ON GUARD
On their way to the hotel, Brett, yielding apparently to a momentary
impulse, stopped the cab at a house in the Rue du Chaussée d'Antin.
Without any explanation to Lord Fairholme he disappeared into the
interior, and did not rejoin his companion for nearly ten minutes.
"It is perhaps not of much use," he explained on his return, "but I do
not like to leave any stone unturned. The man I have just called on is a
well-known private detective, and I can trust him to look after my
business without taking the police into his confidence. Two of his
smartest agents will maintain a close watch on both the Cabaret Noir and
No. 11, Rue Barbette, during the afternoon."
"You do not seem to expect much result?"
"No; we are tracking some of the most expert and daring criminals in
France. It is hopeless to expect them to provide us with clues; they
simply won't do it. No one but a genius in criminality would have risked
such a dramatic move as the personation of Jack Talbot, or dared to put
in an open appearance at the Grand Hotel. So my agents here can only
hope, at the best, to get sight of any messenger or assistant scoundrel
who may turn up at either of the places indicated."
"May we expect to be busy to-night?"
Brett did not answer at once. It was evident that whilst he rattled on
in a careless strain his active brain was busily employed in discounting
the future.
"I hope so," he said at last. "Of course I cannot tell. Our only chance
is that we may be able to guess the course of the hidden trail. If
to-night does not yield us some information, our chances of solving the
mystery will be remote, in which case we may as well abandon the quest."
This faint-hearted reply naturally surprised Lord Fairholme
considerably. To his mind, a considerable measure of success had already
been achieved, and he utterly failed to understand why his friend should
take such a pessimistic view of affairs at the very moment when they
appeared to be opening up somewhat. Brett noted the Earl's perplexity,
and smiled with genial deprecation.
"Do not be afraid, Fairholme; I will liberate Mr. Talbot and clear his
name so effectually that all difficulties will disappear from the path
of your marriage."
"Then what is it that makes you so downcast?" cried Fairholme.
"I hate to be beaten at the final stage, and I have a premonition that
were I in England--had I but the power to proceed unchecked and
unhindered by officialdom--I would soon lay my hands on the man who
originated the Albert Gate mystery. But we are in France--in a country
of queer legal forms and unusual methods. At home I can always
circumvent Scotland Yard; here I am in the midst of strange
surroundings, and know not what may happen. Therefore, we must possess
our souls in patience and wait developments. The agent I have just
employed has promised me to report every two hours at the hotel until
eight o'clock. Then I will take personal charge of the Cabaret Noir,
and----"
"What about me?" cried Fairholme.
"You, my dear fellow, will remain at the hotel and await orders."
This arrangement did not seem to suit the active young Englishman who
had been so suddenly plunged into the excitement of a criminal chase in
Paris.
"Really, Brett," he said, "I hate to grumble at anything you propose,
because you are always right; but you must pardon me for saying that I
do not see what particular value my presence here has been to you."
"What!" laughed Brett; "not after your dramatic appearance in the Rue
Barbette this morning?"
"Oh, any one could have done that. All I had to do was to break in a
door at a given hour."
"Exactly," said Brett gravely. "I wanted a friend whom I could trust to
implicitly obey my orders, and you did it. I am sure you will fall in
with my wishes now."
So Fairholme was silenced on this point, but he ventured to put another
question.
"How long am I to sit chewing cigars in our rooms, then?"
"All night, if necessary. If I do not appear by seven o'clock to-morrow
morning you had better go to the Embassy and tell one of the secretaries
everything connected with our visit to Paris. He will then take action
through the police in proper form, and after that you must simply await
developments."
"Do you mean to say," said Fairholme, anxiously, "that you are
contemplating another risky bit of business to-night?"
"Once I take my stand outside the Cabaret Noir about 8.30 I cannot tell
where Fate may lead me. If I am lucky I will certainly return, whatever
be the personal outcome. If, on the other hand, I learn nothing, you may
certainly expect to see me about two in the morning."
At the hotel Brett found awaiting him a letter delivered by the midday
post. It was from his elderly assistant in London, whom he had told to
make a close scrutiny of all inhabited houses within a certain radius of
the Carlton Hotel. The man had done his work systematically, and in only
three instances was he called on to report doubtful cases.
Two foreign restaurants in side streets contained a number of residents
concerning whom it was difficult to obtain specific information.
One of these establishments he believed to be the resort of Continental
gamblers driven from Soho by the too marked attentions of the police.
The other was a place of even more questionable repute, and in both
instances he had utterly failed to obtain the slightest information from
the servants, who apparently "stood in" with the management.
The third dwelling which courted observation was a flat situated above
some business premises in another quiet street. So far as he could
learn, it was tenanted by an elderly lady who was a helpless invalid,
waited on by a somewhat curious couple.
