"Positively not. I been standin' heah waitin' an' nobody but the
taxi driver ain't been near heah."
Mrs. Clump was satisfied. But neither she nor Opus knew of the
loyalty which had aroused the suspicions of Eddie Fizz, nor of the
determination with which he had shadowed Opus Randall since dinner.
Eddie had missed no move of Opus since the conclusion of that meal.
He felt that something was brewing--and when Mr. Randall posted
himself by the side door of the hotel, Mr. Fizz scrooched himself in
the shadow of a nearby palm tree--and watched.
What he had just seen appeared to more than justify such pains as he
had taken. First there had been Opus standing alone--expectantly.
Then the figure of Fernand Boutierre appearing briefly, speaking a
few words with the large actor; then beckoning with his right hand.
At once, as though it had been waiting for this particular signal, a
taxicab rolled out of line, and came to a halt near where Mr. Randall
was standing. Opus immediately entered.
Fernand reëntered the hotel. He appeared again a few seconds later
accompanied by a modestly veiled Arab woman. This couple joined Opus
in the taxi and the vehicle rolled down the driveway toward the gate
of the hotel grounds.
Eddie Fizz stepped out of the shadow of the palm tree. The Arab
woman puzzled him. Then his mind flashed back over the episodes and
apprehensions of the afternoon, and a great light broke upon him. He
clapped his hands together and his eyes blazed.
"Ow!" he murmured, "what a dirty trick!"
His legs twinkled upstairs to his room, where he found his wife,
Glorious. He spoke jerkily.
"Don' ast me no questions, honey; an' don't say nothin' to nobody no
time. But Cæsar Clump is in trouble, an' I has got to git him out."
Mrs. Fizz patted his hand. "Go ahead, Eddie. I ain't gwine to say
nothin', an' I won't repeat myse'f."
He was gone as abruptly as he entered. He shot out of the front door
like a slender, black arrow and pitched himself into a taxi. He
motioned the driver into the Rue Michelet and gestured toward the
town below. Wild contortions indicated to his driver that he desired
speed and plenty of it.
They started toward the lower town at a breakneck rate, twisting this
way and that, coming now within sight of the harbor, and again being
hemmed in by high walls surrounding handsome homes. Eventually there
appeared far ahead of them another car in the rear of which Eddie
could discern the veiled and hooded figure of the woman he believed
was Sicily Clump. In his very worst and most painstaking French he
explained to the driver that he wished the other taxi trailed--but
not too closely.
Their way led through the French quarter; a section of wide streets
and imposing shops--very much like any city of France. Then they
turned to the left and progress was slower. The streets narrowed,
seeming to close in upon them. They rose sharply, buildings lost
individuality ... they found themselves in a twisting, tortuous maze
of narrow cobblestoned alleys. The native quarter was picturesque,
but not prepossessing. Lights glowed palely--intensifying the outer
darkness; the streets were crowded with burnoosed Algerians moving
with slow indifference, or merely squatting against the stucco walls
and gazing with some hostility and considerable distaste toward the
taxi. It was a silent section of the city; sinisterly quiet; narrow;
treacherous....
Meanwhile in the leading taxi, Sicily Clump was wondering whether she
had allowed wifely indignation to vanquish common sense. In broad
daylight the native quarter had attracted her. Now, she felt herself
oppressed by vague fears. She fancied that she detected criticism in
certain native eyes--as though they were asking what a veiled
Algerian lady was doing in a taxi-cab with an American negro and a
native guide.
Even the bazaars, so intriguing in the daytime, were pale and
uninteresting tonight. The ineffective lights glowed weirdly on the
white walls ... and there were blocks where there was no light at
all; merely scores of ghostlike figures moving soundlessly in the
night.
Sicily regretted the trip, but now that she had come this far she had
no intention of turning back. Her resentment against her husband was
flaming. It was all his fault! What right had he to force her to
trail him down here!
"Is we near the place, Fernand?"
"Ver' near quite, madame. Almost are there."
