_Chacherre_
At ten o'clock that Monday morning Gramont's car approached Canal
Street, and halted a block distant. For any car to gain Canal, much less
to follow it, was impossible. From curb to curb the wide avenue was
thronged with carnival folk, who would hold their own until Proteus came
ashore to manage his own parade and his own section of the festivities.
Gramont left the car, and turned to speak with Hammond.
"I've made out at least two fingerprints on the luggage compartment," he
said, quietly. "Drive around to police headquarters and enter a
complaint in my name to a robbery of the compartment; say that the thief
got away with some valuable packages I had been about to mail. They have
a process of transferring fingerprints such as these; get it done.
Perhaps they can identify the thief, for it must have been some clever
picklock to get into the compartment without leaving a scratch. Take
your time about it and come home when you've finished."
Hammond listened stolidly. "If it was the bulls done it, cap'n, going to
them will get us pinched sure----"
"If they had done it," said Gramont, "we'd have been pinched long before
this! It was someone sent by that devil Jachin Fell, and I'll land him
if I can!"
"Then Fell will land us if he's got the stuff!"
"Let him! How can he prove anything, unless he had brought the police to
open up that compartment? Get along with you!"
Hammond grinned, saluted, and drove away.
Slowly Gramont edged his way through the eddying crowds to Canal Street,
and presently gained the imposing portals of the Exeter National Bank.
Entering the building, he sent his card to the private office of the
president; a moment later he was ushered in, and was closeted with
Joseph Maillard.
The interior of the Exeter National reflected the stern personality that
ruled it. The bank was dark, old fashioned, conservative, guarded with
much effrontery of iron grills and bars against the evil doer.
The window men greeted their customers with infrequent smiles, with
caution and reserve so great that it was positively chilly. Suspicion
seemed in the air. The bank's reputation for guarding the sanctity of
wealth seemed to rest heavily upon each pair of bowed shoulders. Even
the stenographers were unhandsome women, weary-eyed, drearily efficient,
and obviously respectable.
As befitted so old and conservative a New Orleans institution, much of
its business was transacted in French.
The business customers of this bank found their affairs handled coldly,
efficiently, with an inhuman precision that was admirable. It was good
for business, and they liked it. There were no mistakes.
People who were accustomed to dealing with bankers of cordial smile and
courteous word, people who liked to walk into a bank and to be met with
a personal greeting, did not come here, nor were they wanted here. The
Exeter National was a place for business, not for courtesy. It was
absolutely precise, cold, inhuman, and spelled business from the ground
up. Its oldest customer could not buy a draft on Paris or London or
other of the bank's correspondents without paying the required fee. The
wealthiest depositor could not expect to overdraw his checking account
one dollar without being required to settle up before the next day was
gone. Loans were made hesitatingly, grudgingly, and of necessity, always
on security and never on character.
Such was the Exeter National. Its character was reflected in the cold
faces at its windows, and the chance customers who entered its sacred
portals were duly cowed and put in their proper place. Most of them
were, that is. Occasionally some intrepid soul appeared who seemed
impervious to the gloomy chill, who seemed even to resent it. One of
these persons was now standing in the lobby and staring around with a
cool impudence which drew unfavourable glances from the clerks.
He was a decently dressed fellow, obviously no customer of this
sacrosanct place, obviously a stranger to its interior. Beneath a
rakishly cocked soft hat beamed a countenance that bore a look of
self-assured impertinent deviltry. After one look at that countenance
the assistant cashier crooked a hasty finger at the floor guard, who
nodded and walked over to the intruder with a polite query.
"Can I help you, sir?"
The intruder turned, favoured the guard with a cool stare, then broke
into a laugh and a flood of Creole dialect.
"Why, if it isn't old Lacroix from Carencro! And look at the brass
buttons--_diable_! You must own this place, hein? _la tchè chatte poussé
avec temps_--the cat's tail grows in time, I see! You remember me?"
"Ben Chacherre!" exclaimed the guard, losing his dignity for an instant.
