IN A PRIVATE ROOM
M. Moche was in a generous mood that morning. He now beckoned to the
waiter of the drinking shop where he sat with a companion, the apache
known by the nickname of the “Gasman,” and ordered a bottle of wine
and glasses to be set on the table. But the old man had certainly not
summoned this “Gasman” to meet him merely for the pleasure of standing
the young ruffian a drink. For a good quarter of an hour they had been
hobnobbing together, and the old business agent had been engaged in
explaining to his man the particular service he required of him. To
start with, indeed, and by way of preliminary to insure the confidence
and good will of his ally, Père Moche, as he shook hands on saying
good-morning, had slipped between the “Gasman’s” gnarled fingers a nice
little bank note for fifty francs, which the apache, nothing if not
practical, had instantly pocketed, prepared to learn later on what he
would have to do in return, or even to refuse to take on the job if he
did not fancy it.
When the bottle was half empty, Moche came back to the business in hand.
“Then it’s settled,” he asked, “we may count on you?”
The apache pushed his chair back, leant his great body far across the
table, rested his head between the palms of his hands and looking hard
at the old business man:
“That depends,” he announced in a decided tone.
“What d’ye mean?” asked Moche in surprise.
The “Gasman” repeated: “That depends. Question is who’re we working
for? For my part, since all these here to-dos, you’ll understand, I’m
beginning to be a bit off. Fantômas’ gang and me being in the know with
’em, that’s all very fine and large; but sure as I’m here drinking at
your expense, the thing can’t go on, and it’s bound to end badly.”
“Don’t you worry about that, my man; this business is my little game
and nobody else’s. Fantômas has nothing to do with it. And what’s more,
let me tell you, Fantômas don’t like folks prying into his business,
whoever they may be; cute chap as you are, Mr. ‘Gasman,’ you’ll be
getting yourself into trouble, if you poke your nose in there.”
“Right oh!” agreed the apache; “let’s talk about _your_ business then
instead!”
“Well then,” resumed Père Moche, “you quite understand I count on you
implicitly for to-night. Now there must be two of you for the job, so
stir your stumps this afternoon and find a bully boy at a loose end.
Who are you going to take, eh?”
The apache thought a moment, twisting his long moustache, then
suggested:
“I don’t see anyone hardly but ‘Bull’s-eye,’ you know who I mean, who’d
just do ...”
Moche approved the selection: “That’s the ticket, go and fix it up with
your friend; he’s a good cuss and no white liver,” he grinned.
But Moche grew grave again: “Don’t forget to bring along all the
properties—some good strong rope, and of course a handkerchief, you
know, to make a gag—part of your stock in trade all that, eh, ‘Gasman’?”
Then, discovering it was half past eleven, and he was behind time,
M. Moche shook the apache hurriedly by the hand and vanished. With
rapid strides the old usurer made his way down the Rue de Belleville
and so to the line of the exterior boulevards, where he hailed a cab,
telling the man to drive him to the _Silver Goblet_, a restaurant on
the Place de la Bastille.
What new scheme could the dubious advocate of the Rue Saint-Fargeau
be meditating now? What was the shady enterprise he was planning,
for which he needed the co-operation of two notorious apaches from
Ménilmontant like the “Gasman” and “Bull’s-eye”? On arriving at his
destination, M. Moche took the landlord on one side; the latter seemed
an old acquaintance.
“I want you to keep me for to-night,” he whispered in his ear, “the
little pink room; I shall be coming to dine there about eight o’clock
with some swell clients; put on a man who can hold his tongue to wait.”
The restaurant keeper bowed respectfully.
“You can trust to me, Monsieur Moche, you shall have what you want, and
you shan’t be disturbed. Anyway, the season’s drawing to a close and
we’re hardly serving any more dinners in private rooms; you may count
on having the whole floor practically to yourselves.”
The old fellow was entirely satisfied by what he heard, and at once
took his departure, striding fast along the streets and whistling a
cheerful march tune.
* * * * *
“Dress-coat, smoking jacket? what is monsieur going to wear this
evening?”
“Neither, John; lay out my lounge coat.”
“You are not going out then, sir, and you have not anybody asked to
dinner?”
