"Then," suggested Eddie calmly, "le's manslaughter him out yonder."
Still whispering, they moved into the alley. From the balcony Sicily
and Fernand saw them go--apparently permanently. Sicily rose.
"Le's travel back to the hotel, Fernand."
M. Boutierre was quite willing. He started toward the stairway.
Mrs. Clump restrained him.
"Ain't there another way out? My husban' will mos' likely be hangin'
around that alley an' I don't crave fo' him to see me."
Fernand admitted that there was another exit, and through this he
escorted Sicily from the house. But while they were reaching their
decision and making their departure, much was happening in the alley.
The door of the taxi was flung violently open and the terrified Mr.
Randall found himself staring into the frigid eyes of Director J.
Cæsar Clump. Over Mr. Clump's shoulder he could glimpse the hostile
countenances of Florian Slappey and Eddie Fizz. Cæsar spoke.
"Git out of that car, wuthless."
"Whaffo?"
"'Cause you stahted all this. It was you tol' Sicily where I was
gwine be at tonight. If you hadn't of been suggestive, she never
would of come. Now they has kidnapped her an' is holdin' her
prisoner. Us four goes in an' commits a rescue."
Opus alighted, but exhibited marked reluctance. "I--I ain't yearnin'
fo' no trouble."
"Boy! yo' yearns don't afflict me none whatsoever. You is in the
middle of a whole mess of trouble right now. Inside that house
there's li'ble to be a rough-house, an' you does yo' share.
Otherwise us th'ee steps on you right heah an' now an' makes you into
a pancake."
Opus considered flight and abandoned the idea. He stared at the
three men and saw that they were determined and desperate. He tried
to appear cheerful. "Well, if you really needs my he'p..."
"Come along. Keep yo' mouf an' yo' fists shut!"
They barged through the front door. The dancing girls were cowering
on the stage. The proprietress of the place rushed forward,
chattering hysterically in French. And immediately behind her
towered the warlike figure of the monster drummer. Cæsar acted as
spokesman.
"You got _mon femme en haute_ somewhere," he grated. "Us is gwine
fetch her down. An' if this big hunk of cheese here tries to stop
me, I'll----"
The Algerian gentleman and lady understood nothing of the situation.
They did not connect the dark-skinned tourists with the veiled woman
who had recently visited the place. All they could see was that
these four men were obviously looking for trouble. Therefore the
large man placed himself squarely across the path of J. Cæsar Clump.
To Mr. Clump this was a sinister maneuver. His voice came harshly.
"Out of my way, big boy! I'se gwine _en haute_----"
He put his foot on the first step. Iron fingers closed about his arm
and he was jerked roughly aside.
Cæsar struck. He struck straight and hard and his fist spanked
against the face of the Algerian. That individual let loose a bellow
of rage and astonishment and leaped toward Mr. Clump.
Florian Slappey swung into action. Swiftly and with genuine skill,
he executed a flying tackle. Algerian and Birminghamite struck the
floor together. At the same instant two flailing figures landed on
top of the native. Cæsar and Eddie were small but enthusiastic.
It was then that the fight really started. The girls were shrieking.
The fat proprietress flew howling into the street. On the floor four
figures milled viciously.
Three against one, but the three were small and the one was a giant.
Time after time he staggered to his feet with one or two men hanging
to his arms and another punching viciously at his face. And in the
background stood the terrified Opus Randall, too cowed to fight and
entirely too scared to run. Once, from the melee, came Florian's
voice----
"Git in heah, Opus. Us needs you!"
And Opus's honest answer. "I--I'se scared, Florian. You-all is
doin' fine without me."
The voice of Mr. Fizz came back, expressing his opinion of Mr.
Randall. Mr. Fizz was doing himself proud. He and his two friends
were taking a fine beating, but they were inflicting more than a bit
of punishment at the same time. They were now up, now down; benches
and tables were knocked over; the native was roaring with rage ...
the three slender Birmingham negroes fought silently and desperately.
The tide of battle ebbed and flowed. It was an epic encounter;
numbers against might--a trio of Lilliputians at grips with a
dark-skinned Gulliver. And just when the battle was at its fiercest,
when it was anybody's victory--or nobody's--the door was flung open
and a weeping proprietress entered in the wake of two businesslike
gendarmes.
The voice of authority rang through the room. The two efficient
figures surged into the middle of the battle and dragged the
contestants apart. Then words began to fly.
The four men presented a sorry spectacle. Cæsar, Florian and Eddie
were clad in rags, their faces resembled a boy's nightmare of a trip
through an abattoir. The Algerian was scarcely any better. His
clothing, too, was torn; his face pounded out of shape and his whole
body bruised. Only Opus Randall showed no scars of battle ... and
even in their rage Florian and Eddie found time to express their
opinion of him.
The woman and the drummer explained that they knew no reason for the
disturbance. J. Cæsar struggled in his best French to explain that
his wife was being held prisoner in the house. But they could not
understand him, and so--struggling and protesting--he and Eddie and
Florian and Opus ... the latter screaming his innocence ... were
dragged to the police station.
It was a sadly bedraggled trio which confronted the sergeant at
headquarters. But fortunately an interpreter was on duty and through
him Cæsar explained what it was all about. The interpreter had heard
of the movie company and had no reason to doubt the story told,
although he made it quite clear that the Americans were laboring
under a misapprehension. The house, he affirmed, was eminently
respectable and safe.
The quartet was dismissed from custody. Then the interpreter and a
gendarme went with them to the dancing establishment. They searched
the place and when the interpreter explained whom they were seeking,
the fat woman told them she had long since departed. Cæsar assuaged
her grief with two one-hundred franc notes and profound apologies.
Then he caused the interpreter to question her. The result was
somewhat startling.
"She say," explained the interpreter, "that the lady who was here is
Arab lady and not no American."
Florian, Cæsar and Eddie exchanged significant glances. Opus caught
their meaning and hastened to speak.
"That was Sicily," he announced. "I'se sure of it."
"How come you is so sure?"
Mr. Randall found himself between the devil and the deep sea. "I
just got a hunch," he affirmed. "I don't know nothin' fo' certain,
but I'se positive anyhow."
They took Opus with them into the alley and bundled him into the
taxi. The machine bumped and rolled down the narrow, ill-lighted,
cobblestoned thoroughfare and the three participants in the recent
battle groaned with each agonizing jerk of the antiquated machine.
Opus cowered in the corner. He felt that all was not as it should
be. Instinct informed him that the end was not yet, and that he had
erred in attempting to wreak revenge on Cæsar.
During the ride through the French quarter and thence toward the
upper reaches of the city where their hotel was located, the three
battlers spoke little and groaned much, but such words as dropped
from their lips were fraught with unpleasant promise for Mr. Randall.
Eventually they swung in through the big iron gates, rolled under the
trees that lined the hotel garden and came to a stop before the front
door.
The trio of battered figures dragged themselves up the steps,
completely surrounding the harried Opus. They moved into the
lobby--where a picture of utter serenity presented itself.
Seated in an easy-chair, immersed in a London magazine, was Sicily
Clump. She was calm and quiet and unruffled as she swept the
newcomers with a curious gaze.
Cæsar started forward, his tone indicative of relief.
"Honeybunch!" he exulted, "you is safe!"
"What you mean, Cæsar? Safe?"
"Nothin' happened to you, did it?"
A slow smile creased Sicily's lips. She had determined to torture
her husband with uncertainty.
"How come anythin' should occur to me, Mistuh Clump?"