She sighed. "Remember, Fernand--if I should be reckernized we is
just gwine say that I was studyin' for a part I'se gwine play in a
Arab pitcher, an' that I made you bring me heah."
"Madame is correct. For Arab part she desire to see Arab dance so
Fernand is delight' to escort, _n'est-ce pas_?"
"_Oui--oui!_" broke in Opus, "we gotcha, Fernand."
Their taxi moved with difficulty along the Rue Babel Oued, a populous
street urgent with color, odor and life. In the center, and flanking
both sides, were tiny shops displaying odds and ends: nondescript
garments, bits of glassware, pieces of filmy silk, ragged and
worthless rugs, squares of gaudy, imitation tapestry. Halfway along
this narrow, pulsing thoroughfare they came to the corner of the Rue
de la Kasba, where the Eglise Notre Dame des Victoires gleamed
whitely in the moonlight. An ancient mosque of impressive dimensions
and architecture, it affected Sicily Clump with a bad case of creeps.
But even more impressive was the narrow street they swung into after
proceeding a few squares upgrade along the Rue de la Kasba. This was
indeed the narrowest street they had yet traversed, and just as
Sicily was on the point of reconsidering, the taxi stopped and
Fernand announced that they had arrived.
The house before which they stood was more impressive than its
somewhat squalid neighbors. It was of strictly Moorish design with
an ornate entrance. Fernand instructed the taxi driver to keep his
headlights burning until after he and Sicily had entered the house.
Opus settled himself comfortably in the rear of the car and wished
the others much luck.
Obviously Mr. Fernand Boutierre was well known in this particular
establishment. The girl at the door smiled a greeting and gazed with
casual curiosity at the figure of the veiled woman. Fernand walked
ahead and Sicily followed, her heart thumping.
They came into a large room, perhaps twenty feet wide by forty in
depth, across the width of which benches had been placed. But the
second floor of the building did not form a ceiling to the room.
Instead, a balcony circled the hall about sixteen feet above the
first story, and leading off from this balcony were several ornately
carved doorways.
At the lower end of the hall was the stage: a simple platform raised
perhaps two feet from the floor. On this stage were dancers and
orchestra. As Sicily and Fernand seated themselves in a dark,
obscure corner where they could not be recognized the orchestra
sounded off. It performed this feat without undue formality. One
portly Algerian lady played deftly on an instrument resembling a
flageolet, another scraped earnestly at a sort of fiddle. And the
drummer drummed.
The drummer fascinated Mrs. Clump. For one thing, he seemed to be
the only man connected with the enterprise; for another, he was a man
of striking proportions. Probably six feet in height and
correspondingly broad; with a vast chest and huge, muscular arms, he
sat cross-legged in the middle of the stage and thumped with the
fingers of both hands on the end of a huge kettle covered with
tightly-stretched hide. The effect was inspiring:
thumpy-thump-thump-thump! Thumpy - thump - thump - thump!
Thumpy-thump ... over and over again, marking time for the flageolet
and fiddle.
The drummer seemed disinterested. His black eyes were unseeing, his
dark-complexioned face inscrutable. He did not even look around when
a young Arab lady, introduced in French as an Ouled Nail dancer from
Biskra, arose and commenced to strut her stuff.
The dance, as such, was vastly disappointing, even to Sicily. This
particular young woman was as fully dressed as her dozen sister
performers who sat stolidly on the floor of the stage awaiting their
turn. She wore an ornate blouse, baggy trousers, a few beads and a
sort of veil. As she moved, the others clapped languidly, keeping
time to the thumping of the gargantuan drummer.
The dancer moved slowly and indifferently. If there was any
intricacy in the steps, Sicily could not detect it. To her untutored
eyes the lady seemed to be performing about one-quarter of a
desultory daily dozen. She walked up and down the stage a few times,
smiled, bowed--and seated herself. At which signal another
lady--equally bored and languid--arose.
But now Sicily turned her gaze from the stage, and her eyes came to
rest on the figures of her truant husband and his friend.