"Why--you _vaurien_, you! You who disappeared from the parish and became
a vagrant----"
"So you turn up your sanctified nose at Ben Chacherre, do you?"
exclaimed that person jauntily. He thrust his hat a bit farther over one
ear, and proceeded to snap his fingers under the nose of Lacroix.
"A _vaurien_, am I? Old peacock! Lead me to the man who cashes checks,
lackey, brass buttons that you are! Come, obey me, or I'll have you
thrown into the street!"
"You--you wish to cash a check?" The guard was overcome by confusion,
for the loud tones of Chacherre penetrated the entire institution. "But
you are not known here----"
"Bah, insolent one! _Macaque dan calebasse_--monkey in the calabash that
you are! Do you not know me?"
"Heaven preserve me! I will not answer for your accursed checks."
"Go to the devil, then," snapped Chacherre, and turned away.
His roving eyes had already found the correct window by means of the
other persons seeking it, and now he stepped into the small queue that
had formed. When it came his turn, he slid his check across the marble
slab, tucked his thumbs into the armholes of his vest, and impudently
stared into the questioning, coldly repellent eyes of the teller.
"Well?" he exclaimed, as the teller examined the check. "Do you wish to
eat it, that you sniff so hard?"
The teller gave him a glance. "This is for a thousand dollars----"
"Can I not read?" said Chacherre, with an impudent gesture. "Am I an
ignorant 'Cajun? Have I not eyes in my head? If you wish to start an
argument, say that the check is for a hundred dollars. Then, by heaven,
I will argue something with you!"
"You are Ben Chacherre, eh? Does any one here know you?"
Chacherre exploded in a violent oath. "Dolt that you are, do I have to
be known when the check is endorsed under my signature? Who taught you
business, monkey?"
"True," answered the teller, sulkily. "Yet the amount----"
"Oh, bah!" Chacherre snapped his fingers. "Go and telephone Jachin Fell,
you old woman! Go and tell him you do not know his signature--well, who
are you looking at? Am I a telephone, then? You are not hired to look
but to act! Get about it."
The enraged and scandalized teller beckoned a confrere. Jachin Fell was
telephoned. Presumably his response was reassuring, for Chacherre was
presently handed a thousand dollars in small bills, as he requested. He
insisted upon counting over the money at the window with insolent
assiduity, flung a final compliment at the teller, and swaggered across
the lobby. He was still standing by the entrance when Henry Gramont left
the private office of the president and passed him by without a look.
Gramont was smiling to himself as he left the bank, and Ben Chacherre
was whistling gaily as he also left and plunged into the whirling vortex
of the carnival crowds.
Toward noon Gramont arrived afoot at his pension. Finding the rooms
empty, he went on and passed through the garden. Behind the garage, in
the alley, he discovered Hammond busily at work cleaning and polishing
the engine of the car.
"Hello!" he exclaimed, cheerily. "What luck?"
"Pretty good, cap'n." Hammond glanced up, then paused.
A stranger was strolling toward them along the alleyway, a jaunty
individual who was gaily whistling and who seemed entirely carefree and
happy. He appeared to have no interest whatever in them, and Hammond
concluded that he was innocuous.
"They got them prints fine, cap'n. What's more, they think they've
located the fellow that made 'em."
"Ah, good work!" exclaimed Gramont. "Some criminal?"
Hammond frowned. The stranger had come to a halt a few feet distant,
flung them a jerky, careless nod, and was beginning to roll a cigarette.
He surveyed the car with a knowing and appreciative eye. Hammond turned
his back on the man disdainfully.
"Yep--a sneak thief they'd pinched a couple of years back; didn't know
where he was, but the prints seemed to fit him. They'll come up and look
things over sometime to-day, then go after him and land him."
Gramont gave the stranger a glance, but the other was still surveying
the car with evident admiration. If he heard their words he gave them no
attention.
"Who was the man, then?" asked Gramont.
"A guy with a queer name--Ben Chacherre." Hammond pronounced it as he
deemed correct--as the name was spelled. "Only they didn't call him
that. Here, I wrote it down."
He fished in his pocket and produced a paper. Gramont glanced at it and
laughed.
