GIVES THE KEY TO THE CIPHER
Even though tired out, I slept but little that night. I tried, times
without number, but in vain, to solve the secret of that cipher
message--or warning, was it?--written upon the table before the
"Grand Café." But neither the initial nor the word "tabac" conveyed
to me any meaning whatever. One fact seemed particularly strange,
namely, the reason why the ragged collector of cigar-ends should have
searched for it; and, further, why the word written there should have
been "tabac." Again, who was the shabby, wizen-faced individual who
had watched that table with such eagerness and expectancy?
As I reflected, I became impressed by the idea that the table itself
was one of those known to be a notice-board of criminals, and
therefore at night it was watched by the police.
The great Goron, that past-master in the detection of crime, had, I
remembered, told me that in all the quarters of Paris, from the
_chic_ Avenue des Champs Elysées to the lower parts of Montmartre,
there were certain tables at certain cafés used by thieves, burglars,
and other such gentry, for the exchange of messages, the
dissemination of news, and the issue of warnings. Indeed, the
correspondence on the café tables was found to be more rapid, far
more secret, and likely to attract less notice than the insertion of
paragraphs in the advertisement columns of the newspapers. Each gang
of malefactors had, he told me, its own particular table in its own
particular café, where any member could sit and read at his leisure
the cipher notice, or warning, placed there, without risking direct
communication with his associates in rascality.
Had the man whom I had so fondly loved actually allied himself with
some criminal band, that he knew their means of communication, and
was in possession of their cipher? It certainly seemed as though he
had. But that was one of the points I intended to clear up before
denouncing him to the police.
Next morning I rose early, eager for activity, but there seemed no
movement in the room adjoining mine. All three took their coffee in
their bedrooms, and it was not till nearly eleven o'clock that I
heard Keppel in conversation with the mysterious woman who had been
my travelling companion.
"Ernest is running a great risk," he was saying. "It's quite
unnecessary, to my mind. The police are everywhere on the alert, for
word has, of course, come from Nice. If he is unfortunate enough to
fall into their hands, he'll only have himself to blame."
"But surely you don't anticipate such a thing?" she asked, in genuine
alarm.
"Well, he goes about quite openly, well knowing that his description
has been circulated through every town and village in France."
"And if he were arrested, where should he be?" inquired the woman, in
dismay.
"In a very awkward predicament, I fear," he responded. "That's the
very reason why I'm trying to persuade Cameron to act with greater
discretion. He's well known, you see, and may be recognised at any
moment in the street. If he were a stranger here, in Paris, it might
be different."
"It's certainly ridiculous for him to run his head into a noose. I
must speak to him at once."
"He's out. He went out before six this morning, the chambermaid
tells me."
"That's odd! Where's he gone?"
"I don't exactly know. Somewhere in the country, I should think."
"What if he is already arrested?"
"No, don't let's anticipate such a _contretemps_. Matters are,
however, beginning to look serious enough, in all conscience," he
answered.
"Do you think we shall succeed?" she inquired eagerly.
"We have been successful before," he responded confidently. "Why not
now? We have only to exercise just a little more care and cunning
than that exercised by the police. Then, once beyond suspicion, all
the rest is perfectly plain sailing."
"Which means that we must make a perfect _coup_."
"Exactly. The whole scheme must be carried out firmly and without a
hitch, otherwise we shall find ourselves in very hot water."
"Knowing this should make us desperate," she observed.
"I'm desperate already," he replied, in a quiet voice. "It will not
go well with anyone who tries to thwart us now. It's a matter of
life or death."
What new plot had been hatched I could not guess. What was this
fresh conspiracy that was intended? His carefully-guarded words
awoke in me an intense curiosity. I had already overheard many
things, and still resolved to possess myself in patience, and to
continue my ever-watchful vigil. There was, according to the old
man's own words, a desperate plot in progress, which the conspirators
were determined to carry out at all hazards, even up to the point of
taking another human life.
I wrote down on a piece of paper the cipher which I had found
scrawled upon the table, and tried by several means to reduce it to
some intelligible message, but without success. It was evidently in
one of those secret codes used by criminals, and therefore I had but
a remote chance of discovering a key to what so often had puzzled the
cleverest detectives of the sûreté.