Mr. Ascott stopped in the middle of arranging his tie; and turning to
his man, said sharply:
“I am not dining at home, and I ask you for my lounge coat, that’s all.”
John, while obeying orders, still wore a scandalized air:
“Excuse my speaking like this, sir, but I cannot help telling you,
sir, that for some days now you have been neglecting your personal
appearance, sir. What, you are going abroad, sir, in a lounge suit and
dining out in such a costume? In New York or in London, you would never
think of such a breach of etiquette.”
Ascott interrupted his man-servant’s flow of words with a look of weary
discouragement:
“I shall do just what I choose, John; and let me tell you, it’s only
out of consideration for your age and the years you have been with my
family I don’t reprimand you severely for the liberties you take.”
The man dropped his eyes and with a chagrined air:
“I beg pardon, sir, it was only the interest I take in you, sir, made
me say what I did.”
Ascott let the matter drop. Presently, his hands very busy adjusting a
carnation in the buttonhole of his coat, he asked:
“The Princess Danidoff did not ring up on the ’phone this afternoon.”
“No, sir; in fact it is several days now we have had no news of the
princess.”
“Well, John,” grunted Ascott, turning stiffly and facing the man, “I am
pleased to think it will go on so for a long time; I’ve had enough of
the Princess Sonia Danidoff, she’s an ungrateful coquette. God knows
how ready I was to love her, how gladly I would have devoted my life to
her service, but she is crazy, crazy for another man, ... so much the
worse for me! But there, that’s her look out ...”
John looked his approval.
“Quite right, sir; these great ladies always give more trouble than
they’re worth, and if I might offer you a piece of advice, sir ...”
“Well, out with it.”
“Well, it would be just to take for mistress one of those pretty
actresses there’s so many of in Paris and who would ask nothing better,
or else get to know a nice, good little girl, a gentle and modest young
thing who would love you tenderly ...”
Ascott burst into a loud laugh.
“’Pon my word, John, you’re in a prophetic vein to-day, ha, ha! Who
tells you I’m not going to follow your advice to the letter?”
“Why, sir, do you know some young girl in society?”
“In society, h’m! not high society certainly ... but one that is honest
and peaceable and sincere; yes, perhaps I do, and I’m beginning to
think even I’m pretty deep in love.”
John rubbed his hands in naïve satisfaction; he ventured: “You must
tell me about it, sir.”
But next minute Ascott checked himself and his face resumed a stern
look full of haughty reserve.
He was ready to go. “John, hand me my hat.”—“Very good, Sir.”—“My
stick.”—“Here it is, sir!”
“John, I shall not be back perhaps till late at night—perhaps not at
all; no need to sit up for me.”
“Very good, sir ... good-night, sir!”
“Good-night, John.”
* * * * *
Seated at the back of the omnibus office in the Place de la Bastille,
two persons were conversing in low voices; they were Père Moche,
wearing, as always, his everlasting top hat with the mangy nap and
draped solemnly in his long frock-coat, and little Nini Guinon,
modestly clad in a navy blue skirt barely reaching to the ankles and
a straw hat trimmed with wild flowers. To look at the pair you would
have taken them for people of the small shop-keeper class—the father a
worthy business employé, the daughter a school-girl, hardly out of the
Convent. No one would ever have dreamt he had before him the old usurer
of the Rue Saint-Fargeau, comrade and accomplice of the worst apaches
of the district, and least of all that the modest maiden he saw there
was a vulgar street-walker, a common murderer’s mistress, seduced and
ruined long ago, for all her tender years.
Père Moche was grumbling sourly:
“The thing’s disgusting. Since they did away with the _correspondance_
tickets, the omnibus offices are getting fewer and fewer and less and
less used. I had the devil’s own job to find just this one here to
arrange to meet you at.”
“But why,” demanded Nini, teasing the old man, “why couldn’t you let
me join you at the pub on the corner there? We could have swigged a
half-pint or so then in the mug’s honour.”
M. Moche started, and putting on a grieved look, began to scold the too
outspoken Nini—albeit he felt a strong inclination to laugh all the
while.
“You slut, will you never be serious? You spend your time humbugging,
trying to frighten me, you do. I’m all the while in a stew you’ll let
out a _big ’un_ before him ...”