"Oh, Chacherre!" He gave the name the Creole pronunciation.
"Yep, Sasherry. I expect they'll come any time now--said two bulls would
drop in."
"All right." Gramont nodded and turned away, with another glance at the
stranger. "I'll not want the car to-day nor to-night that I know of. I'm
not going to the Proteus ball. So your time's your own until to-morrow;
make the most of it!"
He disappeared, and Hammond returned to his work. Then he straightened
up, for the jaunty stranger was bearing down upon him with evident
intent to speak.
"Some car you got there, brother!" Ben Chacherre, who had overheard most
of the foregoing conversation, lighted his cigarette and grinned
familiarly. "Some car, eh?"
"She's a boat, all right," conceded Hammond, grudgingly. He did not like
the other's looks, although praise of the car was sweet unto his soul.
"She sure steps some."
"Yes. All she needs," drawled Chacherre, "is some good tires, a new coat
of paint, a good steel chassis, and a new engine----"
"Huh?" snorted Hammond. "Say, you 'bo, who sold you chips in this game?
Move along!"
Ben grinned anew and rested himself against a near-by telephone pole.
"Free country, ain't it?" he inquired, lazily. "Or have you invested
your winnings and bought this here alley?"
Hammond reddened with anger and took a step forward. The next words of
Chacherre, however, jerked him sharply into self-control.
"Seen anything of an aviator's helmet around here?"
"Huh?" The chauffeur glared at his tormentor, yet with a sudden sick
feeling inside his bosom. He suddenly realized that the man's eyes were
meeting his squarely, with a bold and insolent directness. "Who you
kiddin' now?"
"Nobody. I was asking a question, that's all." Ben Chacherre flung away
his cigarette, untangled himself from the telephone pole, and moved
away. "Only," he flung over his shoulder, "I was flyin' along here last
night in my airplane, and I lost my helmet overboard. Thought maybe
you'd seen it. So long, brother!"
Hammond stood staring after the swaggering figure; for once he was
speechless. The jaunty words had sent terror thrilling into him. He
started impulsively to pursue that impudent accoster--then he checked
himself. Had the man guessed something? Had the man known something? Or
had those words been only a bit of meaningless impertinence--a chance
shaft which had accidentally flown home?
The last conjecture impressed itself on Hammond as being the truth, and
his momentary fright died out. He concluded that the incident was not
worth mentioning to Gramont, who surely had troubles enough of his own
at this juncture. So he held his peace about it.
As for Ben Chacherre, he sauntered from the alley, a careless whistle
upon his lips. Once out of Hammond's sight, however, he quickened his
pace. Turning into a side street, he directed his step toward that part
of the old quarter which, in the days before prohibition, had been given
over to low cabarets and dives of various sorts. Most of these places
were now boarded up, and presumably abandoned. Coming to one of them,
which appeared more dirty and desolate than the rest, Chacherre opened a
side door and vanished.
He entered what had once been the Red Cat cabaret. At a table in the
half-darkened main room sat two men. A slovenly waiter pored over a
newspaper at another table in a far corner. The two in the centre nodded
to Chacherre. One of them, who was the proprietor, jerked his chin in an
invitation to join them.
A man famous in the underworld circles, a man whose renown rested on
curious feats and facts, this proprietor; few crooks in the country had
not heard the name of Memphis Izzy Gumberts. He was a grizzled old bear
now; but in times past he had been the head of a far-flung organization
which, on each pay day, covered every army post in the country and
diverted into its own pockets about two thirds of Uncle Sam's payroll--a
feat still related in criminal circles as the _ne plus ultra_ of
success. Those palmy days were gone, but Memphis Izzy, who had never
been "mugged" in any gallery, sat in his deserted cabaret and still did
not lack for power and influence.
The man at his side was apparently not anxious to linger, for he rose
and made his farewells as Chacherre approached.
"We have about eighteen cars left," he said to Gumberts. "Charley the
Goog can attend to them, and the place is safe enough. They're up to
you. I'm drifting back to Chi."