"They are Italians, I think," wrote the ex-policeman, "and very
uncommunicative people. I have twice called, on one pretext or another,
but when the door is opened it is always kept on the chain, and I
cannot see more than the face of a man or woman and a few inches of wall
beyond. Still, I have no reason to doubt that the view taken by the
milkman and baker is correct, namely, that the owner of the flat is
confined to her bed and is suffering from a nervous disease, which
renders it imperative she should be shut off from all noise. The
landlord informs me that these people have occupied the place for nearly
two months. Their rent is paid in advance, and they have not given the
slightest cause for complaint. There are, of course, in this district a
large number of private hotels and lodging-houses, but they seem to be
run on regular lines, and, although some of their patrons might well
demand closer observation, I have come across nothing suggestive of any
suspicious circumstance whatever with reference to them. I have detained
my report until I was able to give details concerning the other houses
in the district, and I will now fall back on the second part of your
instructions, i.e., to maintain a close watch on the three
establishments which I have picked out as being more unusual in their
habits than the others."
This was all.
Brett read the concluding portion of the report to Fairholme.
"He is a level-headed, shrewd observer," he said--"one of the few men
whom I can trust to do exactly what I want, neither more nor less. I
think when we return to London we must endeavour to get that chain taken
off the invalid lady's door, or, at any rate, obtain some specific facts
concerning her disease from her medical adviser."
Fairholme smiled. "I am glad to hear," he cried, "that you do anticipate
our return."
"Oh," said Brett airily, "I never count on failure."
Soon after three o'clock a report arrived from the agent in the Rue du
Chaussée d'Antin. It read--
"Nothing unusual has occurred in the vicinity of the Cabaret Noir.
The customers frequenting the place are all of the ordinary type
and do not call for special comment.
"A Turkish gentleman quitted the house No. 11, Rue Barbette, at
1.15 p.m., but returned shortly before two o'clock. Half an hour
later a man, whom my assistant recognized as a member of a well-known
gang of flash thieves, entered the place. His name is Charles Petit,
but he is generally known to his associates as 'Le Ver.' He is small,
well dressed, and of youthful appearance, but really older than he
looks. He is still in the house inhabited by the Turks."
"What is the meaning of 'Le Ver'?" said Fairholme.
"It means 'The Worm,'" answered Brett.
"I must say these chaps do find suitable nicknames for one another. I
wonder if he is the fellow we followed to Montmartre this morning?"
"Possibly, though I am puzzled to understand why he should trust himself
in that hornets' nest again. Most certainly the description covers him,
but we shall probably hear more details later. I wonder where the
Turkish gentleman went whom 'Le Ver' seems to have followed. He could
not have gone to the Cabaret Noir in the time?"
Brett's curiosity was answered to some extent by the next report,
delivered about five o'clock. It read as follows--
"Le Ver is still in the house No. 11, Rue Barbette. My agent
explains that he did not follow the Turk, who left and returned
to the place earlier, because his definite instructions were not
to leave the locality, but to report on all persons who entered
or left. Absolutely nothing has transpired in this neighbourhood
since my first report.
"Gros Jean, the father of La Belle Chasseuse, arrived at the Cabaret
Noir soon after four o'clock. My agent ascertained from the cabman who
drove him that Gros Jean had hired the vehicle outside the Gare de Lyon.
Otherwise nothing stirring."
At seven o'clock came developments.
"Three Turkish gentlemen have quitted No. 11, Rue Barbette, but the
Frenchman is still there. As it might be necessary to follow another
person leaving this house, I stationed another watcher with my
assistant, and this second man followed the Turks to a restaurant in
the Grand Boulevard. So far as he could judge, they seemed to be
excited and apprehensive. They drank some wine and conversed together
in low tones. At 6.15 they quitted the café and rapidly jumped into
an empty _fiacre_, being driven off in the direction of the Opera.
So unexpectedly did they leave their seats that before my agent could
hire another cab they had disappeared in the traffic, and although he
drove after them as rapidly as possible, he failed to again catch
sight of them. I have reprimanded him for his negligence, although he
did right in coming at once to me to report his failure. In accordance
with your instructions, I have ordered the watchers at the Café Noir
and in the Rue Barbette to be in this office at 8.15 p.m."
"Now I wonder," said Brett, "why the Turks left the Frenchman alone in
No. 11. It is odd, to say the least of it. Since the dramatic discovery
of the spurious diamonds this morning they must be even more in the
dark than I am. It must be looked into, but I cannot attend to it now.
At this moment, if I am not mistaken, the centre of interest is the Café
Noir."