It was obvious that J. Cæsar Clump and Florian Slappey were enjoying
themselves hugely. They were sitting straight up in their chairs
paying rapt attention to the modest undulations of the dancer then
holding the boards. Once or twice they broke into spontaneous
applause ... and it was then that Mrs. Sicily Clump commenced to
become angry in earnest.
She eyed them balefully through her veil. Once Cæsar looked straight
at her. For an instant she feared detection, but he turned away
disinterestedly. What mattered it to him that an Arab woman desired
to see the dancers?
Two or three more numbers were performed, the giant thumper thumping
steadily. Then Sicily saw her husband and Florian rise. They
beckoned to the overlarge and overdark woman who seemed to be the
proprietress and there ensued a difficult but evidently satisfactory
conversation in French. Florian and Cæsar started for the door.
Sicily half rose from her seat, intending to confront her husband.
But just as she would have started forward, Cæsar turned back toward
the stage. The smile which he flung at the girls seemed to include
them all, and he waved a cheery hand toward the fat duenna.
"So long, girls," called Cæsar gaily. "See you-all a li'l later!"
Sicily sank back in fury. So he was coming back later, was he? She
was quivering with righteous wrath as she watched them disappear
through the front door. Once they had gone she swung violently on
her guide.
"Fernand," she hissed, "you heard my husban' say just now he was
comin' back, didn't you?"
"_Oui_, madame."
"Well, I crave to have you take me up yonder on the balcony. Then
when him an' that wuthless Florian Slappey return back heah, I can
watch what they does, an' they won't see me."
Fernand shrugged. He was under orders and receiving excellent pay.
If a wife chose to act this way... He escorted Sicily up the
twisting stairway leading to the balcony. Once there, Mrs. Clump
took matters in her own hands.
She arranged two chairs where she and the guide might sit and gaze
down onto the first floor without themselves being observed. To make
assurance doubly sure, she borrowed an ornate Moorish screen from an
adjoining room and placed this in front of the chairs. Then,
firm-lipped and bright-eyed, she settled herself to wait until such
time as Julius Cæsar Clump paid his return visit.
Meanwhile, another chapter in the drama was being enacted in the
terrifyingly dark side street on which the dance house was located.
Mr. Edwin Boscoe Fizz was loyally on the job.
The task of trailing Sicily's taxi had not been simple, but
eventually Eddie's chauffeur parked a block away from the spot where
the other taxi was standing. Eddie commanded the man to extinguish
his lights. Then the little director stepped to the ground and
pussyfooted up the alley toward the waiting car.
He was unobserved. The Stygian gloom of the alley afforded excellent
protection and he came quite close to Sicily's car. There, in the
glow of a light over the doorway, he saw the figure of the large and
smug Opus Randall perched comfortably in a corner, a large cigar in
his teeth.
Eddie stood motionless, observing Opus--and thinking. Sicily and
Fernand were inside, he knew. If Cæsar was already there, then the
rescue was too late. If not ... Eddie took up his place in the
shadows of a building and waited, prepared to intercept Cæsar in case
he had not already arrived.
The door of the big Moorish house opened and in the pale yellow light
of the entry, two masculine figures stood revealed. At the same
instant a bit of melancholy music spurted into the street: the thump
of drum and wail of _derbuka_. Eddie frowned in puzzlement. Sicily
was inside, and Cæsar was leaving. Obviously he had not been
confronted by the irate wife.
Cæsar and Florian started down the street. Opus Randall made himself
as inconspicuous as possible. And Eddie Fizz--hestitating to accost
his friends in full view of Opus--slunk along in the shadows until
they turned a corner. He accelerated his pace and whistled softly.
They turned in surprise.
"Well, if it ain't ol' Eddie Fizz! Coul'n't stan' the gaff!
Dawg-gone yo' ol' hide----"
"Cease!" commanded the mild little man. "Cæsar--you is up to yo'
neck in trouble."
Mr. Clump chuckled. "Boy! you says words but they don't convey no
inflammation. I asks you, How come?"
Eddie stepped close. "Was there a Arab lady sittin' in the dance
place back yonder?"
"Uh-huh."
"Well," snapped Eddie, "there wasn't!"
