A MONTMARTRE ROMANCE
The exterior of the Cabaret Noir belied its name.
Originally, no doubt, it was one of the vilest dens in a vile locality,
but the fairy hand of the brewer had touched the familiar wineshop, and
it glistened to-day in much mahogany, more brass, and a dazzling
collection of mirrors.
Brett was surprised when the driver of their cab pulled up in front of
such an ornate establishment. Somehow, he expected the Cabaret Noir to
be a different place. Not so Fairholme, accustomed only to the glaring
exterior of London tied houses.
"Here we are," said his lordship cheerfully. "Let's take them by
surprise and run over the whole show before any one can stop us."
"No," said Brett; "this is Paris, and the police here have ways even
more mysterious than those of Scotland Yard. We will gain nothing by
drastic measures. Indeed, had I known the sort of place we were coming
to I would have visited it to-night and in disguise. As it is, we have
been seen already by any one interested in our movements, and it would
be useless to adopt any pretence, so follow me."
He boldly entered through the main door, and found himself in a light,
airy room, filled, in three-fourths of its area, with little
marble-topped tables surrounded by diminutive chairs, whilst a bar
counter was partitioned off in a corner.
The attendant in charge was a dreary-eyed waiter, who seemed to think
that the presence of a couple of sight-seeing Englishmen at such an hour
was another testimony to the lunatic propensities of the Anglo-Saxon
race. He welcomed them volubly, assuring them that the establishment
kept the best Scotch whisky in stock, and guaranteed that roast beef
would be ready in ten minutes.
"This is the Cabaret Noir?" questioned Brett.
"But yes, monsieur."
"There is no other of the same name in Montmartre?"
"But no, monsieur."
"A gentleman, a friend of mine, came here a few minutes ago in a
_fiacre_. He was small, slight, so high"--illustrating the stature by
his hand. "He was dressed in dark blue clothes with shiny boots. He
was----"
Brett's eager description was cut short by the appearance of a new
character. Through a narrow door leading into the bar came a handsome
dark-eyed woman, aged perhaps twenty-five, well dressed, shapely, and
carrying herself with the easy grace of a born Parisienne.
Her hair was jet black. Her large dark eyes were recessed beneath arched
and strongly pencilled eyebrows. Her skin had that peculiar tint of
porcelain-white so often seen in women of southern blood.
Yet there was nothing delicate in this lady's appearance or manner. A
rich colour suffused her cheeks, and her language was remarkably free
both in volume and style. She addressed a few observations to the waiter
in the common vernacular of Montmartre, the only translatable portion
being the question why he was standing about the floor like the ears of
a donkey when there was work to be done.
Her manner changed somewhat as she addressed herself to Brett and his
companion. There was sufficient of the landlady in her demeanour when
she said, "And what would messieurs be pleased to command?"
Now, if there was one type of femininity more than another which Brett
thoroughly understood it was the saucy, quick-witted, handsome
adventuress. He knew that the woman scrutinizing him so coolly came well
within this category.
He could not tell, of course, in what way she might be associated with
the gang whose proceedings contained the explanation of Talbot's fate,
but he instantly resolved to adopt a determined position with the lady
who half-petulantly, half-curiously, was awaiting his reply.
He came nearer to her.
"I am glad," he said, "that I have met you."
The woman looked him boldly in the eyes. "Was it for the happiness of
seeing me that monsieur has visited the house?"
"That might well serve as the reason, but the pleasure is all the
greater since it was unexpected."
"You are pleased to be facetious," she replied. "Will you not tell me
your business? I have affairs to occupy me."
"Assuredly. I have driven here as quickly as possible from No. 11, Rue
Barbette."
This attack, so direct and uncompromising, did not fail to have its
effect. A ready mask of suspicion fell across the woman's impudent
pretty face.
There was just a tinge of stage laughter in her tone when she cried:
"Really, how interesting! And where is the Rue Barbette, monsieur? In
what way am I concerned with--No. 11, did you say?"
Brett well knew how to conduct the attack upon this lady. His voice fell
to a determined note, his eyes looked gravely into hers as he
answered--"It is useless to pretend that you do not understand me. You
are losing moments worth gold, perhaps diamonds! Within a few minutes
the police will be here, and then it will be too late. Help me first,
and I will let the police take care of themselves. Refuse me your
assistance, and I will leave you and your friends to the mercy of the
district _commissaire_."
