly not." There was the faintest quiver of doubt in Florian's
voice. "Co'se I guess there's some in the comp'ny suspecks where we
is gwine. We done a heap of talkin' this mawnin' an' Opus might of
heard."
Mr. Clump's eyes narrowed hostilely. "If that fat slab of side-meat
ever tol' my wife on me.... But shuh! we ain't doin' nothin' but
borryin' trouble. Sicily don't suspeck nothin' an' us is gwine have
the time of our lives."
Mr. Slappey grinned hugely. "Chief, when you said that you show
spoke a parabola!"
At three o'clock that afternoon a party of three, consisting of
Director Clump, Cameraman Exotic Hines and Author Forcep Swain, left
the hotel on a tour of inspection. They were seeking locations for
certain important comedy shots and were intent on business.
Mrs. Sicily Clump stood at her window and watched them go. They
moved off down the Rue Michelet and passed from sight. Immediately
Sicily swung into action.
She descended to the hotel gardens and quested for the company's
official Algiers guide. She found him chatting amiably with two taxi
drivers.
M. Fernand Boutierre was a decidedly estimable gentleman. His
credentials were unimpeachable, as President Orifice R. Latimer had
taken very good care to see after a certain thoroughly disastrous
experience in Biskra.
Fernand was of medium height and modest structure. In complexion he
was of that doubtful mahogany tinge which marks the native Algerian.
Born and reared within the corporate limits of the sprawling, hilly
city on the north African coast, Fernand had learned to speak French
fluently. Later he had picked up bits of English from tourists and
then had seriously studied the language until now it was his proud
boast that he spoke it as good as a native.
A large tourist bureau had recommended Fernand without qualification.
He was licensed by the police and they asserted that he was familiar
with everything in Algiers from palace to pest-hole. He spoke on
terms of respectful intimacy with officials and wharf-rats.
Proprietors of two large halls where boule and baccarat flourished
knew him well, and there was no iniquitous establishment in the city
which was not eager to welcome him and his clients.
His chief recommendation was that wherever he chose to guide a
person--there that person was safe. Being a native Algerian, he held
high social rank among his kind. French shopkeepers and
entertainment purveyors catered to the man.
Sicily Clump knew Fernand well, and liked him. She opened the
interview by pressing in his hand a crisp, new hundred-franc note,
realizing that this made of Fernand her stanch ally--unless somebody
happened to come along with more than a hundred francs.
She spoke earnestly and lengthily with M. Boutierre. At first he
raised his hands in horror and shook his head violently. Once he
offered to return her hundred francs. But Mrs. Clump was insistent.
He spoke of risks and she volunteered to assume them. He told her he
dared not jeopardize his very excellent position with Midnight, and
she promised protection: she gave her word that he was to be merely
an innocent bystander. And at the crucial instant of his indecision,
she produced a second hundred-franc note.
Fernand was converted. Much against his better judgment he consented
to put himself at her disposal. She then proceeded to speak more
specifically and a half hour later the somewhat doubtful M. Boutierre
boarded a tram for down-town, there to seek the native clothing shop
of a very good friend. Frankly, Fernand regarded it as a very silly
proceeding--entirely too much ado about nothing at all. What if this
woman's husband cared to visit--for the second time in two nights--an
irreproachable dancing establishment? Fernand shrugged. The mental
ways of these American women were quite beyond him. Why, the place
was so respectable that he frequently took tourist ladies to watch
the dancing ... invariably to their disappointment. Native Algerian
dances lack considerable of the paprika which seasons the famous
French can-can.
Shortly before the dinner hour Fernand returned from the native
quarter with a large bundle and a suggestion. He had surveyed the
situation from every angle and finally made it quite clear to Sicily
that he would take her to the dancing place only on condition that
some colored gentleman in the company should accompany them. This,
Fernand felt, would leave him in the clear should things go wrong.
Much to his amazement, Sicily did not protest. In fact, she
instantly and heartily endorsed the idea and immediately went in
search of Opus, whom she found staring down miserably upon the
Mediterranean Sea.
Opus demurred. It was one thing to start the ball rolling, and quite
another to trot along with it. Sicily used powerful argument, and
eventually Opus consented to accompany them to the dance palace.
"But," said he, in qualification of his agreement, "I ain't gwine in.
I goes downtown in the taxi with you-all, but when we gits to that
place, I waits outside."
"Why?"
"You is gwine be disguised. I ain't. Minute I go in, Cæsar an'
Florian reckernizes me ... then the whole scheme goes blooie. Ain't
that the truth?"
"Yeh ... seems so."
"'Tis so. You don't wan yo' husban' to know you is there. An' with
me waitin' outside, he won't know nothin'."
"Good enough. Now, you keep yo' eyes open this evenin', Brother
Randall, an' as soon as Cæsar an' Florian starts downtown you hunt me
up."
Dinner that evening was a gala affair. There was unusual jocularity
and good nature, most of the laughter emanating from J. Cæsar Clump,
Florian Slappey, Sicily Clump, and Opus Randall. The first two stood
upon the threshold of a glorious evening, Sicily was determined that
any lurking suspicion on the part of her husband should be allayed
and Opus was chuckling inwardly at the thought of the revenge he was
about to take.
Mr. Randall was, as a matter of fact, in fine fettle. His deep voice
boomed across the room. He fairly oozed high spirits. Personally
unpopular as he was, the others were laughing with him--all save
Director Edwin Boscoe Fizz, whose mild little eyes turned inquiringly
upon the fat comedian. Mr. Fizz felt that there must be something
sinister behind Opus's abrupt climb from the nadir of unhappiness to
the zenith of jocularity.
By the time dinner ended, night had settled over Algiers in a rich,
purple mantle. The sky was cloudless and spangled with stars. From
the hotel veranda one could look down upon the sprawling city; the
wide, tree-sentineled streets of the French quarter, the white houses
and mosques in the native section. The panorama was weirdly
beautiful in the moonlight.... Cæsar and Florian took their leave
and, as long as they remained within earshot, discussed loudly the
sort of pictorial material they hoped to discover on the proposed
tour of the congested and malodorous water front.
Less than fifteen minutes after their departure, Sicily Clump
answered a tap on her door. She took from M. Boutierre a sizable
bundle, and talked with him briefly in subdued tones. She closed the
door and started to dress.
Less than twenty minutes after that, Mrs. Sicily Clump, feminine star
of Midnight productions, surveyed herself in the mirror. The
reflection showed an Arab lady of unusual shapeliness, encased in a
long, flowing robe of white. The head was completely covered and the
lower half of her face was concealed by a white veil. Only the eyes
shone forth ... and they were twinkling with a mixture of excitement
and anger.
Sicily was well content. "Cæsar woul'n't never know me," she
observed to her reflection. "In fack, I ain't so sure I'd reckernize
myself."
She tapped on the door as a signal to Fernand, who was waiting in the
hall. He entered and exclaimed rapturously, declaring that even an
Algerian would mistake her for a native. He then bade her wait,
while he inspected the narrow hall leading to the side door.
He returned in a few moments. Sicily took his arm, gathered her
Arabian robe about her, and they slipped down the stairway, along the
dark hall and thence into a taxi which was waiting outside. Opus was
already there. He was enthusiastic. "Golla! Sicily--how moslemmed
up you is!"