"Drift along," and Gumberts nodded, a leer in his eyes. His face was
broad, heavy-jowled, filled with a keen and forceful craft. "It's a
cinch that nobody in this state is goin' to interfere with us. About
them cars from Texas--any news?"
"I've sent orders to bring 'em in next week."
Gumberts nodded again, and the man departed. Into the chair which he had
vacated dropped Ben Chacherre, and took from his pocket the money which
he had obtained at the bank. He laid it on the table before Gumberts.
"There you are," he said. "Amounts you want and all. The boss says to
gimme a receipt."
"Wouldn't trust you, eh?" jeered Gumberts. He took out pencil and paper,
scrawled a word or two, and shoved the paper at Chacherre. Then he
reached down to a small satchel which lay open on the floor beside his
chair. "Why wouldn't the boss leave the money come out of the takin's,
hey?"
"Wanted to keep separate accounts," said Chacherre.
Gumberts nodded and produced two large sealed envelopes, which he pushed
across the table.
"There's rakeoff for week before last," he announced. "Last week will be
the big business, judgin' from early reports."
Chacherre pocketed the envelopes, lighted a cigarette, and leaned
forward.
"Say, Izzy! You got to send a new man down to the Bayou Latouche right
away. Lafarge was there, you know; a nigger shot him yesterday. The
nigger threatened to squeal unless he got his money back--Lafarge was a
fool and didn't know how to handle him. The lottery's goin' to get a bad
name around there----"
Gumberts snapped his fingers. "Let it!" he said, calmly. "The big money
from all that section is Chinese and Filipino, my friend. The niggers
don't matter."
"Well, the boss says to shoot a new man down there. Also, he says, you'd
better watch out about spreadin' the lottery into Texas and Alabama,
account of the government rules."
The heavy features of Gumberts closed in a scowl.
"You tell your boss," he said, "that when it comes to steerin' clear of
federal men, I don't want no instructions from nobody! We got every man
in this state spotted. Every one that can be fixed is fixed--and that
goes for the legislators and politicians clear up the line! Tell your
boss to handle the local gov'ment as well as I handle other things, and
he'll do all that's necessary. What he'd ought to attend to, for one
thing, is this here guy who calls himself the Midnight Masquer. I've
told him before that this guy was playing hell with my system! This
Masquer gets no protection, see? The quicker Fell goes after him, the
better for all concerned----"
Chacherre laughed, not without a swagger.
"We've attended to all that, Izzy--we've dropped on him and settled him!
The guy was doin' it for a carnival joke, that's all. His loot is all
goin' back to the owners to-day. It needn't worry you, anyhow! There was
nothin' much to it--jewellery that couldn't be disposed of, for the most
part. We couldn't take chances on that sort o' junk."
"I should say not." Gumbert regarded him with a scowl. "You've got the
stuff?"
"The boss has. Look here, Izzy, I want you to use a little influence
with headquarters on this deal--the boss doesn't want to show his hand
there," and leaning forward, Ben Chacherre spoke in a low tone. Then,
Gumberts heard him out, chuckled, and nodded assent.
At two that afternoon Henry Gramont, who was writing letters in total
disregard of the carnival parade downtown, was summoned to the
telephone. He was greeted by a voice which he did not recognize, but
which announced itself promptly.
"This is Mr. Gramont? Police headquarters speakin'. You laid a charge
this morning against a fellow named Chacherre?"
"Yes," answered Gramont.
"Must ha' been some mistake, then," came the response. "We thought the
prints fitted, but found later they didn't. We looked up the Chacherre
guy and found he was workin' steady and strictly O. K. What's more to
the point, he proved up a dead sure alibi for the other night."
"Oh!" said Gramont. "Then there's nothing to be done?"
"Not yet. We're workin' on it, and maybe we'll have some news later.
Good-bye."
Gramont hung up the receiver, a puzzled frown creasing his brow. But,
after a minute, he laughed softly--a trace of anger in the laugh.
"Ah!" he murmured. "I congratulate you on your efficiency, Mr. Fell! But
now wait a little--and we'll meet again. I think I'm getting somewhere
at last, and I'll have a surprise for you one of these days!"