A dangerous light leaped into the woman's eyes at this direct challenge.
"Monsieur is pleased to speak in riddles," she said. "This is a
restaurant. We can execute your orders, but we are not skilled in acting
charades. You will find better performers in the booths out there"; and
she swept her hands scornfully towards the boulevard, with its medley of
tents, stalls, and merry-go-rounds.
Brett smiled. "You are a stupid woman," he said. "You think you are
serving your friends by adopting this tone. In effect you are bringing
them to the guillotine. Now listen. If I leave you without further words
you do not see me again. You will know nothing of what is going on until
the police have lodged you in a cell. Neither you nor your associates
can escape. I promise nothing, but perhaps if you tell me what I want to
know there may be a chance for you. Otherwise there is none. Shall I
go?"
And he turned as if to approach the door.
For an instant the woman hesitated, and Brett thought that he had
scored.
"Wait," she said, lowering her voice, though there was still the menace
of subdued passion in her accents. "Who is your friend?"
"A gentleman whose identity in no way concerns you. You must deal with
me, and it will be better if you ask who I am."
"I know," she said, laconically. "Come this way, both of you."
She raised a flap-door located at one side of the counter. Brett
followed her into a passage behind the doorway that led into the bar.
Fairholme succeeded him.
The trio passed rapidly through a door at the end of the passage, and
quickly found themselves in a long, low room, usually devoted to
billiards. The place was dark and smelled evilly of stale tobacco.
Daylight penetrated but feebly through the red blinds that blocked up
three windows on one side. The woman drew two of these blinds, and thus
illuminated the interior. The windows opened on to a yard, and the place
was thoroughly shut off from all observation from the street.
"Now," she said, "I will show you something."
She walked towards the fireplace at the end of the room. On the
mantelpiece was a square of iron sheeting, painted white and studded
with curious-looking spikes in circles, triangles, and straight lines.
From a box close at hand she took half a dozen small glass bulbs, red
and blue. She placed them in a line on some of the spikes at intervals
of two inches. Then she retired to that side of the room where they had
entered. The distance was perhaps thirty feet.
Before Brett or Fairholme could vaguely guess her intention she whipped
a revolver out of her pocket. It would be idle to deny that they were
startled, but the woman paid not the least attention to them.
She steadily levelled the weapon and fired twice, smashing the two outer
balls of the six. Then she transferred the pistol to her left hand and
smashed another pair. Then she turned her back to the target, adjusted a
small mirror attached to the butt of the revolver, and smashed both of
the remaining bulbs by firing over her left shoulder. Sweeping round
with a triumphant smile towards the barrister, she said, "I can do that
in fifty other ways, but six will suffice."
"It is very clever, madame," he said. "May I ask why I am indebted to
you for this display?"
She replaced the revolver in her pocket. "It is my answer to your
question, monsieur," she said. "That is the way I and my friends often
talk to people who annoy us; and now I shall wish you good-day. You will
find other sights in Montmartre to interest you."
Brett laughed easily, and bowed low.
"Believe me," he said, "I will find few performers so expert and, may I
add, so discreet. We will meet again, and perhaps test your skill."
Without another word the party returned to the front room of the
restaurant, and Brett and Fairholme passed into the street where their
cab was waiting.
"I suppose she meant," said Fairholme "that if we were not jolly
careful she would put a bullet through our hearts as easily as through
those glass bulbs."
"Such was her intention," said Brett, dryly. "But women never have true
dramatic genius. That was a piece of melodrama which might suffice with
many of her class. It amused me, but it was a waste of time on her
part."
"Anyhow, we shall not get much out of her in the way of information."
"Oh, yes, we will. She will tell us everything. She has told me a great
deal already."
"What?" cried his lordship. "Did that shooting affair convey anything
more to you than what I have said?"
"Of course. What need was there for such a trick? In the first place it
is very simple. You or I could do it after ten minutes' practice with an
expanding charge and a show pistol. Secondly, she admitted that the
Cabaret Noir is a centre of operations for the gang in whom we are
interested. By the way, I should like to know her name."