Nini completed the old advocate’s sentence for him:
“... A _big ’un_ that’ll make him see I’m not just exactly an angel
come down from heaven with her crown of orange blossom on her head, all
ready to fall into his arms; eh, Père Moche, isn’t that what makes you
sweat?”
But Moche knew better; he gave the child a friendly tap on her rosy
cheek: “No, not really, mind you; I’m not a bit afraid, you’re a deal
too artful to give yourself away,” and looking admiringly at the girl,
he added:
“It wouldn’t take much more to take _me_ in, too, with your modest,
virtuous air, and those great innocent eyes of yours!”
But next moment M. Moche turned serious.
“Attention!” he cried, “steady! here comes the pigeon; stand by to
blush, niece!”
“Never you fear, dear uncle,” replied Nini, biting her lips not to
burst out laughing.
Thereupon Ascott appeared at the door of the omnibus office; the young
Englishman might have stepped out of a bandbox, smart, elegant, freshly
shaved, and carrying in his arms an enormous bunch of flowers!
The complicated plot arranged some days beforehand by old Moche seemed
to be working out under the most favourable auspices. He had introduced
his bogus niece to the rich young Englishman at a highly opportune
moment, just when Ascott, chagrined at having paid assiduous court to
the Princess Sonia Danidoff, only to see the latter prefer to himself
the latest recruit to her band of admirers, the American stranger,
the detective, Tom Bob, who, from the first moment of his arrival in
France, had worn in all men’s eyes an aureole of glory and success.
Moved less by love than by a sort of obstinacy, Ascott had indeed
striven to contend against this adversary, but events had occurred so
rapidly and so much in favour of his rival that the wealthy Englishman,
in spite of being the first in the field and the first accredited
suitor for the princess’s hand, had been forced to take second place.
For was it not, in fact, this same Tom Bob again who, forty-eight hours
earlier, had rescued the unfortunate Sonia Danidoff from a terrible
and almost certain death? Evidently the detective had not succeeded in
saving the princess’s jewels, but he had saved her life, and swore to
protect her against the mysterious and terrible attacks of the ever
elusive and enigmatic scoundrel, who seemed especially bent on her
destruction.
Wounded in his self-love and baulked in his passion, the young
Englishman had quickly come to his senses, and this the more readily
from the fact that, as his love for Sonia Danidoff cooled more and
more, he felt his heart more and more stirred and charmed by a
youthful passion for the pretty child he supposed to be niece of the
old moneylender, the grotesque M. Moche. Moreover, startled by the
indignant refusal his first audacious proposal had provoked, Ascott
had immediately realized that this was not the right way to deal with
the old business man. In fact, when he accompanied Nini on her leaving
the house in the Rue Saint-Fargeau, he had also seen pretty clearly
that the latter, good, obedient girl as she was, must needs entertain
the highest respect for her uncle. So he had wisely told himself how
desirable it was in the first place to win the old man’s favour in
order to secure the child’s good graces.
The young Englishman accordingly invited M. Moche to lunch, lunch for
two, _tête-à-tête_. Moreover, despite the instinctive repulsion he
felt for the fellow, he found himself forced to admit, before the meal
was over, that he was after all a cheerful boon-companion, not lacking
in wit and possessed of a store of racy anecdotes well calculated to
dispel his melancholy. Adroitly enough, Ascott brought the conversation
round to the subject of M. Moche’s little niece, displaying an
interest in the child’s future, and he deemed himself more than clever
when, after endless beating about the bush, he finally succeeded in
persuading Père Moche to dine with him and bring little Nini with him
one evening soon.
Poor fellow, he little dreamt he had to do with a man far cleverer than
himself, and that the favour he had obtained at the cost of so many
difficulties was really and truly but the consummation of the plot
conceived by the Machiavellian business agent and his abominable little
accomplice.
... Thus Ascott arrived to the minute at the _rendezvous_, in the
omnibus office in the Place de la Bastille at 7.30, his heart in his
mouth, his mind in a joyous tumult, his arms full of flowers, all for
the woman towards whom he now began to feel a genuine and sincere
affection!