The two men occupied a sitting-room on the first floor of the hotel, and
their respective bedrooms flanked it on each side. Brett explained that
he could not tackle the table d'hote dinner, so he made a hasty meal in
their sitting-room and then excused himself whilst he retired to his
bedroom to change his clothing.
He was absent some twenty minutes, and Fairholme amused himself by
glancing over the copies of the day's London newspapers which had
recently arrived. Suddenly the door of Brett's bedroom opened, and a
decrepit elderly man appeared, a shabby-genteel individual, disfigured
by drink and crumpled up by rheumatism.
"Who the devil----" began Fairholme.
But he was amazed to hear Brett's familiar voice asking--
"Do you think the disguise sufficiently complete?"
"Complete!" shouted Fairholme, "why, your own mother would not know you,
and your father would probably punch me for suggesting that it could be
you."
"That is all right," said the barrister cheerfully. "I will now proceed
to get quietly drunk at the Café Noir. Good-bye until seven o'clock
to-morrow morning--perhaps earlier, and perhaps--well, no--until seven
o'clock!"
They shook hands and parted, and not even Brett, the cleverest amateur
detective of his day, could have remotely guessed where and how they
would meet next.
Montmartre by day and Montmartre by night are two very different places.
This Parisian playground, perched high on the eminence that overlooks
the Ville Lumière, does not wake to its real life until its repose is
disturbed by the lamplighter. Then the Moulin Rouge, festooned with
lamps of gorgeous red, flares forth upon an expectant world. The Café de
l'Enfers opens its demoniac mouth to swallow ten minutes' audiences and
vomit them forth again, amused or bored, as the case may be, by the
delusions provided in the interior, whilst other questionable resorts
shout forth their attractions and seek to beguile a certain number of
sous from the pockets of sightseers.
The whole district is a place of light and shade. It is artificial in
every brick and stone, in the pose of every stall, the lettering of
every advertisement. And it flourishes by gaslight; by day it is garish
and forlorn.
Prominent among the regular houses of entertainment was the Cabaret
Noir, which, between the hours of 9 p.m. and 1 a.m., usually drove a
roaring trade. Situated in the heart of a mountebank district, its
patrons embraced all classes of society, from the American tourist with
his quick eyes noting the vagaries of demi-mondaines, to the
sharp-witted Parisian idler, on the alert for any easy and dishonest
method of obtaining money which might present itself.
Among such a crowd a wine-sodden and decrepit old man was not likely to
attract particular attention.
He sprawled over the table close to one of the windows which commanded a
view of the side passage leading to the rear of the building. Although
none of the noisy crowd in the café could suspect the fact, the
half-closed eyes of this elderly drunkard noted the form and features of
every individual who entered or left by the main door, whilst at the
same time he paid the utmost possible attention to the comings and
goings of any person who used the passage by the window.
To facilitate his observations in this direction he querulously
complained to the waiter that the atmosphere was stuffy, and prevailed
on the man to raise the window a few inches, thus admitting a breath of
clear cold air.
Brett had previously ascertained from his agent that Gros Jean and his
daughter were still in the private part of the building. No other
visitor had put in an appearance, and so the time passed, until the
clock in the café marked eleven, without any incident occurring which
could be construed as having even a remote bearing upon his quest.
Brett began to feel that his diligence that night would not be rewarded.
At five minutes past eleven, however, a pink-and-white Frenchman, neatly
attired, unobtrusive both in manner and deportment, entered the café and
seated himself quietly near the door. He ordered some coffee and cognac,
and lighted a cigarette.
The barrister, of course, took heed of him as of all others, and he
would soon have placed him in the general category that merited no
special attention had he not noticed that the newcomer more than once
glanced at the clock and then towards the corner bar, whence, it will be
remembered, a small door led towards the billiard saloon in which La
Belle Chasseuse had displayed her prowess with the pistol.
In such a community the stranger's self-possession and reticence were
distinguishable characteristics. So Brett watched him, largely for want
of better occupation.
"That is a man of unusual power," was his summing up. "He is elegant,
fascinating, unscrupulous. Although apparently out of his natural
element in this neighbourhood, he has some purpose in putting in an
appearance in such a place as this at a late hour. Perhaps he is one of
mademoiselle's lovers, though he looks the sort of person who would be
singularly cool in conducting affairs of the heart, and most unlikely to
wait many minutes beyond the time fixed for an appointment. His hands
are large and sinewy, his wrists square, and, although slight in
physique, I should credit him with possessing considerable strength.
Being a Frenchman, he should be an expert with the foils. The effeminate
aspect given to his face by his remarkable complexion might easily
deceive one as to his real character. As a matter of fact, he is the
only unusual man I have seen during my two hours' lounge in this
corner."
Brett had hardly concluded this casual analysis of the person who had
enlisted his close observation, when the private door into the bar
opened and Mlle. Beaucaire entered.