The day passed without any important incident. I remained in my room
awaiting the return of the man whose strange action had puzzled me on
the previous night, and who was now running such risk of arrest. If
he returned, I hoped to overhear his conversation with his
companions; but unfortunately he did not come back. All was quiet in
the adjoining chamber, for Keppel and the woman with the strange
marks had evidently gone out in company.
About seven o'clock I myself dressed and went forth, strolling idly
along until I stood on the pavement at the corner of the Boulevard
des Italiens, in front of the Opera. There are always many idlers
there, mostly sharks on the watch for the unsuspecting foreigner.
The English and American tourist offices are just opposite, and from
the corner these polyglot swindlers can easily fix upon persons who
change cheques as likely victims, and track them down. Suddenly it
occurred to me to stroll along and glance at the table before the
"Grand Café." This I did, but found only the remains of some cipher
which had been hastily obliterated, possibly earlier in the day, for
the surface of the marble was quite dry, and only one or two faint
pencil-marks remained.
As I sat there, I chanced to glance across the road, and to my
surprise saw the same shabby, wizen-faced man lounging along the
kerb. He was evidently keeping that table under observation. While
pretending not to see him, I drank my coffee, paid, rose from my
seat, and walked away; but as the watcher at once followed me, I
returned to the hotel.
It is not pleasant for a woman to be followed by a strange man,
especially if she is bent upon making secret inquiries, or is
watching another person, so when I had again returned to my room I
presently bethought myself of the second exit from the hotel--the one
which leads straight into the booking-office of the Gare St. Lazare.
By means of this door I managed to escape the little man's vigilance,
and entering a cab, drove down to the Pont des Arts. As I had
nothing particular to do, it occurred to me that if I could find the
little _coiffeur's_, where I had seen the man with whom I had danced
on the night of the Carnival ball, I might watch, and perhaps learn
something. That this man was on friendly terms with both Keppel and
Cameron had been proved by that scrap of confidential conversation I
had chanced to overhear.
The difficulty I experienced in recognising the narrow and crooked
street was considerable, but after nearly an hour's search through
the smaller thoroughfares to the left of the Boulevard St. Michel, my
patience was rewarded, and I slowly passed the little shop on the
opposite side. The place was in darkness, apparently closed.
Scarcely had I passed, however, when someone emerged from the place.
It was, I felt quite sure, the man who had worn the owl's dress. He
was dressed rather elegantly, and seemed to possess quite an air of
distinction. Indeed, no one meeting him in the street would have
believed him to be a barber.
Almost involuntarily, I followed him. He lit a cigarette, and then
walked forward at a rapid pace down the Boulevard, across the Pont
Neuf, and turning through many streets, which were as a bewildering
maze to me, he suddenly tossed his cigarette away, entered a large
house, and made some inquiry of the _concierge_.
"Madame Fournereau?" I heard the old man answer gruffly. "Yes.
Second floor, on the left."
And the man who had so mysteriously returned to me the stolen notes
went forward, and up the stairs.
Madame Fournereau! I had never, as far as I recollected, heard that
name before.
I strolled along a little farther, hesitating whether to remain there
until the man emerged again, when, as I lifted my eyes, I happened to
see the name-plate at the street corner. It was the Rue du Bac. In
an instant the similarity of the word in the cipher, "tabac" occurred
to me. Could it be that the woman for whom the message was intended
lived there? Could it be that this woman for whose love Ernest had
forsaken me was named Fournereau? I entertained a lively suspicion
that I had at last discovered her name and her abode.
I think at that moment my usual discretion left me utterly. So many
and so strange were the mysteries which had surrounded me during the
past month or so, that I believe my actions were characterised by a
boldness of which no woman in her right senses would have been
capable. Now that I reflect upon it all, I do not think I was in my
right senses that night, or I should not have dared to act alone and
unaided as I did. But the determination to avenge the poor lad's
death, and at the same time to avenge my own wrongs, was strong upon
me. A jealous woman is capable of breaking any of the ten
commandments. "_Amor dà per mercede, gelosia e rotta fede._"
Had I remained to reason with myself, I should never have entered
that house, but fired by a determination to seek the truth, and to
meet that woman face to face, I entered boldly and, without a word to
the _concierge_, passed up to the second floor.