* * * * *
The merry little dinner was drawing to an end. Old Moche had positively
sparkled with wit throughout the meal, but most of the time it was
simply trouble wasted, for Ascott hardly listened to a word. Moche sat
facing the two young people, who, as if by inadvertence, had taken
their places on a narrow divan, so that as the festivity proceeded they
were perpetually coming into casual contact with each other. At first
the young man had discreetly kept his distance, but little by little,
growing bolder under his senior’s indulgent eye—the old man seemed to
be getting tipsy—the lover drew nearer to his charmer. From time to
time he would squeeze her hand under the table or throw an arm around
her waist. The child looked demure and a trifle startled, affecting to
be embarrassed, sometimes even shocked, but at the same time casting
occasional sidewise glances at the rich Englishman that were full of
encouragement and spoke of passion only held in check by maiden modesty.
Ascott, entering more and more into the spirit of the thing, kept on
replenishing his guests’ glasses with champagne, hoping to intoxicate
old Moche altogether and make the girl sufficiently tipsy to prove less
obdurate in repelling the caresses he lavished on her. He himself, too,
by way of stimulating his courage, was drinking pretty hard, and, all
things considered, was very likely consuming on his own sole account a
great deal more than his two companions both together.
Once, as he was bending down behind Nini, pretending to pick something
up from the floor, in reality in order to put his burning lips to
the cool, inviting surface of the girl’s neck behind, Ascott failed
to see how Père Moche, with the lightning quickness of a conjuring
trick, sprinkled a whitey-grey powder over the frothing liquor in his
champagne glass. Dessert was on the table. But while Nini, nibbling at
the strawberries on her plate, refused to drink any more wine, Ascott,
who was tormented with a thirst that grew momentarily more intense, had
a fourth bottle of champagne uncorked, of which he poured a good third
into a glass for himself and drained it off at a draught.
The Englishman was rapidly getting drunk, and now threw discretion to
the winds in his plaguing of Nini, who more than once, playing her part
to perfection, administered some shrewd slaps on the young man’s over
enterprising hands. She even sprang up from her seat, as if to fly for
refuge to her uncle and demand his protection.
Old Moche followed the whole scene with a very wide awake glance,
humming a tune at intervals and mimicking the ways of a man excited
by the fumes of a heady wine and viewing life under the most roseate
aspect. At a given moment, however, the old fellow, after looking
surreptitiously at his watch, noted that it was half past eleven. He
rose from the table staggering. Ascott burst out laughing. “By the
Lord! my dear Moche,” he cried out in a thick voice, “I verily believe
you’re jolly well drunk!”
Moche swayed more unsteadily than ever on his feet.
“Drunk!” he replied, with a fine imitation of a drunkard’s hoarse
tones, “never such a thing! I’m merry, just merry—as we all are. Here,
just look here if I’m drunk; my hand don’t shake.”
Moche picked up a full glass, solemnly lifted it from the table,
rounding his elbow in a majestic gesture. Doubtless his condition
baulked his praiseworthy efforts, for the glass after some frantic
oscillations suddenly turned topsy turvy, spilling the wine over the
carpet.
The accident provoked an uproarious fit of wild mirth from Ascott: “Oh!
there is no doubt about it, the old man is awfully drunk.” And now the
young Englishman’s cup of happiness was filled to the brim, as he heard
the other declare:
“Why, yes, I don’t feel very well, my head’s going round a bit. With
your leave, I’ll go out and breathe the fresh air a minute; but none
of your nonsense now whilst I’m away! Ascott, I count on your good
behaviour, I entrust that dear, good, virtuous child to your care”—and
Père Moche disappeared.
Scarcely was he out of the room before Ascott shook off his
intoxication and managed to rise from the divan on which he sprawled.
Stepping to the door of the private room, he shot the bolt with an
unsteady hand; then, regardless of Nini’s hypocritical prayers and
protests, he went to the switch and turned off the electric current.
“Oh! sir, sir!” shrilled the girl in a terrified voice, “what are you
doing?... oh!... for God’s sake, let me be ... mother!”