"Huh? Be yo' age, boy. I seen the Arab lady----"
"You didn't do no such of a thing. The lady you seen which you
thought was Arab, was Sicily Clump!"
There was an instant of hushed and bleak terror. Then doubt gripped
the husbandly heart of Mr. Clump and questions cascaded from his
lips. Briefly and graphically Eddie explained the situation and the
sinister role in which Opus had cast himself. The eyes of Mr. Clump
blazed with homicidal fury and he suggested that they immediately
repair to the alley and start the evening right by completely
exterminating Mr. Randall--a suggestion which Florian
enthusiastically seconded.
Eddie restrained them. "When time comes fo' beatin' up that no-good
ol' buzzard," he said, "I'se gwine he'p, an' he'p a-plenty. Any man
which would do what he has done ain't wuth plantin' lilies on. But
meanwhile, Cæsar, you got mo' impawtant things to consider. In the
fust place, you got to conwince Sicily that you ain't gallivantin'."
"Hmph!" mourned Clump, "is that all?"
"'Tain't hard! Where yo' brains is at, feller? Now listen: Sicily
seen you in there an' you was behavin' proper. You says yo'se'f that
you tol' the lady you-all was comin' back. Undoubtlessly, Sicily is
waitin' fo' you to do same. All right: You an' Florian goes back an'
I goes with you. You go in an' talk loud about how bored you is an'
how you wish you was home with yo' wife. An' you makes loud
speechments about you got to go on down to the water front an' git
material. Sicily heahs all that, an' she don't know you know she's
there an' right away she sees she's done you injustice an' gits
sorry. Maybe she don't even leave you know she is there, but goes
back to the hotel instead. Then you comes in about an hour fum now
an' goes right to her an' says, 'Honey, I an' Florian had to go back
to that dance place fo' a few minutes, but it was awful.' That puts
you all clear and makes things happy."
Director J. Cæsar Clump was staring pop-eyed at his friend.
"Eddie," he declared solemnly, "you ain't no man! You is simply a
genius!"
The trio marked time for perhaps ten minutes. Then, filled with high
purpose, they returned to the dance house. Clump rapped on the door
and they were admitted. They moved through the ill-lighted hallway
into the large room. At sight of them the music of drum and
flageolet and _derbuka_ immediately commenced and one of the Algerian
ladies rose and commenced to undulate.
Wearing masks of innocence, the three gentlemen strode down the
aisle. Cæsar surveyed the room out of the corners of his eyes. Then
he stopped short and whispered uncertainly to Eddie Fizz.
"Eddie--where Sicily is at?"
From her post of vantage on the balcony, Mrs. Clump saw the three men
glance affrightedly about the hall. But she did not hear the
conversation.
"I dunno, Cæsar."
"She coul'n't of gone out, could she?"
"No. Nobody come out of heah, an' besides, wasn't Opus still sittin'
outside in his taxi?"
"Then what----"
Florian Slappey had been gazing about with increasing fright. He
clutched Mr. Clump's arm. "Cæsar--s'pose they 'scovered she wasn't
no Arab lady an' done somethin' terrible to her?"
Genuine terror smote Mr. Clump. It was one thing for him to come
down with his friend and enjoy a bit of dancing--and quite another to
have his wife abducted.
And so--in this hour of danger--Mr. Clump became a very grim and
determined man. He was convinced that Sicily was somewhere in the
house, and he determined to know where--and to know promptly. His
manner as he advanced to the stage was surcharged with hostility
which those on the stage sensed.
Mr. Clump and his associates found themselves in a quandary. No one
in the place could speak a word of English, and he knew practically
no French. But a mere discrepancy in language could not affect his
determination to save the fair Sicily from whatever trouble might
have befallen her.
"Madame," he rasped, "_ou est mon femme?_"
The stout woman shook her head. On the balcony Sicily inquired of
Fernand what Cæsar had said.
"I cannot comprehend way up here," answered M. Boutierre. "Also I do
not know whether Mr. Clump speaks the French or the English."
"That's French," snapped Sicily.