Without taking the least notice of any of the numerous occupants of the
café she turned her back on them, and apparently busied herself in
checking the contents of the cash register. Beyond this useful
instrument was a mirror, and Brett at once perceived that from the point
where she stood she could command a distinct reflection of the
pink-and-white Frenchman.
The latter was gazing at the clock, and whilst doing so stroked his chin
three times with his right hand. Immediately afterwards La Belle
Chasseuse three times rang the bell of the register, and then, having
apparently concluded her inspection, quitted the bar as unceremoniously
as she had entered. Half a minute later the Frenchman finished the
remains of his cognac, lit another cigarette, and passed into the
street.
It was with difficulty that Brett restrained himself from following him,
but he was certain that no one could leave the residential portion of
the building without using the passage--a view of which he commanded
from his window--and he resolutely resolved to devote himself for that
night to shadowing the movements of the ex-circus lady.
His patience and self-denial were soon rewarded. A light quick step
sounded in the passage, and a shrouded female form shot past the open
window.
Then the inebriated individual, now hopelessly muddled by drink,
staggered towards the door and lurched wildly round the corner, just in
time to see mademoiselle cross the Boulevard and daintily make her way
between the rows of stalls.
The air seemed, however, to have a surprising effect on the old
reprobate, for the simple reason that to simulate drunkenness and at the
same time keep pace with the lady's rapid strides was out of the
question.
La Belle Chasseuse was evidently in a hurry. She sped along at a
surprising pace, until she reached a crossing where the rows of stalls
and booths were temporarily suspended. At one corner stood a cab, and
towards this vehicle she directed her steps. Before Brett quite realized
what was happening, the door of the cab opened, mademoiselle jumped
inside, and, as if he were waiting for her appearance, the driver
whipped up his horse and drove off at a furious pace.
At that instant a small victoria with a sturdy pony in the shafts, which
had just deposited a lively fare in the vicinity of the Moulin Rouge,
drove along the street.
Brett sprang into it and said eagerly to the driver--
"Keep that cab in sight! I will pay you double fare!"
The man tightened his reins and raised his whip in prompt obedience to
the order, when suddenly two men jumped into the vehicle from opposite
sides, seized Brett and forced him down on to the seat, whilst one of
them said in stern tones to the astonished cabby--
"Take us at once to the Central Prefecture of Police."
The man recognized that these newcomers were not to be trifled with.
Without a word or a question, he rattled his horse across the stone
pavement, and Brett, choking with rage at this interference at a supreme
moment, realized that for some extraordinary reason he was a prisoner,
and in the hands of a couple of detectives.
By this time the cab containing the lady had vanished, but the barrister
made one despairing effort.
"For heaven's sake," he said to his captors, "take me where you will,
but first follow that cab and ascertain its destination."
"What cab?" demanded one of his guards sarcastically.
"The cab which I wished our driver to overtake at the moment when you
pounced on me."
"This is a mere trick," broke in the other. "Don't bother about his cab.
We have got him safe enough, and let the _commissaire_ deal with him
now."
"Listen to me," cried Brett. "You are making a frightful mistake. Your
action at this moment may cause irretrievable delay and loss. If you
will only do as I tell you----"
"Shut up," growled the first man, "or it will be worse for you. Your
best plan, my good fellow, is to keep a quiet tongue in your head."
It was not often that Brett lost his temper, but most certainly he lost
it on this occasion. He was endowed with no small share of physical
strength, and for an instant the wild notion came into his head that he
might perhaps succeed in throwing the two detectives into the roadway
and then overpower the driver, taking charge of the vehicle himself and
trusting to luck to again catch sight of the vanished lady and her
companion, who, he doubted not, had awaited her arrival at the quiet
corner where she joined him.
Unconsciously he must have given some premonition of this desperate
scheme, for the two policemen tightened their grasp, forced his hands
higher up his back, and bent his head forward until he was in danger of
having either his neck or his shoulder dislocated.
"Will you keep quiet?" murmured the chief detective. "You cannot escape,
and you are only making the affair more disastrous to yourself."
Then Brett realized that further resistance was hopeless. He managed to
gurgle out that if they would allow him to assume a more comfortable
attitude he would not trouble them any further.
Gingerly and cautiously the two men somewhat relaxed the strain, and he
was able to breathe freely once more.
Then he laughed, almost hysterically, but he could not help saying in
English--
"The shadow of Scotland Yard falls on me even here. Poor old Winter, how
I will roast him over this adventure!"
"What are you talking about?" demanded one of the men.
"I was only thinking aloud," replied Brett.
"And what were your thoughts?"
"Simply this, that the sooner I meet your remarkably astute commissary
the better I shall be pleased."