Meantime, no sooner was Moche out in the passage leading to the private
rooms than he recovered all his coolness and self-possession, as if
by a miracle. The old scamp was much too astute to have let himself
get tipsy; it was simply a piece of play-acting he had been at for the
benefit of his host, a comedy that did not in the least take in his
confidante and accomplice, Nini Guinon, though it completely bamboozled
the young Englishman. With no small satisfaction Moche noted—as indeed
the landlord had led him to expect when he came that morning to order
the little dinner—that the adjoining rooms were unoccupied. After that
he made sure that no one could spy on them from the floor below.
Everything was as it should be. The host of the _Silver Goblet_ was
used to these little private entertainments and knew it was not the
proper thing to disturb those attending them under any circumstances.
No doubt, somewhere about one o’clock in the morning, a waiter would
come up to announce that it was time to be leaving, as the house was
going to be shut up, but till that hour guests could count implicitly
on the most absolute peace and quietness.
Next, slipping down the back stairs leading direct from the _entresol_
into the street, Moche was quickly in the open air. Advancing a few
paces along the sidewalk, he whistled and then stood listening. A
second later a succession of notes became audible, similar to those
formed by the old man’s lips; again advancing, he came upon two fellows
lurking in a doorway. It was the “Gasman” and “Bull’s-eye,” and not
far off stood an automobile, to which the old man pointed with the
question: “It’s yours, that contraption yonder?”
“Yes,” replied the “Gasman,” “that’s to say it’s a pal’s machine; we
chose him because he’s as silent as the tomb, and don’t have no eyes in
the back of his head; he’ll do what he’s told—asks three louis for his
night.”
“All serene!” declared Moche, rubbing his hands. “Now listen to me,
you chaps; keep an eye on the shanty I’ve come out of, and when I show
my hat out of the window, you must come along softly, the pigeon’ll be
asleep. The pigeon’s mate’ll go with you and no fuss, you may rely on
that. As you drive on, best clap on the cords and the gag; you might
be interrupted, and it must all be shipshape, just to avoid accidents.
Twig?”
“Right oh!” sang out “Bull’s-eye” and the “Gasman” in chorus.
Moche, in generous mood, handed over to each of them a fifty franc
note: “You see,” he pointed out, “I always pay well.”
“Yes,” growled “Bull’s-eye,” “that ain’t like Fantômas, that ain’t!
Didn’t I give him a hand in that there lake business, when he cleared
off with the princess’s jewelry. Well, if I’ve made a brown or two out
of it, that’s about all—just because he didn’t see me at work. I’m
thinking if Fantômas don’t fork out ...”
“All serene,” Père Moche interrupted his grumblings “there’s no
question of Fantômas for the moment. Be smart, be ready ... I’m going
up there again.”
At the door of the private room, the old man, resuming his former rôle,
gave a discreet tap, saying with a laugh:
“Why, what now?... so you’ve locked yourself in, eh? a little joke,
for sure?... but no more nonsense now! Come, come, open the door. Do
be serious a bit ... and then you know, I’m still thirsty, I want to
finish out the bottle!”
Then he stopped talking to listen. Not a sound came from inside and
the old fellow was growing impatient. He knocked twice, sharply and
peremptorily.
At last the door opened, and Nini appeared, her hair flying loose and
her clothes in disorder.
“What a time he’s been giving me!” she whispered grinning, “a devil of
a fellow, my dear man!”
But Moche was in no joking mood; he demanded: “And now?”
“Now,” Nini proceeded, still speaking under her breath; but opening the
door a little wider, so that Moche could slip into the room, which was
still in darkness, “now he’s snoring like a good ’un! suppose it’s the
powder you tipped into his champagne; I bet he’s good to sleep on till
to-morrow morning, come what may.”
Moche looked down at Ascott, who lay stretched on the divan, and saw
that Nini was speaking the truth; the young man was sleeping like a
top. The old usurer shook him by the arm, twitched his hair, but the
Englishman, as drunk as a lord and bowled over into the bargain by the
soporific he had swallowed, was beyond rousing.
Without relighting the lights, Moche ran to the window and waved his
hat out of it; then coming back into the room, he laughed delightedly.
“First-rate, my gal, it’s going first-rate,” he assured Nini; “to my
mind the job’s as good as done!”
The two accomplices fell silent a moment, then with one impulse both
stood listening. On the stairs communicating directly with the street
the sound of stealthy footsteps could be heard. It was “Bull’s-eye” and
the “Gasman” coming up.