He directed the driver to wait for them at a street corner some little
distance further on. Close to where they stood an itinerant vendor was
selling some mechanical toys.
Brett bought one. The price was twenty sous. He gave the man a two-franc
piece and refused the change.
"Do you know," he said, "who is the proprietor of the Cabaret Noir?"
"Certainly, monsieur," replied the gutter-merchant; "it is Gros Jean.
His name is Beaucaire."
"Ah! And the lady who lives there, a dark pretty woman with white skin,
who is she?"
"That is his daughter," said the man. "She is known as La Belle
Chasseuse."
"Why such a name?"
"Because she is clever with firearms. She used to be in a circus, but
she left the profession a year ago."
"And does she live here constantly?"
"I cannot say. I think she goes away a great deal. She was travelling
recently; she came back--let me see--last Tuesday night."
"Thank you," said Brett. The two re-entered their cab, and Brett told
the driver to proceed as rapidly as possible to the Rue St. Honoré.
"I hope to goodness," he said to Fairholme, "that Captain Gaultier has
not left Paris already; these Foreign Office messengers are liable to be
despatched to the other end of the earth at a moment's notice."
"Why do you wish to see him?" said Fairholme.
"Simply to obtain definite confirmation of my theory. La Belle Chasseuse
was the woman who accompanied the man made up to look like Jack Talbot
during his journey from London. If Gaultier can see her and assure me
that I am right I will be convinced concerning that which I already know
to be true."
"By Jove!" cried Fairholme, "that never occurred to me. I wonder if it
is so?"
"Mademoiselle Beaucaire is quite an adept in two things: she can break
tiny glass bulbs and she can flirt. She chose to exhibit the first of
these accomplishments to us, and convey what was intended to be a
warning; in reality, she gave us some valuable information."
"I suppose," said Fairholme, "that this crowd will watch us pretty
closely, won't they?"
Brett leaned back in the cab and laughed heartily.
"We are the most interesting persons in Paris to them at this moment,"
he said. "That poor fellow who sold us the toys will have to change his
position, I am afraid. One of them is following us now. Let's see who it
is."
At the next street corner he stopped the cab suddenly, and jumped out,
followed by Fairholme. A minute later another vehicle dashed into the
street. In it was seated a lady, closely veiled; but a large feather hat
and the grotesque pattern of a black veil could not wholly conceal the
pretty, determined face of La Belle Chasseuse.
Evidently she had no one at hand to undertake the mission, so she
followed Brett in person. He signalled to her and to her driver.
Astonished, the man pulled up. Brett instantly advanced and took off his
hat with that pleasant smile of his which usually went straight to the
female heart, but which now thoroughly lost its effect on the furious
young woman who looked at him from the interior of the _voiture_.
"Allow me," he said, "to offer my friendly services. It is a close day
and mademoiselle has, I am sure, many other calls on her time. I will
save you at least an hour, and myself nearly the same period. I am going
to secure the presence of a witness to identify you as the lady who
crossed the Channel last Tuesday in company with a gentleman. You both
drove to the Grand Hotel, and your companion signed the register there
in the names of Mr. and Mrs. Talbot; is it not so?"
She bent forward and looked at him viciously. Her eyes sparkled with
annoyance at being caught so easily in her self-imposed piece of
espionage.
"Monsieur is clever," she snapped.
"Thank you," he replied, still smiling. "I can occasionally hit the mark
with a guess as well as mademoiselle can with her pistol. But, believe
me, I only intend at this moment to be polite. Of course, the presence
of a witness to identify you is unnecessary. Mademoiselle can now return
to the Cabaret Noir, whilst my friend and I will proceed direct to the
Grand Hotel. It saves so much trouble, does it not?"
For a moment the woman looked as though she would have liked to produce
that infallible revolver and shot him on the spot. Then she angrily
commanded her driver to return.
Fairholme surveyed the scene with open-eyed amazement. "Well," he said,
"that beats everything. You really have a splendid nerve. The whole
business reads like a chapter out of one of Gaboriau's novels."
"That is the way people live in Paris, my dear fellow. Life is an
artificial matter here. But all this excitement has made me hungry. Let
us have _déjeûner_."