The house was, I discovered, like many in Paris, far more handsome
within than without. The stairs leading to the flats were thickly
carpeted and were illuminated by electricity, though, judging by the
exterior, I had believed it to be a house of quite a fourth-rate
class. When I rang at the door on the left a neat Parisian _bonne_
in a muslin cap answered my summons.
"Madame Fournereau?" I inquired.
"_Oui_, madame," answered the woman, as she admitted me to the narrow
but well-furnished entrance-hall. "Madame is expecting you, I
believe. Will you please enter?"
I saw in an instant that I was mistaken for a guest, and quickly made
up my mind to use this mistake to the best possible advantage.
My quick eyes noticed in the hall a number of men's hats and women's
capes. From the room beyond came quite a babel of voices. I walked
forward in wonderment, but next second knew the truth. The place was
a private gambling-house. Madame's guests, a strange and motley
crowd, came there to play games of hazard.
In the room I had entered was a roulette table, smaller than those at
Monte Carlo, and around it were some twenty well-dressed men and
women, all intent upon the game. Notes and gold were lying
everywhere upon the numbers and the single chances, and the fact that
no silver was there was sufficient testimony that high stakes were
usual. The air was close and oppressive, for the windows were closed
and heavily curtained, and above the sound of excited voices rose
that well-known cry of the unhealthy-looking, pimply-faced croupier
in crimped shirt front and greasy black:
"_Messieurs, faites vos jeux!_"
Advancing to the table, I stood there unnoticed in the crowd. Those
who saw me enter undoubtedly believed me to be a gambler, like
themselves, for it appeared as though madame's guests were drawn from
various classes of society. Although the atmosphere was so stifling,
I managed to remain cool, and affected to be interested in the game
by tossing a louis upon the red.
I won. It is strange that carelessness at roulette invariably brings
good fortune. I glanced about me, eager to discover madame herself,
but saw neither her nor the barber whom I had followed to this place.
At the end of the room there were, however, a pair of long sage-green
curtains, and as one of the players rose from the table and passed
between them, I saw that another gaming-room lay beyond, and that the
gamblers were playing baccarat, the bank being held by a
superior-looking old gentleman who was wearing the crimson ribbon of
the Legion d'Honneur in the lapel of his dining-jacket.
Boldly I went forward into that room, and in an instant saw that I
was not mistaken, for there, chatting to a circle of men and women at
the opposite end of the _salon_, was the small, fair-haired woman
whom I had seen in Ernest's company at Monte Carlo, and whom I had
followed to Enghien. The man who had given me the stolen notes was
standing near her, listening to her account of a pleasure trip from
which she had apparently only just returned.
A couple of new-comers, well-dressed men, entered, walked straight up
to her, shook hands, and expressed their delight that she had
returned to Paris to resume her entertainments.
"I, too, am glad to return to all my friends, messieurs," she
laughed. "I really found Monte Carlo very dull, after all."
"You were not fortunate? That is to be regretted."
"Ah!" she said. "With such a maximum, how can one hope to gain? It
is impossible."
I stood watching the play. As far as I could see, it was perfectly
fair; but some of the players, keen-faced men, were evidently
practised card-sharpers, swindlers, or men who lived by their wits.
The amount of money constantly changing hands surprised me. As I
stood there, one young man, scarcely more than a lad, lost five
thousand francs with perfect _sang-froid_. The women present were
none of them young, but were mostly elderly and ugly, of that stamp
so eternally prominent in the Principality of Monaco. The woman,
when she turns gambler, always loses her personal beauty. It may be
the vitiated atmosphere in which she exists; it may be the constant
tension of the nerves; or it may, perchance, be the unceasing,
all-consuming avarice--which, I know not. All I am certain of is
that no woman can play and at the same time remain fresh, youthful,
and interesting.
Until that moment I had remained there unnoticed in the excited
crowd, for I had turned my back upon Madame Fournereau, lest she
should recognise in me the woman whom Ernest had undoubtedly pointed
out to her either in the Rooms, in Giro's, or elsewhere.
But as I began to pass back to the adjoining room, where I considered
there would be less risk of recognition, the green curtains suddenly
opened, and Ernest Cameron stood before me.